Chapter 1: Tell me to stop
The music was a physical thing, a thrumming bassline that vibrated up through the metal railing and into Joseph’s palms. He leaned over the upstairs gallery of The Alibi Room, a bottle of cheap beer sweating in his hand, and watched the chaos below. Bodies swirled under the flickering neon and the sickly yellow glow of ancient ceiling lamps. It was a mosaic of thrown elbows and tossed hair, of shouted laughter and the sharp, citrus-and-sweat smell of a Friday night pushing its limits.
His eyes, a startling blue even in the dim light, tracked one figure in the maelstrom.
Fiona Gallagher moved like she was arguing with the rhythm, conquering it. Her brown hair was a wild halo, her face tipped up toward the spinning lights as she danced with a fierce, abandoned joy that seemed entirely separate from the grinning people around her. She wasn’t just having fun; she was expelling something.
Joseph watched the way her throat moved as she laughed, the easy confidence in her shoulders. He’d noticed her the moment he walked in, a calm, grounded energy radiating from her even in the middle of the crowd. She was older than him, he could tell, but something in her weathered green eyes held a story that pulled at his old soul.
Vic, her friend, was a solid, watchful presence at the edge of the dance floor, nursing a drink and scanning the room like a bouncer.
A shift in the pattern. A man in a dark hoodie, thin and all jerky movements, had been orbiting Fiona for a song. Now he moved with purpose. As Fiona threw her head back, arms high, her small purse—secured over her shoulder and across her chest—swung out for a second. It was only a second.
The man’s hand shot out. A practiced jerk, a snap of the strap. He had it.
Joseph was already moving before his brain fully processed the theft. He took the stairs two at a time, his long legs eating up the distance, his beer bottle abandoned on the railing. He hit the sticky main floor just as the thief shoved through the side door marked EXIT, the one that led to the dank alley instead of the main street.
The cool night air hit Joseph like a slap, the pulsing music cutting off abruptly to be replaced by the distant wail of a siren and the drip of a broken gutter. The alley was a canyon of crumbling brick and overflowing dumpsters. The thief was fast, a silhouette sprinting toward the distant streetlight.
Joseph was faster. He had the lean, coiled strength of youth and a sudden, surprising fury on his behalf.
He lunged, his shoulder connecting with the man’s lower back. They went down in a tangle of limbs, skidding on wet asphalt. The smell of garbage and stale urine was overpowering.
“Give it back,” Joseph grunted, grappling for the small black purse clutched in the thief’s hand.
The man writhed, spitting curses. He was wiry, desperate. A fist flew, a glancing blow that caught Joseph on the cheekbone. The pain was bright and shocking, a white flash behind his eyes. His grip loosened for a fraction of a second.
It was enough. The thief scrambled free, kicking Joseph’s side for good measure, and vanished around the corner, the purse disappearing with him.
Joseph lay on the cold ground for a second, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth from a split lip. The throb in his cheekbone promised a hell of a bruise. He heard the crash of the door flying open again.
Footsteps rushed toward him—boots and one set of lighter, quicker steps.
He pushed himself up to sitting, wincing. Vic was there first, a solid wall of a woman, her eyes sharp as they assessed the alley, then him.
Fiona knelt beside him. Up close, she was even more striking. Faint freckles across her nose, a small scar through her eyebrow, and those green eyes, wide now with worry. “Jesus. You’re bleeding.”
Joseph touched his lip, looked at the red on his fingers. “Shit. Sorry.”
Vic barked a laugh. “Sorry? Kid, you just did a superhero tackle into a puddle of god-knows-what. You lost your purse, Fi, but he put up one hell of a fight.”
Joseph accepted the hand Vic offered and got to his feet, towering over both women. He dusted his jeans off, the knees already torn and stained. “I’m really sorry he got away.”
“That was the most heroic thing I’ve seen in this dump,” Vic said, looking at Fiona. “Did you see him? The tackle?”
Fiona shook her head, her gaze still locked on Joseph’s face. A strange, vulnerable look flickered across her features. “I was too busy dancing. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I did, though,” he said simply. He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand. “My name’s Joseph. I was… actually, I was gonna come over and offer to buy you a drink. Before.” He gestured vaguely toward the alley’s exit.
A slow smile spread across Vic’s face. “She’ll take a drink. A double. So will I, for the show.”
Fiona finally smiled, a real one that softened her whole face. “Yeah. Okay.”
The three of them turned, a little battered but buzzing with adrenaline, and headed back to the heavy door of The Alibi. Joseph held it open for them.
The bouncer, a mountain of a man named Tony with a neck wider than his head, filled the frame, blocking their re-entry. His arms were crossed over his barrel chest.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the man asked, his voice a low rumble.
Vic took a step forward, not intimidated in the slightest. “Are you serious? We were just in there. Our tab’s still open.”
“Where’s your stamps?” He jutted his chin toward their hands. The Alibi’s re-entry policy was a joke; a fading ink stamp on the wrist that usually washed off in the first sink visit.
“Can you believe this joker?” Vic said, throwing a look at Fiona and Joseph. “If you were doing your job at the side door we wouldn’t have had to leave. Some guy just robbed her in your alley.”
“No stamp, no re-entry.”
“Are you for real?” Vic’s voice climbed a notch.
Fiona’s eyes narrowed. She’d dealt with this type her whole life—small men with a little power. “You probably weren’t doing your job because he paid you. Let you look the other way for a twenty.”
The bouncer’s expression hardened into something ugly. “Shut up, skank.”
The word hung in the damp air. Joseph moved before he thought, a single fluid step that placed him slightly between Fiona and the wall of a man. His voice was calm, too calm. “Hey. Watch your mouth.”
The bouncer smirked, seeing a kid trying to play hero. He came up into Joseph’s space, his chest nearly touching Joseph’s. The threat was physical, immediate. “What’re you gonna do about it, pretty boy?”
Joseph didn’t flinch. He just looked at him, those blue eyes steady.
“Okay, forget it,” Fiona said, her hand grabbing Joseph’s arm. She started pulling him back, her body tense. “It’s not worth it. Come on.”
She walked off, tugging Joseph with her, Vic following with a last, venomous glare. They made it three steps toward the street.
Joseph pulled his arm gently from Fiona’s grip. “Just a second,” he said, quietly.
He turned back.
The bouncer saw him coming and squared up, a veteran of a hundred parking lot scuffles. He wasn’t ready for the speed. Joseph didn’t telegraph it. There was no big wind-up, no shout. Just a tight, vicious swing that came from the shoulder and connected with a sound like a wet sack of flour hitting concrete.
The bouncer’s head snapped sideways. He stumbled back, legs tangling, and went down hard on the asphalt, one hand skidding through a greasy puddle.
He groaned, already pushing himself up, his face a mask of shock and rage.
“Run!” Vic yelled, already moving.
Joseph didn’t need telling twice. He spun and sprinted across the dimly lit street, his long legs eating up the pavement. The sound of Fiona and Vic’s laughter, bright and shocked and free, chased him as their footsteps pounded behind him. They didn’t stop for two blocks, finally slowing behind a row of parked cars, breathless and giddy.
“Holy shit,” Fiona gasped, bending over, hands on her knees. “You knocked him on his ass.”
“He was asking for it,” Joseph said, the adrenaline making his hands tremble. He flexed the knuckles of his right hand.
“This way,” Fiona said, still laughing a little, and led them down a side street.
Fiona’s house was a defiant, slightly sagging two-story shoved between two nearly identical houses. The porch light was burnt out. She shoved the door open, and the warmth and noise of the place rolled over them like a wave. The air smelled of fried food, laundry detergent, and the faint, sweet smell of kid.
“Sit,” Vic commanded, pointing Joseph to a chair at the cluttered kitchen table. She rummaged in a drawer, coming up with a battered first-aid kit. “Let me see that forehead.”
Joseph sat. He hadn’t even felt the cut, a shallow gash above his eyebrow from the alley scuffle. Vic swabbed it with a stinging antiseptic wipe. Her touch was surprisingly deft.
“I nearly peed myself when you hit him,” Vic said, concentrating on the cut. “Maybe a little. That was a clean shot.”
She and Fiona laughed again, the shared, slightly hysterical laughter of a narrow escape.
The thunder of footsteps on the stairs. A parade of curiosity descended into the kitchen.
A sharp-eyed boy around sixteen, Lip, holding a textbook. A lanky redheaded teen, Ian, close behind. A younger kid, Carl, maybe twelve, with a defiant buzzcut. Debbie, about ten, in pajamas, holding a sleepy-eyed toddler, Liam, on her hip.
They all stared at the stranger bleeding at their table.
“Who’s this?” Lip asked, his voice wary, assessing Joseph in a single glance.
“This is Joseph,” Fiona said, leaning against the counter. Her voice took on a casual, matter-of-fact tone she used for her siblings. “Joseph, this is the chaos. Lip, Ian, Carl, Debbie, and the baby is Liam.”
They all muttered variations of “hey,” their eyes wide. Joseph nodded to each, wincing slightly as Vic applied a butterfly bandage. “Nice to meet you all.”
The back door swung open, and a large man with a kind, weathered face ambled in. Kev. He stopped, taking in the scene: Vic doctoring a tall, bruised kid, Fiona watching with crossed arms, all the kids gathered around.
“What’s going on here?” Kev asked, his tone neutral.
“He defended my honour from a bouncer,” Vic said, not looking up from her work.
“My honour,” Fiona corrected softly, a faint smile touching her lips.
“What bouncer?” Kev’s eyebrows went up.
“Jim Fitz,” Fiona said.
A slow grin spread across Kev’s face. He walked over, looked at Joseph’s handiwork on the bandage, then extended his fist. “Respect.”
Joseph bumped his fist, a small, answering smile breaking through his own pain. The baby fussed, and Debbie shushed him. The refrigerator hummed. In the warm, messy light of the Gallagher kitchen, Joseph felt the wild energy of the night settle into something unfamiliar.
Kev clapped him on the shoulder. “Jim Fitz has had that coming for a decade. You’re a legend now, kid. Don’t let it go to your head.” He nodded to Vic. “Come on, let’s let the doctor here finish her shift. We got an early morning.”
Vic capped the antiseptic and gave Joseph’s cheek a final, approving pat. “You’re all patched up, Rocky. Don’t get into any more fights before your shirt’s even dry.” She’d taken his stained shirt earlier, handing it to Fiona to soak in the sink. Joseph sat at the table in just his jeans, the cool air from a drafty window brushing his tanned back.
Fiona busied herself clearing cans and plates, a familiar, automatic dance in the cluttered space. “Alright, you lot. Show’s over. Scoot.”
Lip lingered, his intelligent eyes studying Joseph with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. “You from around here?”
“North side,” Joseph said, meeting his gaze easily.
“Huh.” Lip seemed to file that away, then turned and headed back upstairs without another word. Ian followed, giving Joseph a silent nod. Carl pretended to shadowbox his way out of the room. Debbie, still holding Liam, yawned hugely.
“Okay, time for bed.” Fiona said to her siblings. She herded Debbie and the toddler toward the stairs, her hand on the small of Debbie’s back. “Teeth brushed. No arguing.” She walked upstairs with them, her footsteps creaking on the old wood, her voice softening as it faded upward, negotiating with Carl about water guns.
Kev gave Joseph a two-finger salute. “Stay out of alleys.”
“No promises,” Joseph said, a faint smile touching his split lip.
Vic grabbed her jacket. “Behave yourself, Gallagher. And you,” she pointed at Joseph, “don’t be a stranger.” She followed Kev out, the door closing with a solid thud that left the house in sudden, comparative quiet.
Joseph stood, the chair scraping on the linoleum. He walked into the kitchen, placing the ice pack Vic had given him for his knuckles on the counter. The silence was a living thing, filled only by the hum of the fridge and the distant rush of a car passing outside.
He looked around at the chaos—the homework on the table, the child’s drawing stuck to the fridge with a banana magnet, the pile of Fiona’s pay stubs neatly stacked by the toaster. It was a map of her life, hard and honest.
Fiona came down. She’d taken her hair down, and it fell in soft waves around her shoulders. She moved quietly, as if not to disturb the newfound peace.
“All quiet up the wooden hill?” he asked.
She smiled, leaning against the doorframe. “As quiet as it gets.” She said. The green of her eyes was darker now, more guarded. She pushed off and started tidying again, picking up the abandoned takeout containers from the counter.
He watched her for a moment, the efficient swing of her arms, the way she bit her lip in concentration. The bruise on his cheekbone throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
“Straight answer,” he said, his voice lower in the quiet room. “If I hadn’t busted my skull, would you have looked at me twice?”
She didn’t stop moving. “Who’s saying that I looked twice?” She said, her tone light, but a thread of something else ran beneath it.
He took a step closer. The space between them charged. “Oh, so you did then?” He asked.
His shirt was still off from when V took it off, giving it to Fiona to wash. The kitchen light played over the lean muscles of his chest and shoulders. He wasn’t posing; he just was, utterly unselfconscious in his skin.
Fiona grabbed the takeaway containers, walking toward the bin. She was avoiding his eyes, falling back into the rhythm of responsibility.
He moved. Not with the violent speed from the alley, but with a deliberate, gentle certainty. He grabbed her hand, his fingers warm around her wrist. He pulled her into him, the containers tumbling from her grip to clatter on the floor.
He kissed her. His hands came up, cupping her cheeks with a tenderness that belied their roughness, his thumbs brushing the high bones of her face. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, firm and searching.
She froze for a heartbeat. Then a shudder went through her, a release of some deep-held tension. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she kissed him back. Her fingers curled into his skin, anchoring herself as the kiss deepened, slow and thorough, tasting of beer and blood and something infinitely sweeter.
Her hands slid from his shoulders to the strong, warm plane of his back, feeling the shift of muscle under smooth skin.
Then the reality of the quiet house, the sleeping kids upstairs, the sheer weight of everything she was, crashed down.
She broke the kiss, pulling back just an inch. Her forehead rested against his. Their breath mixed, ragged and warm in the small space between them.
“We can’t.” She mumbled, looking up at the roof as if the cracked plaster held an answer.
Joseph didn’t argue. He just slowly disentangled himself, his hands leaving her face with a final, gentle brush of his thumbs. He walked over to the wall switch near the doorway, his movements calm in the half-dark. He flicked it.
The overhead kitchen light died with a click, plunging them into near darkness. The only illumination came from the streetlamp outside, casting long, distorted shadows through the grimy window over the sink.
Fiona laughed, a short, surprised burst of sound in the sudden quiet. It was a laugh at the absurdity, at the dramatic gesture, at the fact that he’d just understood without a single word of protest.
He slowly walked back over. The faint light etched the lines of his torso, the bandage above his eyebrow, the serious set of his mouth.
“You know ninety percent of the world's problems are caused by tiny words that come in pairs.” His voice was low, a rumble in the dark kitchen. “I mean we’re healthy and we’re happy, but when people ask we say not bad.”
She looked at him. He stood in front of her, not touching, just existing in her space.
“The first time I saw you dancing about a month back at Crowbar I desperately wanted to buy you a drink.” He said it like a confession, simple and plain.
Fiona looked down at the scuffed linoleum, then back up at him. The streetlight caught the green in her eyes.
“You know normally I’m shy so I told myself she can’t, we wouldn’t.” He took a half-step closer. The air between them felt charged, thicker. “Then tonight I see you again. All the indications that I’m getting a second chance to make a good impression.”
He was close enough now that she could feel the heat coming off him. He thought that he was rambling. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
She didn’t tell him to stop.
She moved her hand up slowly, placing it on his chest, her fingertips finding the solid beat of his heart. She was looking at his lips. She leaned in closer.
And then she kissed him. Her hand came to the back of his neck, pulling him down to her. She kissed him hard, rough, a collision of teeth and pent-up everything—frustration, loneliness, a year of can’t and shouldn’t.
He didn’t match her force. His hands came up to frame her hips, steadying her. His mouth gentled against hers. “Slower…” he mumbled against her lips, a breath, not a command.
She resisted for a second, the habit of fight etched deep. Then she eased. A release of tension in her shoulders, in the hand gripping his neck.
He kissed her slow. A proper exploration. His hands came up to cup her face again, his thumbs stroking her jaw, and the kiss grew hungry but deep, a patient, consuming thing.
He tasted her bottom lip, the corner of her mouth, learning the shape of her. “Slower…” he mumbled again, a mantra, as much for himself as for her.
This time, she listened. The roughness melted into something else. Her grip on his neck softened, her fingers threading into the hair at his nape. She answered his slow rhythm with her own, a dizzying surrender to the pace he set. It was more intimate than anything she’d felt before. It was terrifying.