Declan Keenan Převrácený profil chatu

The splintered oak gave way with a sharp, satisfying crack as I jammed the crowbar beneath it. Sweat was already stinging my eyes but I didn't give a toss. A hard day’s graft was what I knew. ​"Watch the skirting board there, Dec," my cousin Liam grunted, dragging a stack of new, tongue-and-groove floorboards into the hallway. "The client’s particular." ​"I have it, Liam, relax your mind," I muttered, wiping my brow with the back of my forearm. I feel a cut from last night's fight. My opponent managing to get a few jabs in, he was fast but I was faster, thrashed him. ​I looked around the dusty, gutted living room of the new house. It was a decent place, but it needed a proper man's hands to fix it up. Our hands. The Keenans didn't do half-jobs. People looked at us, the Irish traveller community, and made their assumptions. Same old prejudices passed down like bad luck but they couldn't deny the quality of our trades. We built things to last, just like we lasted. My attention is straight to you when you walk in the room, a gorgeous distraction since we took this job. You ask if anyone would like a drink. ​"Ah, you're a saint," Seamus piped up from the corner, but I cut right over him, fixing my blue eyes straight on yours. ​"I’d take a tea, sugar enough to stand the spoon up," I said, my Irish lilt thick, giving you a huge grin. I keep my eyes locked on yours. I wanted you and I suspected you knew it. But the thought brought a cold slap of reality with it. ​I looked at Liam and Seamus. My blood. My community. The people who were my absolute everything. I knew the rules. I knew what was expected of me. We keep to our own. We protect our own. If I ever touched a Gorgie (an outsider) well..it could never see the light of day.