by L.J. Shen
I press my shoulder against the door and take a deep breath.
“Rory?” Callum asks behind me, his voice laced with worry.
“Promise not to judge me, Cal?”
“Promise.”
With a shove, I push the door, knowing damn well it isn’t locked, because last time—eight years ago—it wasn’t, either.
We spill into the house, which also looks a thousand times worse inside than it did before. Callum’s lips purse as he walks around, observing the old, ragged furniture and strewn-about newspapers, CDs, and vinyl records. There are poetry books and half-rolled, wrinkly notebooks on the couch and a coffee table and breakfast nook buried under piles upon piles of junk, dust and dirt everywhere.
I look around in shock, trying to spot one inch on the floor that’s not suspiciously sticky or covered with something.
I turn around to Cal, and his throat bobs, but he says nothing.
“I’m sorry you have to sleep here tonight.” I bite my lower lip.
It is a dump. Not because it’s small or old, but because it’s messy and filthy. It looks like no one has lived here in a while. Cobwebs adorn every corner of the room. Doesn’t matter that it’s freezing outside, I still find myself cracking a window just to get rid of the stale scent of a thousand takeout boxes left to rot somewhere in this place.
“It’s fine.” Callum tries to sound calm and collected, even though I know he pays his cleaners extra to come in every day and make sure everything is spotless in his Manhattan penthouse. “Quaint and charming. Besides, a roof is a roof. The people under it are what matters. You’re here. That’s all I care about.”
We spend the next twenty minutes touring the house. We start with the kitchen, where we find the root to the rancid smell: an unattended garbage bag sitting under the sink, a cloud of buzzing flies above it. Even though I don’t want to clean these two’s pigsty on principle, I also don’t want to puke, so I throw it out.
I walk through the narrow hallway afterwards. The master bedroom, which was his mother’s before Kathleen moved in, is completely empty, save for the king-sized bed that’s unmade. The pillows are a suspicious shade of dirty yellow, and the blanket could use a wash. I move to the bathroom, which has also seen better days, finally stopping at Mal’s then-room, and our guest room, I suppose. It has one made-up, single bed and a little closet. I turn around to Callum, but he just grins.
“Less room means more spooning. Not a bad Sunday.”
I should love this man.
I should.
And right now, I’m getting damn close to that elusive feeling.
“No part of this is your fault,” he adds. “So don’t you dare apologize.”
We move to the last room down the hallway, and it is locked—possibly the studio Ryner was talking about. That might explain the deadbolt, padlock, and STAY OUT sign on the door.
Callum gets right to business, wheeling my suitcase into our room, while I open the rusty door leading to the backyard to see if the sheep and cows are out and about.
There are no more sheep.
No more cows.
There’s no more…anything, really.
I take a step out, and something crunches under my shoe. I look down, frown, and pick up an earring. Just the one. Must be Kathleen’s. A drop-shaped pink diamond earring. It looks fake, but then again, so is she. Maybe they’re hard up for cash. No other reason for Mal to take this writing gig. I look up, staring at the green hills.
A voice behind me rustles, “Breaking and entering is illegal in Ireland.”
I jump, turning around. Mal is leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands shoved in the front pockets of his acid-washed jeans, one Blundstone boot crossed in front of the other. His beauty arrests me for exactly five seconds before I school my face.
“Nice crib.”
He pushes off the doorframe, descending the two steps to his backyard and ambling toward me. “Trashed it especially for you.”
“And I suppose Kathleen was eager to help. Anything to make me feel unwelcome.”
Mal flashes me a breezy smile, tying a red bandana on his forehead like he’s getting ready for something. He reminds me of old Mal again—adventurous and boyish, impossible to resist.
“Where is she, anyway?” I look around.
I want to get the initial slap-in-the-face reaction of seeing them together out of the way so I can breathe regularly again.
“Dublin.”
“When is she going to grace us with her presence?”
He whistles, then lets out a gruff chuckle. Of course, Kathleen has conveniently removed herself from the situation. I don’t know why she’s hiding. She’s just the type to parade her gorgeous husband like it’s a dog show. Obviously, Mal is not going to answer my question.
I gesture toward the nothingness.
“Where’s the cattle?”
“Sold it.”
“Father Doherty? Is he doing okay?”
He squats down, patting away a patch of mud on the front of his boot. “He’s alive.”
“How about your mother?”
He stops messing with his boots, looks up, and blinks at me like I stopped speaking English. “I’m not a steak, Aurora,” he snarls.
“You need to open the studio. I want to take some photos of it before Richards arrives.”
“There’s no studio,” he says, watching my reaction intently.
Then what the hell is that room? Of course, I don’t ask.
“Then how are you going to record the songs?”
“We’re not. We’re just going to write them.”
“Ryner lied,” I mumble.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I wouldn’t trust that man to give me the time in a room full of clocks.
Mal shrugs.
“You should really clean this place. Richards won’t live in this condition in a million years and counting. He’s used to pretty, nice things.”
“That makes two of you, Princess.”
I want to ask him what the hell he means by that, but I’m not supposed to care. I haven’t done anything wrong. I respected our contract, pined for him for years, and tried to move on. What did he expect? For me to sit around and wait for fate to take control while he wedded my sister?
He shakes his head on a dark chuckle, seeming to take my silence as admittance. He turns around and stalks back inside, leaving me to stand here.
It is crazy how eight years ago, I could feel his pulse against my palm for days and weeks after we parted ways.
Right now, I’d like to rip his heart out of his chest, just to see if it beats anymore.
If it’s still there.
And if it’s black, like my mother warned me.
Mal
On my way back into the house, Aurora’s shiny boyfriend stands up from the sofa and stretches his hand toward me, flashing me his slimy banker smile.
I saunter past him to my room and slam the door. I fling myself onto the dirty bed, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the buzzing of my phone.
Maybe it’s one of my regular bells.
Maybe it’s my agent.
Maybe it’s Richards.
Maybe it’s Ryner.
Don’t know, don’t care.
Aurora. Aurora. Aurora. What am I going to do with you, Aurora?
Not fuck you. Not right now. You’re not ready for it yet, and besides, there’s the whole boyfriend thing to tackle. He’s leaving in a day. I know, because I’ve read the email Ryner’s barely literate assistant sent me, though, of course, I didn’t answer it.
Perhaps I should start by educating you as to how badly you’ve ruined things for me?
No. Too early for that.
Explain how I tried to protect you all those years ago by keeping the truth from you and what you did in return is kill my soul, then feed it to the wolves? Hmm. There’s still time for that, too.
The house looks like a kip. It’s not always like this, but I wanted her to feel bad
. I’m trying to dig into her soul with a spoon and see if she still has a conscience.
I close my eyes, letting another phone call go to voicemail.
“Love?”
I hear the English version of American Psycho calling to Aurora behind the door.
“Mal went to lie down. Would you like me to call a cab so we could go buy some toiletries? I haven’t seen any here.”
First of all, Mal? I’m not one of his masturbating-in-a-circle Eton mates. Malachy for you, thankyouverymuch.
Second, was he expecting The Ritz? I don’t owe him anything.
Third…there isn’t a third, but I’m positive I’ll find something else to get pissy about by the end of his visit.
See, Kiki? You always said I should be more positive.
A few minutes later, I hear a soft knock on the door. I don’t want to recognize the sound of her knuckles hitting wood, unless that wood is attached to my crotch. Still, I know it’s her.
“Mal?” she asks.
“Leave.”
“We’re heading out.”
I don’t say anything, because that’s exactly what I said she should do. Go away.
“Can we grab you something? Food? Milk? Bleach? Manners?”
I smirk to the ceiling, my hands tucked behind my head. It’s on. She’s here, and she is angry, and she is funny, and she is all mine. Sweet and thoughtful and feisty—the perfect combination. Shiny Boyfriend can do nothing about it but sit back and watch.
“No,” I growl.
“When are you planning to start working?”
“When the muse strikes me.”
“Can you be more specific? I need to know when to unpack my equipment.”
“I need to feel inspired to write,” I say in a patronizing tone I just adopted out of nowhere. “Anyone can click a camera. I actually produce, with words and everything. It takes a bit more than having a finger.”
Low blow, but that’s where she aimed when she made potpourri out of my heart and skipped back to America, throwing it everywhere in her wake. There’s a beat of silence on the other side of the door.
“I can email Whitney, Ryner’s assistant, to send someone over to clean the house before Richards—”
“Who died and made you Joanna Gaines? Why don’t you mind your own business instead of criticizing other people’s houses?”
A part of me prays her shiny boyfriend will take offense to the way I speak to his mot, storm in, and punch me. I’m in the mood for a good fight. Alas, Mr. Banker is not planning on ruining his manicure anytime soon, based on the depressing silence coming from outside the door.
“How do you know who Joanna Gaines is?” she asks after a moment of silence, a smile in her voice.
Kathleen’s Ma, Elaine, watches her and her husband’s show all the time. Sometimes she cries. I’d cry, too, if I had to spend an hour watching people choosing wallpaper for a house that’s not even theirs.
“Yeah. Okay. Gotcha.” Aurora bangs her palm against the door.
Two minutes later, I hear the front door slam. I close my eyes. My phone starts ringing again. I crack one eyelid open, just to make sure it’s not Kathleen’s number. When I see it’s a US phone number, I turn the phone to silent and take a nap.
By the time I wake up, the crickets are singing. I take my time adjusting to the darkness and stretch—I have nothing waiting for me—then sit up on the edge of my bed, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.
A sudden thud comes from the living room. Then the front door whines open. I flip my phone over and check the time. Midnight. They weren’t solely shopping for tampons and shampoo, that’s for sure.
Aurora giggles, her shiny boyfriend grunts, and then they both whisper.
Someone bumps into a piece of furniture. Aurora laughs breathlessly. I hate her laugh. It’s throaty and low and fuck, which part of me thought this was a good idea, the masochist or the drunk?
Getting revenge by having her come here and spend time with me is like getting laid by wrapping your crotch in sandpaper and joining a monastery.
I hear wet, sloppy kisses. Grunting and chuckling and oof-ing. Her muppet boyfriend kisses like a fecking greyhound by the sound of it. So. Much. Tongue. But she likes it. I know, because she whimpers like she did when I did things to her.
He moans.
She sighs.
He groans.
She giggles.
My chewed-up nails are digging into the flesh inside my palms. A nice, sane way to prevent myself from strangling both of them.
“What about our host?” Shiny Boyfriend murmurs.
His host is about to pull a gun from under his wooden floor and blow his fecking head off. The only hole in that plan is that I don’t own a gun. And the floor is carpeted. Never mind. This plan clearly cannot work.
“Asleep, probably. His door is closed,” she replies.
I listen as they make their way to their room, which I never bothered showing them, bumping into every single object on their way. They sound more sauced than an enchilada. Their door clicks shut, but there’s only one, thin wall separating us, and you can hear everything through it.
The kissing stops, but something far worse starts. She’s moaning now, and I can tell she’s not faking it, because I know what she sounds like when she comes.
“Love,” Shiny Boyfriend rasps.
I hear a zipper rolling down. I dig my fingers into my skin until I draw blood. It feels like every inch of my body is wrapped in thorns.
“Bite down on your dress. He’s going to hear us.”
He’s already hearing you, you oxygen-wasting pillock.
I jump to my feet like the bed is on fire, throw my door open, and take the two steps to their door. Rather than knock, like a normal human being, I push it open like the manner-less cunt Aurora is starting to become familiar with.
I fold my arms over my chest at the door, watching them lazily. Aurora is plastered against the wall, and Shiny Boyfriend is on his knees, carpet-munching. She is naked save for a black lace bra, and he is licking the outline of her bare pussy—perfectly, beautifully shaved—when I clear my throat and make myself comfortable against the doorframe. They both crack their eyes open.
Aurora lets out a yelp, but he remains angled right next to her pussy, protecting her modesty.
Don’t bother, mate. I’ve seen it so close I can recognize it in a lineup.
“She likes it when you suck her clit and use your fingers at the same time.” I shove my fists into my pockets, yawning the sleep away. “But quite partial to clit-pinching. Go figure.”
Rather than appreciating my helpful pointers, Aurora leans down, picks up one of her shoes, and hurls it in my direction with a Celtic roar. I dodge it, yawning again for good measure. I hope she takes photos better than she aims, or Ryner is going to have a problem.
“Had a good night?” I look around.
Really, I should do something with this room. Maybe burn it to the ground so they won’t have any privacy.
“Get the hell out!” she screams.
She is so red, her white scar shines bright like the moon. Her spineless boyfriend scurries up, hands her a dress, and rearranges his boner in his trousers.
“I think you should go.” The genius advances toward me, but I can tell he’s the type to file a lawsuit before he throws a punch.
“Aurora.” I ignore him, staring at her with icy boredom.
She puts her black dress on quickly, mumbling something under a breath, doubtful words of praise as to my hospitality thus far.
“I am ready.”
“Ready for what? The hard facts of life? Here’s one: you’re an asshole, Mal. Here’s another: there’s not one part of you I still even remotely like.”
My chest constricts, but it’s probably because I haven’t had a drink since New York. And before New York, in months. Years. I’ve cut back on the alcohol significantly since The Night That Ruined Everything. I didn’t want to become Aurora’s father, Glen.
>
“To work.” I pick up her shoe and toss it into her hands. She catches it, her brows diving in confusion.
“Mal, it’s midnight.”
“She reads the clock; you read social situations.” I give Shiny Boyfriend an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Together, you’re a rare force of intelligence and capability.”
“I’m serious.” She scowls.
“Inspiration hits me at weird hours.” I shrug.
“Can it hit you in the face into another fit of sleep? At least until tomorrow morning?” she inquires, her cheeks pink.
She’s putting her shoes on, though, like I knew she would. That’s the thing about true artists, they cannot deny their art, even—and especially—when they’re hurting.
Shiny Boyfriend glances between us, obviously unfamiliar with the full rainbow of human emotions. It looks like this is the first time he’s witnessing a fight. He is a bit taller than me and definitely has that Brad Pitt circa 1990, this-is-your-life-and-it’s-ending-one-minute-at-a-time look down to a T. Unlike Tyler Durden, though, I can search with a magnifying glass and still won’t be able to find one alpha bone in his body. There are likely more pheromones in a tutu.
Underwhelmed by my competition, I turn to Aurora and snap my fingers.
“In this lifetime, please. And bring a jacket. I write outside, and you’re notoriously more frigid than the iceberg that killed the Titanic.”
Aurora stomps toward the door.
“Don’t blame the iceberg. Blame the Irish people who built the ship…” she murmurs.
“It was fecking working when it left here for Southampton. We will not be blamed for shoddy workmanship.”
I bite down on a smile. Secretly, I can admit to myself that Aurora is not a total bore.
“Besides, what are you, exactly? Last time I checked, your father wasn’t a Viking.”
She opens her mouth, no doubt getting ready to verbally knee my balls, when the muppet interrupts us.
“Love?” Shiny Boyfriend calls behind her.
I positively loathe that nickname. Love. Something about uttering this word so offhandedly makes me want to jam his head into a bucket full of bleach.
Aurora turns around.
He hands her the camera on the nightstand. “Might want to take this with you.” He winks.