by L.J. Shen
Now, here I am, dialing Debbie’s number. Again.
She picks up on the third ring. There’s a time difference, and I know I’m catching her early in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Debbie?”
Drunk Mal is obviously on a first-name basis with Rory’s mother. Sober Mal, however, is worried for Drunk Mal’s bullocks.
“Yes?” She already sounds on edge.
“It’s Mal, Father Doherty’s grandson.”
“What do you want?”
Your daughter. Is it not painfully, pathetically clear by now?
“Cheers for the pictures.” I hiccup into the phone. “She is very talented, our Rory, isn’t she?”
I know I come off as a stalker. The first call was a shot in the dark. The second one is a shot in my foot. I am unwanted in their lives—that much is obvious—yet I keep coming back.
“What. Do. You. Want?” she asks again.
Tough crowd. All right, straight to the point it is.
“I want to write Rory a letter, but I don’t want to send it to you. I want to send it directly to her. I know where she goes to school, so it’s not like I won’t be able to find out myself. Now it’s just a matter of you making it easy or hard for me. I’ve a feeling she wasn’t planning on me ever seeing these captions, and I’m willing to keep this our little secret if you give me her P.O. box.”
I’m blackmailing my future mother-in-law. This will make my promise to Rory to invite her for Christmas every year tricky.
Debbie mumbles a few things, but surprisingly, she gives me the address. I write it down on the back of my hand, then on a piece of paper, then as a note on my phone. You know, just in case.
“It’s not going to do you any good,” she murmurs bitterly. “My daughter doesn’t want you, Malachy.”
“See you next Christmas, Ms. Jenkins.”
I’m just acting the maggot, like she’s a mate or something, but a part of me wants to believe what I’m saying. Which, of course, speaks volumes about my level of intoxication. See her at Christmas? Ha.
“Cheerio,” I sing-song.
She hangs up on me.
Hope Debbie doesn’t plan on getting any of Mammy’s special mince pies next Christmas.
She doesn’t deserve them.
Present
Rory
I didn’t leave my room the entire day yesterday, determined to avoid Mal.
Actually, that’s not true. I left it one time, when I heard Mal’s old car barking exhaust smoke down the road and knew he had gone. Where, I have no idea. I went out then, slipped into my Toms, and marched the entire, rain-soaked way to Main Street, stomping on puddles and flipping the bird to sheep and cows on my way. I stocked up on granola bars and bottled water, then treated myself to a cup of coffee, a chocolate chip cookie the size of my head, and a nice, internal meltdown in a local coffee shop.
By the time I got back to the cottage, Mal’s car was parked by the front door. The Lord of the Dumpster was in his room. Hearing whispering behind the closed door, I realized there was someone with him, a woman.
My rubber-ball heart bounced in my chest. Kathleen. I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear to it. I deciphered some of the words and realized it couldn’t be Kathleen. First of all, she sounded nothing like my half-sister. Second, she had a strong, northern English accent, not Irish, and third, this is what I got from their conversation:
Mal: “It’s just for a few months.”
Woman: “Then what?”
Mal: “Then I take her and we’re leaving. She likes the beach, so maybe we’ll go somewhere with a lot of sun. Greece or Spain. South of France, maybe.”
Woman: “Isn’t she mad at you for having her here?”
Didn’t take a genius to figure out I was her, and I was also about as welcome as gonorrhea.
Mal: “She has no idea about Rory, and I plan on keeping it that way. Makes things simple. I like simple.”
Woman: “I could be simple for you, Mal.”
Mal: “Certainly you can, and you are.”
Whoever she was didn’t pick up on the insult. Shame. A punch in the nuts was just what the doctor ordered for Mal.
Then the noises started. The tongues and thrusts and skin slapping skin. My thighs squeezed, and the hollow place between them ached. I thought of interrupting him, too—you know, an eye for an eye and so forth—but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I heard.
That I cared.
No.
I moved to my room, threw myself onto the bed, flung an arm over my eyes, and shook my head.
Down, girl.
But it was too much, and I was too weak. I shoved my hand into my jeans and played with myself to the sound of Mal having sex with another woman.
It’s not cheating, I told myself the entire time. I’m not touching him. I never will. Callum and I just didn’t get to finish what we’d started the night before.
I decided not to leave my room unless Mal called me for work. It was stupid to think we could patch things up. He was a different person, and I needed to stop making excuses for him in my mind.
I texted Callum a string of messages telling him I missed him, turned my laptop on, and worked into the night. My mom called a couple times, but I sent her to voicemail. Mal and the woman ended up doing the very same thing Cal and I had been about to do the night before, and extra loudly, no doubt so I could hear.
What kind of merciless, ruthless, immoral monster cheats on his wife and also hides the fact that her half-sister and his once-upon-a-time crush is living with him for two months?
Listening to him drilling into a woman who wasn’t his wife put the stamp of disapproval on Mal, and that is very good news.
I am no longer jealous of Kathleen, or interested in being civilized with her husband.
Anyway, that was yesterday, and today I woke up to the faint sound of music and the strong scent of food: bacon, eggs, freshly brewed coffee, and banana bread.
My mouth waters, and I struggle to swallow my saliva. I’d kill for a good cup of coffee. Besides, seeing as I have nothing but negative feelings toward Mal, it shouldn’t be too hard to face him.
I crack my door open and step into the living room barefoot, my red plaid pajamas barely covering my legs and messy hair tangled like wild branches around my face. I halt in the cove between the living room and corridor, my heart slowing along with my step.
Ashton Richards (yes, the Ashton Richards) is sitting in Mal’s living room, smoking a joint and wearing a golden robe with his initials printed on the breast pocket, along with sunglasses indoors. He sips his coffee and reads through something in Mal’s notebook, while his staff runs around in the background, cleaning and cooking like magical cartoon animals helping Cinderella get ready for the ball.
I can’t help but notice that Richards, despite his many apparent flaws if you believe what the media says, is undeniably gorgeous. He looks like a really hot version of Jesus—a long-lost Hemsworth brother with long hair.
Mal sits across from him in a recliner, his legs crossed over his coffee table, chewing on an unlit clove cigarette and throwing a rugby ball at the ceiling. “Boys Don’t Cry” by The Cure is playing from a portable radio, and I will not let the fact that Mal kept his cassettes or his old-school radio endear him to me. He is not a romantic.
There are platters everywhere in the open kitchen, breakfast nook, and on the table. They hold pastries, fruit, a full English breakfast, and coke.
Hold on. Coke?
My eyes widen as I zoom in on the silver platter with white lines running across it. Richards lifts his head from the notebook he’s reading and waves in my general direction.
“Someone hand the chick an NDA. I’m trying to work here.”
A blonde girl who looks eerily similar to Ryner’s PA, Whitney, jogs toward me with a thick stack of papers and a pen.
Mal ignores my existence. His cheekbones are ruddy, tinted pink, and I wonder if it’s f
rom the cold or from last night’s orgasms. He has that lost Peter Pan look—charismatic and unassuming, yet so easily destructive. I can’t even hate him all the way, no matter how hard I try.
“Who’s the hottie?” Richards nudges Mal’s leg with his own, tilting his chin to me.
“My sex slave,” Mal deadpans, catching the ball and spinning it on his finger like a pro, his eyes still hard on the ceiling.
Is there anything this man can’t do?
Yes, stay faithful.
“For real?” Ashton rips his sunglasses from his face and leans forward, checking me over more closely.
I fold my hands across my chest, aware that my nipples are puckered from the cold.
“Isn’t she a little…underdressed?” He raises a thick eyebrow over his crystal blue, Caribbean Sea eye.
I’m going to kill Mal.
Straight-up choke him. Not even in his sleep. I want him to be fully present when it happens.
Mal follows Richards’ gaze until his eyes land on mine. I’m still silent because I’m waiting to see how far he’s going to take his weird story.
“She has a hobo fetish, so I turn a blind eye to her fashion choices,” Mal explains, resuming his ball spinning. “I humor her, but I draw the line at pissing in public and flashing randoms.”
I nod, sending a sugary smile to Ashton Richards. The blonde girl hands me a contract and a pen, and I sign it without even looking, my gaze still on her boss.
“Mal is just being humble,” I begin. “He’s the one with the hobo fantasies. In fact, he loooooves trash. Just look at this place.” I hand the girl the pen and motion around us. “Sometimes I think he won’t rest until this place is a dumpster. I once caught him making love to an empty can of baked beans.”
“Tomato soup, actually,” Mal amends, straight-faced, but his purple eyes are twinkling with mischief. “And that can has a name. Laura.”
Ashton is looking between us now, laughing so hard tears are rolling down his cheeks—a young, hot version of The Big Lebowski.
“Young love. Fucking inspiring. What’s your name, honey pie?” He grins at me.
“Rory,” I say at the same time Mal volunteers my full name.
“Aurora Belle Jenkins. Her ma’s entire cultural education obviously stems from Disney. Personally, I think Cruella de Vil suits her better.”
“Personally, I think men who cheat on their wives and keep secrets from them should be stoned to death by a herd of baseball pitchers,” I retort, heading toward the kitchen and treating myself to a cup of coffee from the new machine that’s been installed since yesterday.
I snag a pastry from a huge platter in the breakfast nook and tear off a piece of it with my teeth.
“You should move to Saudi Arabia,” Mal suggests. “Adulterers get the death penalty. Of course, that’d put you at risk, too.”
“I’ve never cheated,” I growl.
“Yet,” he says flatly.
Bastard.
“Why didn’t you tell me you guys were working?” I ask with my mouth full, ignoring Mal’s third-grade taunting.
Richards is currently trying to count something with his fingers, or perhaps he’s counting his fingers, and looks completely out of it. It’s obvious he and the coke are on intimate terms, and that he’s under the influence of multiple other substances.
So help me God, I live in a house where Mal is the responsible adult.
“Because there’s enough drugs in here to sedate the entire country of China,” Mal clips, looking at me incredulously. “Thought it might be smart not to document it.”
“I have a job to do,” I say through gritted teeth.
Mal’s eyes light up. “Really? You mean a real one, other than walking around with a camera, looking pouty and thoughtful and silly?”
We’re locked in a stare down, and I want to snap.
To snap because he screwed someone in the room next door.
Because he is being the meanest version of himself, and then some.
Because he is a cheater and a tool and a liar.
But most of all, to snap because he is ruining this opportunity for me by not letting me do my work.
“We need to talk.” I manage not to lurch forward and strangle him. Barely.
“I’ve tried talking to you plenty of times, and the answer has always been no. Welcome to your own medicine, Rory. Tastes like a year-old used condom, does it not?”
What is he talking about? He tried to talk to me? When? Where? I’ve been here all along. I’d know if he tried knocking on my door. The guy is unhinged. Maybe he had a few sniffs of the good stuff, too.
“Man, your sex slave has a mouth on her.” Richards sprawls on Mal’s couch, snatching a dildo-shaped bong and lighting it up, his eyes crossing as he stares at it. “I hope you’re not paying her.” He coughs out a cloud of smoke.
“Only in compliments,” Mal deadpans.
“Still overpriced for how cheeky she is,” Ashton mutters, throwing me a look. “She is dickable, though. Are you sharing?”
Mal shrugs, chewing on the bottom of a lighter. “Certain holes.”
“Thanks, I’ll make sure to note this on your accolades when I file the sexual harassment suit,” I say cheerfully.
That makes Ashton cough and lean forward. He is finally snapping out of it.
“Come on now, Sex Slave. Don’t be so uptight.” He giggles to himself. “I just said the word tight.”
I need to get out of here.
I have to. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail, and they just might bring me to the point of double murder. There are too many witnesses around. No, thank you.
I storm back to my room, get dressed, grab my backpack and camera, and head out into the bitter cold of late December. They’re still where I left them on the couch and recliner when I move out into moss and green hills and naked trees, making my way down the stony path from Mal’s cottage to Main Street.
I put my earbuds in and let the words of “Drunken Lullabies” by Flogging Molly seep into me. I kick empty bags of chips and crushed cans of soda along my way down to the village. I hate this place. I should just buy a ticket and join Cal in England.
That thought makes the noose around my rubber-ball heart looser. Now that’s a promising prospect. Staying in Callum’s parents’ house. They live in Virginia Water, Surrey. I’ve seen pictures of their estate, and it makes Buckingham Palace look like a studio in Williamsburg. Though being there does nothing for my career.
I’ve spoken to his mother on the phone. To his sister, Lottie, too. They all seem nice and kind and cheerful and sane.
Sane. That’s what Summer meant when she pushed me into Callum’s arms. I make a mental note to talk to her. I promised to call every day, and so far I’ve only managed to text her a few times. I’m already breaking my promise.
I would give up a lot to have someone to talk to right now, but I don’t want to worry Callum over nothing. I need to calm down, chug more coffee, then go back and take pictures of these clowns (Photoshopping out any evidence of Richards’ drug use).
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out, only to see my mother’s name flashing. I tuck it back into my jacket with a sigh. Clearly, I’m okay. I sent her two emails reporting as much. Can she really blame me for not wanting to talk to her? All she does is make me feel guilty about coming here.
When I get to the village, I buy a pack of gum from a newsagent. As I reach into my pocket to dispose of the change, I hear chattering behind me—two chicks who sound around my age, maybe slightly older. I don’t turn around, even when one of them clearly has a Northern English accent. Liverpool is my guess, though I’m hardly an expert.
“…can’t be her.”
“Look at her scar, Maeve. It is her.”
“She’s supposed to be American.”
“I heard an American accent.”
“Stop being ridiculous! Why would she…”
I steal a quick glance—barely noti
ceable, just to see what they look like.
Maybe they’re friends of Kathleen’s. Perhaps they know me through Mal, who told people about my birthmark, even though he knows how self-conscious I am about it. Either way, it’s in poor taste, and at least one of them—the leggy blonde with the familiar English accent—is in no position to judge me, seeing as she sleeps with a married man.
I grab a napkin from the register, stuff it into my pocket, turn around, and flash them a smile.
“Let me give you a direct answer: yes, I am her. What did you hear? That I stole Mal from Kathleen? That my mom is a bitch? That my late dad is a no-show drunk? Been there, heard that, so let me add another rumor into the mix. This one is also true, so listen carefully—I’m living with Malachy for the next two months. Under the same roof. But I won’t be screwing around with your friend’s husband. I want nothing to do with either of them, so feel free to pass your message to Kathleen.”
And by the look of it, anyone else in this village. It’s official, I’m the pariah of this godforsaken town, thanks to my lovely host.
Astonishment drips from their faces, their mouths limp, their eyes comically wide. The blonde is wearing tight, white jeans and a huge pink faux-fur coat. Her friend is a petite, curvy brunette, with farmer’s boots and a neon green bomber jacket. They’re both nursing steaming cups of coffee.
“How dare you talk about Kathleen like that!” The blonde gasps theatrically, snapping out of her shock.
Never mind the fact that she’s sleeping with Kathleen’s husband.
“Let me guess, you’re here for your inheritance from your father?”
What? Why would I come here eight years after he died?
“I’m not interested in my late father’s money,” I clip out.
I wish he’d been broke, so people would stop accusing me of going after his fortune. No wonder Mal hates money so much. It’s everything people think about.
“Right,” the blonde snorts. The brunette shakes her head, elbowing her friend.
“Stop it, Maeve. I think she really doesn’t know. I’m Heather, and this is Maeve.”
Reluctantly, I shake both their hands. Maeve still looks upset by my existence, and I’m trying really hard not to out her sordid doings yesterday in front of her friend.