I sigh out heavily, disgusted with myself. What. An idiot. Erin was totally right about him. Gee-bag indeed.

Why? Why do I not listen to my friend when she tells me the fuckwad that I’m sleeping with is a class-A scumbag? I don’t know why. There is no good explanation. I am an educated woman who normally has a brain and knows how to use it.

Poor Erin. She has diligently and regularly warned me off bad choices for years, but I have yet to learn my lesson. Men are my kryptonite; terribly stupid men with way too much excess body hair are the worst. But that all stops today. No more dickwads for me. I’m a bone fide lawyer now.

He comes closer, but I push him away. “No. Stop.”

“Come on, sweet sister, come play with daddy.”

I cringe as I walk backwards, avoiding his outstretched hand. Did I actually fall for that crap before? Did this turn me on the last time we were together? God, I hope not. And ew, his knuckles are hairy. Why did I never notice that before? I need to get my head examined.

As the back of my thighs bump into my nightstand, I hold out a very serious finger right up to his face. “Stay the hell away from me and don’t you dare touch me with that Sasquatch paw.”

He stops coming towards me and backs his chin up into his chest. “Sasquatch? You callin’ me Bigfoot?”

I turn around and yank open my drawer, sliding the nine millimeter handgun out and pointing it at the floor near my side. “Yeah, I’m calling you Bigfoot.” I gesture towards the door with a jerk of my chin. “And now I’m calling you done. Get out of my apartment and never, ever come back as long as we both shall live.”

“You a crazy bitch, you know dat?”

He looks like he’s considering whether I’m serious or not, so I help him make the right decision. I raise the gun and point it at his chest. He doesn’t know it’s not loaded. “Get. The fuck. Out.” I am so Rambo right now, it’s not even funny.

“Why you bein’ so harsh all of a sudden? Damn, bitch, you be stone cold frosty ta-night.”

“And stop talking like a stupid rapper idiot, Jeremy, you fucking wannabe. I know for a fact you graduated BU with a major in English Lit, dipshit!”

“Fuck this,” he says, turning and leaving my room.

I fall to my butt on the edge of my bed as he calls out to his homeboys and herds them out the door. I can hear them grumbling the whole way. They’re so lucky I don’t have any bullets for this gun.

“Fuck you, crazy bitch!” the knacker yells before slamming the door shut.

I start laughing once I know I’m alone, but it’s when I wander out into the front hall and see that he’s stolen my iPod once again that I really lose it. I fall to the floor just inside the door, holding my stomach and laughing until I feel like I’m going to puke.

I realize I may possibly be suffering a hell of a contact high when I finally calm down and find myself lying on my back and staring at the ceiling. “Gold-toothed, poser, Sasquatch, motherfuckin’ knacker,” I say out into the empty space above me.

I snort some more laughs out as I struggle back to my feet and head into my bedroom to prepare for my evening at the Pot ‘O Gold. Gotta get my lawyer panties on so I can help my best friend get her bar back…

CHAPTER THREE

ERIN

IT’S BEEN THREE YEARS SINCE I’ve been back to Ireland. I lean across Ridlee to look out the window of the plane as we begin our descent into Dublin airport. Dense clouds cover the city as we wobble our way through turbulent wind and atmosphere into my hometown. Things aren’t much better on the ground. I feel slightly responsible for the weather.

“It always looks bad when you land,” I say, perhaps a bit too brightly, as Ridlee and I walk across the tarmac and into Dublin airport.

Ridlee looks so chic. Thanks to the Valium, she slept pretty much all the way here, clad in a velour juicy tracksuit. Fifteen minutes before landing she disappeared into the tiny toilet and re-emerged wearing a Burberry skirt and blouse, classic Burberry trench coat, and brown leather boots, her hair and make-up expertly done. The fact that Burberry is an English label doesn’t matter to her; it’s close enough to Ireland. She’ll be going all Madonna on me soon, from the Mrs. Ritchie era — all twinsets and pearls.

“Chill, Erin. We’re not here for the weather. I do know something about Ireland you know.”

“Oh yeah, such as?”

“Such as Liam Neeson and Colin Farrell are very hot, and I love the Irish accent.”

“Which one?” We’ve made it to the baggage hall and are waiting for our luggage.

“All of ‘em.”

“Really? What’s your favorite? ‘Cause you know there are almost as many accents here as there are people.”

“And I love them all. They’re super-cute.”

I smile at my friend’s enthusiasm. “What about my accent? Is that ‘super- cute’?”

“No, because you have an American accent. Except when you’re angry. Then you go all bad-ass Irish.”

“No, I don’t!”

“You so do!”

“I soooo don’t!” Why have I gone all valley girl?

Ridlee looks knowingly at me.

“Ah, stick it up your arse, Rid.”

“That’s better.” She winks at me and then lets out a squeal as she spots one of her wholly impractical Globe Trotter suitcases on the carousel. We both lean in and try to grab it.

“Allow me.” A tall man in a suit leans in and hauls it off the runner, setting it gently down beside my friend. She smiles sweetly, and the two remain in suspended animation, mutually admiring one another, while the rest of her ridiculous luggage sails by. After Jeremy the scumbag, she has vowed to only shag men in suits, or at the very least, trouser pants.

“Eh, there’s the rest of your luggage, Ridlee,” I say trying to muscle past the lovebirds and catch it before it does a second tour.

“Ah, Americans!” says the guy, his eyes not leaving Ridlee’s face.

This irritates me no end as she has not yet said a word. Parts two and three of her luggage are ducking back through the hole in the wall, and of course there’s no sign of my generic black Walmart case.

“I am. She’s not,” coos my idiot friend. “Erin’s Irish. Like you.”

“Is she?” He tears his eyes away from her face briefly to shoot me a look, but in a mili-second they’re glued back on her face. I am sooo used to this, playing second fiddle to my gorgeous, sexy friend.

“She doesn’t sound Irish,” he says smiling lazily at her.

“I know, right? I was just telling her that. But, you do.” She moves her hand toward his face as though she’s about to brush her fingers against his cheek but pulls away at the last moment, all demure.

I have seen this scene play out a million times, and they always fall for it. I spot my bag lumbering toward me, wedged between two massive cases. It looks like it’s been attacked by an angry bull. Grabbing it, I heave it onto the trolley that I cleverly commandeered earlier, and head toward the exit. Ridlee has her bags and is following close behind, her whipping boy hot on her heels.

A huge cheer goes up as I walk through the double doors, and instinctively I cringe. A massive banner reading WELCOME HOME ERIN! is blocking the faces of the entire front line of people waiting to collect friends, colleagues, or loved ones. It’s my family. All of them.