La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, back slouched. The television was on but he couldn't say what the show was. He wasn't watching it, he wasn't watching anything really. His green eyes simply stared straight ahead, at absolutely nothing in particular as his ears tuned out the sounds of the "City of Sin" from outside of the window in the hotel room he called home.
His phone began to buzz on the corner of the bed, drawing his attention from whatever inner demons were torturing him from the inside out. He didn't move. His eyes shifted just enough to see the name light up on the screen. Ruairi O’Callaghan calling. The sight of the name of his best friend caused a tightness in his chest, one where he had to draw in a deep breath through his nose in order to steady himself.
He picked up the phone and hit decline, then dropped the phone back to the bed and resumed staring at nothing. Seconds later it started again, that same buzzing sound cutting through his mental fog like a swarm of bees trapped in his mind. Ruairi again. He let it buzz longer this time, hoping for it to stop on its own before he hurriedly declined it again. He just needed Ruairi to give up. He should have known better when the third call came.
He stared at the name and cursed under his breath. Ruairi always had been a right stubborn bastard. He snatched the phone up and stared at the name as if willing it to simply go away and leave him alone. But the phone continued to go off until he finally yielded and hit accept, holding it to his ear and spoke in a flat tone, hoping to pass for calm.
“Aye.”
“Ah, there y’are, thank Christ!" Ruaini declared from his end. "I was about to ring the bloody hotel desk and have them batter your door down! Three calls, Doyle, three! What in God’s name are ye playin’ at?”
Ciarán closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose, but kept his tone even, detached, as though discussing weather.
“I’m after answerin’, aren’t I? What d’ye want?”
Ruairi did not bite at the brusque tone. He took a breath and tried to steady himself.
“What do I want? I want t’know if my best mate is alive in there, that’s what I want!" Ruaini declared. "Your mam rang me this mornin’, then your sister rang me after, both of them in bits! They said ye barely call, and when ye do it’s two minutes of nothin’. All promises and no follow-through. They’re worried sick, lad. I’m worried sick.”
Ciarán’s gaze drifted down to the half-empty boxes of Chinese takeout on the dresser and forced a small laugh that didn’t fool anyone, least of all his best friend.
“I’m grand. Busy, that’s all. Ye know what it’s like over here, shows, travel, no sleep.” He reasoned. “Tell Mam and Niamh not to be makin’ a drama out o’ nothin’.”
Ruairi made a snort of derision, clearly not believing Ciarán. “Don’t feed me that shite, Ci. Not me. I knew ye when ye were nine! I know when you’re lyin’ through your teeth. Busy never sounded like this! Busy doesn’t vanish for weeks! Busy doesn’t ignore family!”
Ciarán’s fingers tightened around the phone, but his voice stayed stubbornly dull. “I said I’m fine. Leave it.”
Ruairi’s reply softened in volume but hardened in intent, the way a man lowers his voice when he is trying not to shout.
“No, I won’t leave it there.” Ruairi stubbornly refused. “Not this time. I’ve done the polite check-ins. The quick texts, tellin’ yer mam yer just wrecked routine, and I’m done pretendin’ that’s enough! You cut me off, you cut your own family off, and every time I mention home ye go colder than January rain! Somethin’ happened, and ye can keep denyin’ it, but I’m not blind!”
Silence stretched between them. It was ugly and heavy, like it was lingering - waiting.
“Just hear me for a minute. Come home.” Ruairi tried a gentler, coaxing approach. “Fly back t’Ireland for a few weeks. No pressure. I’ll sort the flights meself. I’ll pick ye up, and ye can stay at mine if ye don’t fancy your mam fussin’ over ye. We’ll go down by the water, get chips, do nothin’, just breathe. And when ye’re ready, there’s a place for ye at Celtic Thunder…”
Ciarán’s expression did not change, but he looked suddenly older in the dim light of the lone lamp he had afforded himself to turn on so he wasn’t basking in complete darkness.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No flights. No homecoming. No Celtic Thunder. I’m not comin’ back.”
Ruairi exhaled through his teeth and spoke faster, urgency climbing.
“Okay, listen, if this is about money, we can fix that. If it’s about the schedule, we fix the schedule. Set your terms! No hen nights, no private bookings. Just the stage and your people.”
Ciarán turned his head slightly and stared at his own reflection in the dark window, as faint and distorted as he felt himself. His reply came out thin, controlled.
“No.”
Ruairi’s temper flickered, then cracked.
“Would ye stop givin’ me one-word answers like I’m some gobshite telemarketer ringin’ at dinner!?” He barked. “I’m your friend, for feck’s sake! Your brother in all but blood! You don’t get t’shut me out and call that kindness!”
Ciarán flinched despite himself at the word brother. He swallowed and looked down and away from his reflection and instead, studied how his thumb and forefinger were rubbing against each other without him realizing he was even doing so.
“I’m not shuttin’ ye out. I’m just.. tired.”
Ruairi’s voice broke on the next line, emotion getting through despite his effort to keep it steady.
“You’re not tired, Ci, you’re disappearin’!” He pleaded. “I can hear it.!Your mam can hear it! Niamh can hear it! You’re in there and you’re hurt and I don’t know how t’help ye if ye won’t let me in!”
Ciarán closed his eyes, trying to fight against the tidal wave of love and friendship and bloody logic and reason that Ruairi was throwing in his path. The man always did know what buttons to push to get him to open up and quite frankly, it pissed Ciarán off royally.
Ruairi was not letting go.
“Come on, mo chara. Talk t’me. Even a little.” Ruairi’s words pounded in his head like thunder. “Tell me where this started. Tell me why Celtic Thunder makes ye go quiet. Tell me why the lad who used t’light up a room now sounds like he’s sitting in the dark countin’ cracks in the wall!”
Ciarán shut his eyes and let his head tip back a fraction, jaw tight enough to tremble. When he spoke, the words were almost mechanical.
“Drop it, Ruairi. Please.”
“No, I won’t drop it!” Ruairi answered immediately, firm and raw and pleading all at the same time. “Be angry at me if ye want! Call me a nosy bastard! Hang up if it makes ye feel better but I am not leavin’ ye alone in this! Not anymore!”
Could hear Ruairi take a deep breath to steady himself before continuing, “I should’ve got on a plane months ago and dragged your stubborn arse out for a walk and a fry-up and a real conversation! That’s on me. But I’m here now, and I’m askin’ ye, please, Ciarán, tell me what happened to ye!”
The plea settled into the room like dead weight. Ciarán did not answer. Not at first. He sat utterly still on the bed, phone to his ear, eyes open but unfocused. His breathing shallow and uneven. His face was blank in that frightening way that comes with wondering if anyone was home. For several long seconds there was only Ruairi’s quiet breathing at the other end, waiting.
Then, without any change in posture, without so much as a blink, a single tear escaped from the corner of Ciarán’s eye and streaked down his cheek…Dublin, Ireland -
2025
Inside the Dublin hotel penthouse, the show was already in full swing, bass hammering through the suite while shrieks and drunken chants acted as a chorus. Ciarán Doyle was in motion at centre of the performance, body moving along to the beat of the stereo with practiced perfection. His costume was long gone and his oiled up body was on full display in nothing more than a rainbow-tasseled thong that left so little to the imagination that anything less would probably be illegal.
He worked the room like an expert, sweat sheening along his skin as he played and teased the six women watching him with obvious delight and hunger behind their eyes. He planted a hand on the edge of the coffee table and vaulted over, landing in a damn near perfect split that sent another roar through the hen party. He gave the bride-to-be a teasing lap dance, retreating before hands could close on him as that was a Celtic Thunder no-no on both sides. He snapped into a body roll that made the whole suite erupt again.
At first, it ran like any other private booking. Women howled and clapped, banging glasses on tabletops, chanting over one another while phones wave in the air trying to catch every second. Ciarán spun out of a grab with an easy grin, redirected a “naughty hand” with a joking wag of a finger, and kept moving. He rolled his shoulders to the beat, then dropped smoothly to the carpet for a final sequence, skin flashing while the group of women roared their approval and the bride-to-be screamed with delight.
Then something shifted.
Someone crossed to the door behind him and the lock clicked with a sharp finality that did not belong in the middle of a party. Another woman reached the speaker and killed the music in one hard tap. The sudden silence landed heavy, broken only by a few stray giggles that sounded wrong. Ciarán straightened, chest rising with controlled breaths, one hand already reaching for the discarded clothes he came in as he nodded toward the exit.
“Right so, show’s wrapped, ladies.” He said with a smile. “Mind yourselves, have a great night now.”
He took two steps toward the door and three women blocked his path. His smile dropped. He angled sideways to pass and another body closed the gap. Ciarán’s posture changed in an instant, shoulders squaring, palms open, tone clipped and serious now.
“Move, now.” He insisted. “I’m done. Let me through.”
But no one moved. A hand clamped his forearm. He jerked free and turned, but another grip caught his bicep from the other side. He twisted, planting a foot, trying to break the holds with leverage instead of force, but someone drove into his shoulder from behind with enough momentum to take him off of his feet. He hit the bed hard, the breath knocked out of his body! The room exploded back into noise, laughter, shouting, cheering!
He bucked up, nearly free for a second, then weight dropped across his thighs and hips as he was being piled on!
“Stop it, for God’s sake, stop!” He shouted. “Get off me!”
Another set of hands forced his right arm flat. The cold band of the handcuff bit his wrist, the other end snapping closed around the bedpost! His left arm was dragged wide - another click!
“No!” He shouted, almost pleading! “I said no!”
He strained, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tearing as he pulled but the bed frame was as solid as the handcuffs! His ankles were yanked apart and fixed to opposite bedposts before he could kick clear, the restraints tugged tight enough to jerk him flat and rendered completely immobile!
Ciarán thrashed, hard, a full-body effort that shuddered through the mattress and frame, but there was no give! Someone’s hand grabbed his jaw and held it firm!
“No, wait, ple – Mmph! Nnnh!” A rubber ball gag was forced between his teeth and buckled behind his head, cutting his words into a muffled, broken sound. “Mmf! Mmph!
Nngh! Mmmf! Mmph! Nnngh!” He tried to shout and all that came out was raw noise swallowed by the room.
He could not sit up. He could not bring his knees in. He could not free a single limb.
Faces blurred at the edges of his vision, leaning in and out, shadows crossing the light. Laughter rose and fell in waves while he fought the restraints until his wrists stung and his ankles burned and his breath turned ragged behind the gag!
His eyes locked on the ceiling because there was nowhere else to look.
.......
The hallway outside the penthouse door swam in and out of focus. Ciarán stumbled into it and caught the wall with his palm, shoulder thudding against the wall as the corridor tilted sideways beneath him. He stood there bent and shaking, dragging air into his lungs in short, uneven breaths. Red and purple marks ringed both wrists and both ankles, already darkening into angry bruises.
His shirt hung crooked, buttons mismatched, collar half folded in. He took a step, then another. At the elevator, he saw his reflection in the mirrored doors and flinched. His eyes were glassy and hollow, jaw clenched around the strap marks at his cheeks, hair disordered, skin slick with cold sweat. The lift arrived with a soft ding. He got inside without looking up, one hand braced to the rail as the numbers dropped toward the lobby.</color>
La Quinta Inn & Suites -
Las Vegas, Nevada
Ciarán sat on the edge of the bed with his phone pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid and eyes fixed ahead on the television screen where some family was busy making life seem too perfect. His confession of what happened to him that night felt like it left only the shell of his former self. On the other end, Ruairi did not speak for several long, painful seconds, but when his voice finally came through, it was rough with disbelief and grief.
“Holy God, Ci... Jesus, Mary and Joseph…" Ruairi’s voice was rough, filled with anger and anguish alike. “That-That happened t’ye and ye carried it on your own!? Sweet sufferin’ Christ!”
The anger in his best friend rose fast, but it was not anger directed at Ciarán. It was the helpless rage of a man hearing that someone he loved had been broken open but kept chugging along and ignored it simply because it was what he perceived as being expected of him.
“Why didn’t ye tell me, lad!?” Ruairi begged of him. “Why didn’t ye tell anyone at all!? We’d have come for ye! Why did ye sit in that alone!?”
“Because I knew how it’d sound.” Ciarán answered, his voice was low and worn thin from holding too much for too long. “Because I kept hearin’ it in me own head before anyone else could say it. That I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve seen it comin’. Because men aren’t meant t’say that happened t’them. And if they do? Half the world laughs and the other half asks what they did t’cause it! Because shame’s a cruel bastard, Ru, and it keeps ye quiet till the silence feels safer than people!”
“You should’ve gone straight t’the Gardaí.” Ruairi made a broken noise, then spoke again. “Jesus, Ci, tell me ye went. Tell me there’s a report, names, somethin’ we can still use!”
“I did go.” Ciarán gave a bitter laugh with no humour in it, eyes still hollow and vacant. “One of them looked me dead in the face and called me a liar. Another one smirked and said he wished a group o’ women would do that t’him. That’s what I got for tryin’ t’do it right.”
The line went quiet again, but this silence was different, thick with Ruairi’s horror. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before, trembling at the edges for a friend who suffered the ultimate in violation.
“That is bullshit!” Ruairi exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Ci. I’m so, so sorry!”
Ciarán’s fingers tighten around the phone. He swallowed hard and forced out the next words like splinters.
“Do ye know the worst part?” He asked. “Not the pain. Not even the pictures and videos they were takin’. After all six had their turn, they threw money at me. Like it was only a transaction. Like I was just a whore they’d paid for and were done with.”
Ruairi exhaled sharply, the sound of a man punched in the chest by helplessness.
“I’m sorry!” Ruairi “I-I should’ve seen it sooner, I should’ve pushed harder when y’got back! I could see somethin’ went wrong but …! I should’ve been there! You didn’t deserve any of that!”
Ciarán closed his eyes, building that wall back up that he just allowed Ruairi to bring down. “I know. I’ve to go.” He said calmly.
“Wait, just listen t’me for one more minute!” Ruairi pleaded. “Don’t hang up, please! We’ll figure this out! I can book a flight tonight, I can come t’...”
Ciarán ended the call before the sentence landed. The room fell silent. He sat motionless on the edge of the bed, phone still pressed to his ear for a second too long, staring into nothing.
“SCW’s Angry Cop. Is that anything like that game, Angry Birds? You know what? Not important!”
“Angry Cop… That’s what they call ye, and I’ll be honest, Liam, the name fits ye about as well as a discount police officer’s uniform. Too tight at the shoulders, inseam pinchin’ yer bollocks. It’s no damn wonder why yer so uptight, you’d have trouble dragging a needle outta yer arse with a tractor! So tell me this, lad. What’s the matter with ye, really? What's the source of all that fury ye drag around like it’s the only personality ye have to call yer own? Did your chief take away your little bell on your police bicycle, is that it? Did he pat ye on the head and say no more ching ching for Officer Davis, and now ye don’t know how t’pull over criminals without ringin’ a toy and puffin’ out your chest, ordering them into that little wicker basket by the handlebars? Because from where I’m standin’, your whole act looks like a man who mistakes noise for authority, and temper for strength.”
“So I’ll tell ye what let’s do, hm? Let’s walk through this proper, nice and slow, because you keep performin’ anger like it’s proof you’re hard, when really it’s proof you’re brittle. Cops with anger issues are a powder keg, everybody knows it, and it never ends clean. I’ve got me own reasons for distrustin’ police, and I don’t hide that for a second. But even without my history, this much is obvious: Men who can’t regulate themselves escalate normal, every day routines and interactions into disasters, then call it pressure, stress, or disrespect when the consequences come to bite them in the arse. So answer this like a grown man. How many times has that temper o’ yours gotten ye into trouble with the public? How many arguments became complaints, how many complaints became reports, and how many reports had your name stamped on them because ye couldn’t control your own pulse?”
“Now you’re tellin’ yourself this ring is your outlet, your healthy release, your noble wee method of workin’ through the rage. Grand story, lad! Right grand! How’s that goin’ for ye, Liam? Are ye calmer these days? More measured, more disciplined, or are ye still the same lit fuse with better lighting and louder music with an audience who can still read ye like a cheap Sunday paper? Because anger management literature, psychology, all of it says the same thing in plain language. Unmanaged anger wrecks judgment and makes a man blame everybody else for the fires he started himself! Most self-inflicted chaos comes from the same three places. Low control, high ego, and zero accountability. That’s not bad luck, lad, that’s pattern, and patterns get punished when they meet someone who can read them!”
“And newsflash! I can.”
“Here’s the reality check ye can’t arrest your way out of. You’re not on patrol now, and this isn’t your street corner. You’re in my world, in that ring, and in there you’ve no handcuffs, no nightstick, no badge to hide behind when things get uncomfortable! You won’t be dealin’ with scared kids shoutin’ police brutality from behind a barrier. You’ll be dealin’ with an Irish lad who knows how t’scrap, who can fight through pain, and who doesn’t fold when a loud man gets in his face! You bring rank to a wrestling match and it means nothin’. Your badge? Means even less once that bell rings. You bring rage without control and that is what is going to cost you in the end because I’ll turn it against ye until every mistake ye make becomes just another lesson stamped into your mind for you to run rewind in that noggin’ of yours, trying to figure out what went wrong an’ how you can possibly put the blame on anyone else BUT yourself!”
“So think o’ me as your therapist if that helps ye swallow what’s comin’. You bring me your anger, your excuses an’ your bruised pride, and I’ll give ye treatment in the only language a man like you ever listens to. Consequences. By the time that bell rings, your source of anger won’t be the chief or the criminal that escaped justice by some fluke in the legal system. It’ll be me, Ciarán Doyle, standin’ over ye while your plan falls apart and your temper finally meets someone it can’t bully.”
“Then we’ll see what’s left when the shouting stops, no costume an’ no authority. Just you, your choices, and the ticket comin’ due.”
“SCW’s Angry Cop? Keystone Cop is more like it.”
