by Tessa Bailey
I reach behind me and slide a hand in between our bodies. My fingers close around his erection where it presses against the fly of his trousers. His hissed curse brings what I suspect is a triumphant smile to my face. Shane’s breath falters, his fingers increasing their circular rhythm between my legs.
“How long h-have you been like this?” I throw his earlier question back at him, but it loses its effect when I gasp the last word.
“Since the airport. Since I turned around and saw you’d given me the slip.” His lips trace over my shoulder. “Did you think I wouldn’t catch you?”
As soon as the words leave his mouth, he stops touching me. I make an irritated sound, but it sticks in my throat when Shane begins yanking my jeans down my legs. My eyes flutter shut, and I imagine what he’s seeing. Me, bent over, naked except for boy shorts and boots. Hurriedly, I toe off the latter and step out of my jeans, seconds from swallowing my pride and begging for him to touch me again, when he whirls me around and pushes me backward onto the fridge. Now that I can see him, see his heavy-lidded eyes and the determined set of his chin, I feel a flash of nerves. Automatically, I try and close my legs, but he steps between them. Both of his hands coast up the insides of my thighs, and all the while he’s watching my face. When his thumbs meet at my center and begin a slow massage through the cotton, my head falls back on my shoulders and I cry out.
“I’d like you to admit something to me, now.” He uses his knuckle to nudge aside the material of my underwear and slip beneath. When it stops just short of where I need it, I hold my breath. “When I touched you behind the bar in front of that fucker. You liked it. You liked having the decision taken out of your hands.”
“There was no decision.” My voice is hoarse. “I told you he’s just a friend.”
“Answer me, anyway.”
I squeeze my eyes closed. “Yes, I liked it.”
Shane sinks his knuckle inside me and twists it. I almost climax, barely managing to suppress a scream. He leans down and kisses my belly as he slips my panties down my legs. Has he changed his mind? Are we going to have sex?
“I’m going to use my mouth on you, Willa. Would you like that?”
His words catch me off guard, but I want to shout yes. Relief at this point could come in any form and I’d be grateful. Then I notice Shane’s labored breathing, the thick ridge of his arousal encased by his pants. The hands drawing my underwear down my thighs are shaking. “What about you?”
He pauses for a split second, eyes seeking mine. I suspect he’s reacting over the way I posed the question. The quiet, sincere concern in my voice. I’m reacting to it, too, on the inside. It sounded too much like I care about…him. Do I care? Shane breaks the spell first, hooking his hands beneath my knees and throwing them over his wide shoulders.
“This is for me.”
I’m unable to think about anything except his mouth as it moves over my flesh hungrily. Oh sweet Jesus. While I’m not experienced by any stretch of the imagination, I know without a doubt that Shane knows what the fuck he’s doing. He has me near the edge within seconds, his tongue and lips nipping, licking, and soothing in all the right places, pulling back when I get too close, then driving me back toward the peak. My fingers have somehow found their way into his hair and wound the thick strands tight in my fists.
“Shane…dammit, Shane, please.”
As if granting me a wish, he pushes two fingers deep, rotating them without stopping the tight, quick strokes of his tongue. Finally, he lets me get past the beginning stages of my orgasm. He can’t stop at this point, or I’ll sock him in the jaw. I know he’s reading my mind when he makes an encouraging sound and it vibrates through me.
“Oh God. Shit, shit.”
I feel like I’m being turned inside out, my back arching in a way that suggests I missed my calling as a gymnast. Shane’s fingers are pressed hard inside me, applying just enough pressure to prolong the feeling sweeping through me. He doesn’t stop until I’ve sagged back onto the fridge, my legs still draped boneless over his shoulders. I should pull myself together, cover myself up, but the urgency is lost on me compared to what I just experienced. When I finally get the strength to pick up my head and look at him, he’s staring at me, an unreadable look in his eye.
“Fuck. I can’t wait to be inside you, girl.”
Just like that, my heart is beginning to pound again. The so recently satisfied parts of my body grow heavy under his appreciative gaze. I want Shane. I want to blow his fucking mind, just like he’s blown mine tonight. Slowly, I let my legs drop from his shoulders and sit up. Without a thought, my hand go to his belt buckle, tracing it with a single finger. “What are you waiting for?”
He swoops down with a curse, mouth covering mine, our kiss beginning at one hundred miles an hour. While I yank the leather of his belt through the loops, his mouth devours mine, his fingers pinching my hardening nipples. Oh God, I’ve never been this desperate. I need to feel him inside me. At this moment, it feels like a necessity.
“Shane?”
We both freeze at the sound of Faith’s singsong voice. I rack my muddled brain, trying to remember if Shane locked the stock-room door when we walked in. Oh boy, I don’t think so. I open my mouth to whisper the question, but he closes a hand over my mouth and shakes his head. When I see a touch of horror on his face, mixed with pain, I can’t help laughing into his palm. His eyes widen a little bit, probably at me having the audacity to laugh when he has a king-size boner in his pants, but something shifts in his expression. And he laughs, too.
Something exhilarating and terrifying moves in the air between us, but I don’t have time to wonder what it could be, because Faith speaks again. “Right. Well, Ma saw you two come back here. I can only assume you’ve finally shagged each other rotten.”
Shane abruptly stops laughing.
“Another group has come in, and we need you back behind the bar, Shane, if you don’t mind zipping it up for a spell.”
The sound of rusty hinges reaches the stock room, telling us Faith has gone back out into the pub. For a long moment, Shane only stares at me. “Did she just say—”
“Yup.”
He pushes a hand through his hair, leaving the side standing on end. “Jesus, living with family is going to be the death of me.”
“Not racing cars?”
I don’t know why I say it. Scratch that, I know exactly why. We just shared something, and I need to put things back on even footing. I’m leaving Dublin, and he’s going back to racing. We are a diversion. I needed to remind myself of that fact out loud.
Laughing without cause, I jump off the fridge and begin replacing my clothes as quickly as possible. I assume Shane has left the room and I’m trying to ignore the twisting in my chest when I feel his fingers lift my chin.
He studies my face. “Maybe you’ll be the death of me.”
Shane doesn’t wait for my response, but drops his hand to his side and walks out. I don’t move for a long time.
Chapter Twelve
“I can’t believe it. Dead, he is?” Kitty wails. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips now?”
I’m halfway down the stairs the next day when Kitty’s question reaches me, slowing me to a stop. I let my laundry plop down on the stair I’m standing on. It’s eight o’clock in the morning, the latest I’ve slept since arriving in Dublin. A horrifying fact. I suspect the only reason I didn’t wake up earlier is because Kitty didn’t knock on my door with ice-cold tea and charred toast. Oddly, I kind of missed the damn wake-up call. Now it seems like there might be a reason besides Kitty’s scatterbrain.
“We’ll manage.” It’s Shane’s deep voice, rolling up the stairs like smoke to reach me. Something hot and sticky invades my belly, in a way that demands I press a hand to the area above my zipper. Having no choice, I’m wearing the same jeans as yesterday, although I’ve tucked my Chicago PD sleep shirt into them so no skin is showing. I’ve thrown a jacket on over everything, even though it looks to be
another day of great weather. Laundry must be done today, or I’ll be forced to walk around Dublin naked.
“How can I manage when people keep keeling over and dying on me?” Kitty’s voice has reached a hysterical pitch. I hear a chair scraping back and Faith speaking in a calming tone, but it doesn’t seem to be having much effect. “First your father, now Martin. He made such a lovely cod and chips, Martin did. It’s an absolute shame. I’d hoped to have it for my lunch today.”
Ah. The cook died. I guess I waited too long to try the cod after all. Not wanting to get in the middle of a family discussion, especially one involving the mourning of a friend, I turn with the intention of going back to my room, but my boot catches on the laundry bag, sending it hurtling down the stairs. It’s louder than it should be thanks to the rickety railing and dead spots in the wood. I cringe when conversation ceases below me.
Just when I’d forgotten my luck is fucked.
“The American must be up.” Another chair scraping along the wooden floor. “You better let me be the one to tell her about our Martin.”
“Her name is Willa, Ma,” Faith says. “And she doesn’t know Martin from a hole in the ground.”
“She’ll read about it in the papers, I suspect,” Kitty continues as if Faith hadn’t spoken. “Better to get it out of the way now.”
I’m still frozen on the steps, as if they might forget about the falling laundry bag and go back to their conversation. Or chalk it up to another guest. With a frown, I eyeball the row of doors above me. I’m starting to wonder if I’m the only guest at the Claymore Inn.
“Willa,” Shane calls. “We know you’re there.”
I heave a sigh and make my way down to the empty pub. Kitty is standing closest to me with her hands behind her back, chin raised toward the ceiling. She looks like a military commander getting ready to address the troops. When I feel a tingle in my spine, my gaze immediately seeks out Shane, the tingle graduating to a full-body flush. Looking fresh from the shower, he’s leaning back in a chair like a lazy tiger, one booted foot propped on his knee. We nod at each other. Faith snorts.
“Bad news, American,” Kitty starts.
I wait, doing my best to look solemn.
Her brow furrows. “Damn, it’s gone and slipped through the cracks.”
Faith gets up from her sprawled position on the booth and lays a comforting hand on her mother’s arm. “Its fine, Ma.” She transfers her attention to me. “Martin, our cook, died.”
“He was more than a cook, really. His cod and chips was a work of art.” Kitty’s frail hand presses to her breast. “Tell me how he died again, Shane.”
Shane shifts in his chair, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. When he speaks, he’s addressing Kitty, but looking at me. The shadow passing over his face makes something hard stick in my throat. “In his sleep, Kitty. No pain.”
His final words sound offhanded, but they seem to clear most of the fear from Kitty’s face, telling me he’d said them for a reason. Her body deflates a little. “Poor old Martin. A lovely man, he was. He even tried to kiss me once.”
Faith nose wrinkles. “What?”
“It’s not what you think. He didn’t have his glasses on.” She stares off into the distance, looking very dramatic. “He thought I was his wife, Lorraine, come to collect him. Still and all, it was quite a nice kiss.” Her hands begin to rummage in her pockets. “Has someone called over to tell Lorraine her Martin is dead?”
“I suspect she has an inkling, since she woke up next to him,” Shane deadpans.
Kitty pulls a piece of toast from her apron and offers it to me. When I shake my head, she starts to nibble on it. “Who’s going to make the cod and chips, then? Martin always brought it in fresh from Beshoffs in Howth. Beautiful, it was.”
“Not to worry,” Faith assures her with a brisk nod. “I’ll figure it out, Ma. There’s a fish market not far from here—”
“No.” Kitty shakes her head. “It has to be Beshoffs. Our customers expect a certain quality. We can’t just change the fish. What will people say?”
“Beshoffs is twice the distance.” Shane stands. “Neither one of us has time to take you. I have to set up the pub. It’s still a wreck from last night.”
“And if I’m going to run the kitchen today, I need to start prepping.”
“I don’t need to be taken anywhere,” Kitty scoffs, but I notice her hand is shaking. When she begins to untie her apron, Shane and Faith exchange an uneasy glance. Something is happening under the surface here. More than the obvious. I can’t put a finger on what it might be, but two things are certain. One, Kitty can’t go out into the city by herself, using public transportation no less. Two, she’s determined as hell to go.
I look around at the pub, noting Shane is right. Bottle caps, dirty napkins, and—is that a blond hair extension?—litter the barroom floor. Empty glasses and bottles are stacked in bus trays on the bar. All the liquor bottles behind the bar are practically empty. They’ll have their work cut out for them to get the bar ready by eleven when the doors open.
This is when I should say, “sorry for your loss,” and beat feet to the Laundromat. By befriending Faith and helping out behind the bar last night, I’ve already become too much of a fixture with this family. Every time I glimpse a little more of their behind-the-scenes issues, my resolve to stay away slips a little more. My family issues might have been vastly different, but I still get them. Truth is, I like Kitty and I don’t want her to do something reckless. The stress on Faith’s face—and okay, Shane’s—makes my decision for me. I eye my bag of laundry wistfully. Apparently basic hygiene is taking a backseat to my conscience.
“I’ll take her,” I say. Shane’s eyebrows shoot up and I shrug. “I’ve been meaning to check out Howth anyway. I hear it’s a good picture spot.”
Kitty claps her hands together. “Grand.” Again, I get the feeling she’s putting on a brave face. It seems like the trip to Beshoffs has completely removed Martin’s death from her mind, given her something new to focus on.
“Are you sure?” Faith appears to be trying to communicate something to me with her eyes, but I’m not computing. What do these people want from me? It’s eight in the morning, and this heap of bricks doesn’t even have a coffeemaker. “You don’t have to do this, Willa.”
“I’m sure,” I say slowly, trying my best to make light of the situation. Honestly, you’d think somebody had died. “It’ll be my little apology to Martin for never trying his cod and chips.” Wanting to escape Shane and Faith’s scrutiny, I hook my arm through Kitty’s. “Let’s pilgrimage in Martin’s memory, shall we?”
Her face falls. “Martin is dead?”
…
Kitty reaches over and clutches my hand as the bus begins to move. My first reaction is to yank it away, because it feels so unnatural. But damn if she’s not squeezing my fingers so tight, I couldn’t extricate my hand if I tried. Her eyes are wide as silver dollars, staring straight out the front windshield of the double-decker bus. With her other hand, she worries rosary beads in her lap, lips moving in her second Hail Mary.
I’m not alarmed yet, but now that I’ve woken up a little, I’m starting to realize Faith had a good reason for giving me an out back at the pub. Kitty travels about as well as potato salad. She looks terrified. Saying a quick prayer she doesn’t forget who I am or why we’re on a bus, I rack my brain for something to distract her, but small talk isn’t exactly my strong suit.
“My sister just had a baby.”
Kitty looks at me blankly. “What?”
“As of a Monday morning, I’m an aunt.” Trying to hold a casual conversation while holding a near stranger’s hand is harder than it sounds. “Her name is Dolly.”
“After Dolly Parton?”
I laugh in surprise, appreciating how she phrased the question. As if it were a reasonable assumption. “Yes. I need to buy a gift for her while I’m here. Any ideas?”
“Everyone needs a tea service.”
“She might be a little young for tea.”
“You’re never too young for tea.” I notice her fingers have slowed their furious rubbing of the rosary beads. “Shane and Faith both drank it straight from their bottles, they did. Of course, I had to let it cool first.”
“Sure.” Fleetingly, I wonder if it’s the reason Kitty continues to serve cold tea. The bus takes a bumpy turn and she gasps, grasping my hand so hard, I bite my bottom lip. “Maybe I’ll try that—”
“Now my husband liked his tea scalding hot, with only a single drop of milk and no sugar. Piping hot.” Her words are very precise. “I could never figure out how he didn’t burn his tongue. He didn’t even blow on it. Sometimes I would just sit and watch him read the paper, sipping his tea. Made of ice. Just made of ice.”
She seems to have gone off to a faraway place, her eyes slightly glazed. Since her grip on my hand has loosened, I don’t say anything. I should change the subject, too, but I don’t do that either. As much as I try not to be, I’m interested in finding out more about Mr. Claymore. This man Faith accused Shane of becoming.
“He didn’t mean it,” she murmurs. “He never meant it.”
“Meant what?”
She jolts a little in her seat. “When he said he didn’t like my tea, he didn’t mean it.”
“Oh.”
“Or when he made my son leave.” Her fingers begin to work the rosary beads again. “He didn’t mean it. Deep down, he wanted him to stay. I truly believe that.”
I swallow hard, thinking of Shane’s face the night he argued with Faith. “I’m sure he did, too, Kitty.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Okay.” I squeeze her hand, fighting the sudden urge to cry. “Okay.”