Something to Prove

Also by Shannyn Schroeder

 

 

 

Something
TO PROVE

The O’Learys

SHANNYN SCHROEDER

eKensington

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

E
lizabeth drove up and down Addison, west, then east again, watching the addresses.
No matter which way she went, the gray slab of a building had to be the right place.
She parked and climbed out of the rental car. Motorcycles leaned against the building—not
at the curb, but on the sidewalk actually touching the building.

She glanced up at the rusty sign, T
HE
I
RISH
P
UB
. It didn’t look much like anything Irish. She pushed through the door and a cloud
of smoke smacked into her lungs. Chicago was supposed to be smoke-free. Didn’t the
manager know this? That alone was fine-worthy. Trying to keep her breaths shallow
to avoid inhaling too much smoke, she walked toward the bar, hoping to find someone
in charge. The room, what she could see of it, was dark and tables were scattered
haphazardly.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for the manager,” she called out.

“Are you the health inspector?” a grizzled man asked while drying a glass with a dirty
cloth. His pasty skin reminded her of a vampire’s, but she doubted he’d sparkle if
she took him into the sunlight.

“No, I’m the owner.”

He laughed and the men sitting on stools at the opposite end of the bar joined him.
She stiffened. It wasn’t like this was the first time she’d been laughed at, and it
undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last. She produced a card from her suit coat pocket and
slapped it on the bar. “Elizabeth Brannigan. My father has owned this bar for more
than ten years. Feel free to call the office to check.”

She prayed her bluff would work. If he made the call, she’d be caught.

The man sobered and took the card. He brushed his stringy salt-and-pepper hair from
his eyes. “So you’re here to finally sell?”

“No. I’m here to save it.” Until the words left her mouth, she didn’t even know that
was her plan. She had arrived in Chicago thinking she wanted to know more about this
property, but now she knew it would be her mission. Her chance to prove her worth
to her father.

Her statement set off another round of laughter.

“Then, when it’s turning a profit, I’ll sell.”

The man leaned forward and extended his hand. “Mitch, your manager. I was hired on
about ten years ago and have seen many men come through from your daddy’s company
talking about change. It ain’t happened yet.”

She shook his hand, trying to ignore whatever diseases she was accepting in the action.
“Maybe that was the problem.”

“What?”

“They were all men.” She paused. “I’ll need to see the books and any other pertinent
information. I’ll be back tomorrow morning at nine a.m.”

“We don’t close until two. I won’t be here at nine.” His eyes were already bloodshot,
so she couldn’t imagine him more sleep-deprived.

“Then give me a copy of the key and leave the information in the office. I assume
there is an office?”

“You got ID on you? It’d be just my luck to give keys to someone who isn’t the owner.”

Elizabeth reached into her wallet and slipped out her driver’s license. Mitch took
it from her hand and tilted it in the light, glancing from the card to her face. Satisfied,
he tossed it on the sticky bar for her to retrieve.

“Hold on.” He walked to the end of the bar and flipped up a piece of the counter.
He disappeared into the back and returned a few moments later with a ring of keys.
He tossed them on the bar.

“Thank you.” She slipped the keys into her pocket and walked back outside. Within
a few minutes she had already learned more about the bar than the audit of her father’s
properties had taught her.

From behind the wheel of the rented Mercedes, she stared at the building. It must’ve
meant something to her dad. He’d never done any work on it, but never sold it either.
If she could turn this place around, prove to him that she could handle this task,
he would have to hand the reins of the business over to her instead of Keith.

She’d never taken the lead like this before. They tended to treat her more like the
clean-up crew. Dad didn’t even know she was here. He’d been keeping this place a secret.
This was her moment to shine. If she fixed this, he’d have to see that she could handle
doing it all.

And if he didn’t?

She shook her head. She’d cross that bridge later. Right now, she needed to do some
research, starting with finding a place to live.

While allowing her GPS to guide her to a hotel, she called the office. “Hi, Meg.”

“How was the flight?”

“Fine. Listen, I need you to get some information for me about a property.” She heard
some rustling and knew Meg was getting her notepad out.

“Shoot.”

“My dad owns a bar called The Irish Pub here in Chicago. It’s part of his personal
holdings, not Brannigan Enterprises.”

“I don’t have access to his personal information,” Meg said, uncharacteristically
nervous.

“I want you to talk to Claire. She’s been with my dad forever. Talk to her, assistant
to assistant. Tell her that I need whatever information she has.”

“Can I ask what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to call my dad, but I have a feeling he won’t give me all
the details, so I’m making a preemptive strike. I also need everything you can get
me on the codes for bar ownership in Chicago.”

“Anything else?”

“Not yet. I’m sure that once I hit the ground on this, I’ll need some more support.”

“I could do my job from Chicago. I’ve never been there.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I’ll let you know if I need you. In the meantime, if Keith asks,
play dumb. I don’t want him following me here trying to help.”

“Okay.”

They clicked off, and Elizabeth pulled into the lot of a chain hotel. No five stars
here, but it would have to do. Her mother would choke if she knew. At the reception
desk, she negotiated a month’s stay for a decent price and went to her room to set
up her office away from home.

She tossed her suitcase on the brown paisley bedspread and pulled her laptop from
her shoulder bag. While the computer booted up, she hung her suits in the minuscule
closet and placed the remaining clothes in the dresser. From the front pocket of her
suitcase, she pulled the frogs. For this trip, she had four.

She set the frogs beside her computer: two plastic, one stuffed, and one metal. It
was her niece’s way of making her feel at home. Before every business trip, Melissa
snuck some frogs into the suitcase. It had started when Mel was little more than a
toddler and offered Elizabeth her stuffed frog to keep her company. She’d just moved
into Keith’s carriage house, and her relationship with Mel was nonexistent. What did
she know about kids?

But they’d bonded over frogs.

Over the years, it had bloomed into a collection. Family now gave Elizabeth frogs
for gifts. It was almost a competition to see who could find the ugliest one.

Smiling at her family of frogs, she set to work. Her first order of business would
be to check out the competition. Returning to the computer, she Googled Irish bars
in Chicago and then narrowed her search for the neighborhood.

The results stared at her, a mass of red pushpins on the screen. “How can there be
so many damn Irish bars in one area?”

She expanded the map and looked closely. In a ten-mile radius, she counted twenty-three
Irish pubs. She’d bet she wouldn’t find that many in the entire state of Florida.
Zooming in on the map, she copied the addresses of the five closest to The Irish Pub
and sent the information to the GPS on her phone.

The Irish Pub.

What a dumb name. The total lack of creativity or originality grated on her nerves.
She checked the time. Six o’clock. After-work hours for most. Tucking a notepad into
her purse, she headed out to the first bar, figuring she’d get dinner along the way.
The research and reconnaissance was the worst part of the job. Keith usually handled
it. He was good at reading people.

She was better with the finances, which was why Brannigan Enterprises should be hers.
The CEO didn’t need to be a people person. The job required an understanding and ability
to wrangle the bottom line. Definitely her forte.

Pulling into the lot alongside a bar called Duffy’s, her stomach growled and her eyes
felt dry. It promised to be a long night, and she planned to be back at the bar at
nine. She climbed out of her car and pushed on. The sooner she got started, the sooner
she’d be done.

For a Monday night, she hadn’t expected to find crowds at any of the bars she’d chosen
to investigate. She pushed through the glass doors of the bar and was met with chaotic
noise. The crowd wasn’t huge and the patrons were mostly young, early twenties. Two
TVs blared in competition with the jukebox that played some kind of rock. As she moved
toward the bar, her feet squeaked in the stickiness of the floor, and she cringed.

The lighting wasn’t bright enough for her to see what made the floor gross or for
her to make sure there wasn’t anything stuck to the stool as she took a seat. The
bar itself was made from a nice dark wood, walnut, if she had to guess, but puddles
of some indeterminate liquid lingered across the surface.

Not very inviting.

She slung her purse over the back of the stool and waited. Within moments the bartender
asked what she wanted.

“Do you have a menu?”

He slapped a laminated sheet of paper down in front of her. The menu consisted of
the usual bar food: hot wings, burgers, nachos. “I’ll have a burger, everything. Do
you have a drink menu?”

“Huh?” His eyebrows rose with the question.

“A drink menu? So I can decide what to drink?”

“Uh, no.”

Huh. How was a customer supposed to know what to order if choices weren’t presented?
“Can I have a wine spritzer?”

“Coming right up.”

While she waited, she took in the atmosphere. Tuning out the noise, she focused on
what she saw. Young people, dressed casually, congregated in clusters at tables. Waitresses
circulated, but the only thing that distinguished them from the customers were the
aprons tied around their waists. No uniforms, no name tags. Cardboard decorations
hung drunkenly from the soffit above the bar. Beer promotions and green-clad leprechauns
dangled lopsided, and their discoloration told her they’d been hanging there far too
long.

Her drink was delivered. She only took a small sip to find it relatively tasteless.
When her burger arrived, it wasn’t much better. She tossed money on the bar beside
her half-eaten food. Regardless of location, when she was done, Duffy’s wouldn’t be
much competition.

Four hours and three bars later, Elizabeth was ready to call it quits. She was tired
of drinking cheap alcohol and being hit on. Her last stop for the night was O’Leary’s.
She’d almost decided against it, but after checking out their Web site on her phone,
it looked too promising to pass up. Cars filled most of the lot, but spots were still
available. She tugged the heavy oak door open and walked through, pleasantly surprised.
No cigarette smoke and the noise level was tolerable. She eased her way toward the
bar, scanning the crowd as she moved.

The main bar area had a variety of seating from booths to tables and in the back area
she saw high-top tables and dartboards. All of the waitresses wore O’Leary’s Pub T-shirts
with jeans and they each had a name tag. She took a seat at the end of the bar. On
a small stand was a menu for both food and drinks.

This bar was doing something right.

The bartender came over as she was reading the menu. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

She looked up and swallowed hard. The man in front of her was mouthwateringly gorgeous.
His mussed black hair framed a face dominated by a happy-go-lucky smile. She lost
her ability to form coherent sentences. “Uh . . .”

He tilted his head and studied her face. “You look beat. Tough day?”

She nodded. What was wrong with her? She didn’t do this around men. She’d had no fewer
than eight different men try to pick her up tonight. This one was just doing his job,
and she had to fight for focus.

“How about an Irish coffee?” Dark brows arched over navy eyes.

She cleared her throat. “Sounds good.”

He walked away. She studied the menu. It wasn’t fancy. Like the rest of the bars,
it offered burgers and hot wings, but they had more traditional pub fare, like fish
and chips and shepherd’s pie. Her mouth watered at the thought of real food. The drink
menu was plain as well, but at least displayed a list of drinks with the basic ingredients.
Pictures and descriptions would’ve been better, but this bar had already exceeded
the competition from the other Chicago neighborhood pubs she’d visited.

The bartender returned with her Irish coffee. She sipped and found it perfect. The
whipped cream puffed and floated on top and she used her straw to scoop some up. She
ran her tongue over the cream-laden straw and heard a groan.

She looked up to find the bartender looking at her. Replacing the straw, she waited
for an explanation.

His mouth quirked up at the corner. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. That was downright
sinful.”

Her cheeks flamed. She was blushing? No. The alcohol from earlier in the evening was
catching up with her and colliding with her exhaustion. He broke eye contact and mumbled,
“Give me a holler if you need anything else.”

He walked away and picked up a conversation with other customers. She tried not to
be obvious in studying him and the way he interacted with people. This was something
the other bars had been missing as well. A personal touch.