Sometimes, I’m really happy that a few of my characters have accents. Take today’s inspiration **“What is she on about anyways?”** for example. Last week’s #ThursdayThreads prompt is tailor-made for one of my Irish Wolves. In today’s snippet, that would be Mick O’Connor. When it comes to recognizing his mate, poor Mick is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 😉
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The bell above the front door of Clancy’s Pub jangled just as the music stopped. Shannon turned to see who’d arrived. And froze. Mick. With some woman leaning on his arm. Normally an impeccable dresser, his vest was buttoned wrong, part of his shirt tail hanging out beneath it, and was that bloody lipstick on his face?

Her heart sprouted icicles. Her lungs labored. She had to force her body to move, to turn away from the door and face the bar. It was all she could do to stand there, her back ramrod straight, at the waitress station. Too bad she had to watch them in the mirror behind the bar. He led the woman to his usual booth, where his brother, Ronan, waited. In her section.

A pint of Guinness and some frou-frou umbrella drink appeared on her tray. She raised her eyes to meet the bartender’s sympathetic gaze. “G’on now,” Finn said softly. “Take the man his drinks.”
She had no choice. Did she? No. None. This was the final straw. It had to be. She’d thrown herself at him. She’d even played his one-night-stand bimbo. And now this? Mick flaunting his latest bimbo in public made her status abundantly clear. She was just one of the herd. She put out and she’d been on his one-and-done list.

Somehow, her feet carried her across the pub, the tray held steady. Stony-faced, she stopped at the booth, set the drinks on the table, turned to leave. Her eyes stung and she brushed the back of her hand across a wet cheek. Tears. She swore she’d never cry over a man and here she was, in the middle of Clancy’s with everyone holding their breath watching. Well, if they wanted a show, she’d give them one.

Turning back to the table, she slammed her tray down hard enough that the bimbo cringed away, sloshing the drink she was sipping through a straw. Ronan didn’t move. Mick didn’t either but he spoke.

“Bloody hell, Shannon.”

“No!” She yelled it, leaning closer. “You don’t get to. Not now. Not ever. Never again, you bastard.” She gave up trying to control her tears and just let them come. “Years, Michael O’Connor. I’ve loved you for bloody years and the only time you ever paid attention was when you shagged me in Ronan’s office. We are so done. You want to know what the ever-loving bloody hell, Mick?” She slapped him. “That’s for breaking my heart. We are so frickin’ done. I hate you!”

She ripped off her apron, ignoring the tip money in the pocked and dropped it on a table as she passed. “I quit, Finn,” she yelled over her shoulder.

Stunned silence blanketed the room, shattered only when Mick said, “What is she on about anyways?” He looked utterly bewildered as he watched Shannon slam through the back exit.

“Oh, boyo, ya must be daft t’not have figured it out.” Ronan almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “But ya’d best get off yer arse and go claim yer mate before she gets away.”
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That might be a bit of a spoiler but probably not because most of y’all are familiar with my Wolves. They always find and claim their true mate. Eventually. After trials and tribulations. And in the case of the Boston mob, maybe even a bit of murder… In other news, I won #ThursdayThreads with the 250-word version. For the 63rd time. But this IS the start of the 11th year for the contest so it’s not like I’m the grand champion or anything. LOL

So that’s what I’m going on about today. What about y’all? What’s got you dazed and confused?