Dalton
“What the hell does that even mean?” I shouted at the slammed door. I looked to the guys, my new friends, the assholes that got me into this fucking nightmare, and glared.
It was Micahel who answered. “She just told ya to go feck yerself sideways in Gaelic.” The little shit tried not to smile. Seconds later, the whole lot of them burst out laughing.
“She’s right pissed, she is. You know you’ve angered Cami good and done when she starts swearing at ya in Gaelic.” Daniel chuckled as I flipped them all the finger.
“You,” I pointed at Daniel as I tried to get the world to stop spinning. “You told me she was in the back making out with Michael.” I accused as I put my hands to my temples to see if it would stop the motion.
“What the hell are you goin’ on about? Why do you eejits think I was making a move on Cami? I was askin’ her advice on her friend Keela, the shy bird who works the bar!” he told the group while he sent ugly glares at all of them.
“Still, I never said Michael was kissin’ Cami, I said he was probably making his move; that don’t me he was puttin’ hands on her. What you did with that slapper Lara was your own doin’, lad.” Daniel told me with a stern, parental glare.
“Yeah, lad, Lara has kind of a reputation around here, you best be makin’ sure your dick doesn’t fall off,” Paul chimed in, not even trying to stife his laughter.
“Yeah, Paul’s right, I wouldn’t ride Lara if she came with pedals,” Michael teased and, for a moment, I wondered what my footprint would look like on his forehead.
I attemped to take a step in his direction to see if the reality was half as satisfying as the idea when I realized the world had begun to spin again, and I heard Michael curse just before the world blacked out.
What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck. Is. That? This noise, this loud banging noise that could only come from the 11th level of hell was sounding inside my head. I threw my head under the memory foam pillow and gripped the sides of my pulsating brain. No matter what I did, the banging continued. Surely people need to be warned about the Irish Guiness they sell in Dublin. There must be some taskforce somewhere that can have the liqour checked out, because there was no way in hell what I had drunk last night was pure Guiness. Well, in fairness, I had lost count after nine glasses of the stuff. Whoever started the dumbass tradition of the fact that buying a round triggered someone else buying the next round apparently never went to a bar with twelve Irish guys.
Suddenly feeling like my stomach was going to empty whatever I had left in it from last night, I raced to the bathroom. After expelling the contents of my poor belly, I turned on the sink to throw some water on my face.
Whoa? The reflection staring back at me said I had either done something very stupid or someone had played a joke on me. Hoping it was the old "let's smear lipstick on the drunk guy" joke, I quickly felt that hope fade when I saw the hickeys that lined my neck. SHIIIIIIIT!
I wasn’t sure what terrified me more: that these hickies were from Camille or that they weren’t. No matter how hard I tried to focus, I couldn’t get a clear image of what happened last night. I remembered the drinking, I remembered Camille talking to the redheaded bartender as she helped her behind the counter, but after that, it was all a blur.
I don’t suppose any of you nice people would like to clue me in on what happened last night? Didn’t think so, sadists! Fine, watch me suffer. Anyways, how bad could it be? So, apparently Camille and I had gotten a little hot and heavy last night, wasn’t that what I wanted? Judging by the fact that all of my clothes were intact ,at least I know we didn’t have sex. Still, I needed to be prepared for the possibility that Camille might be embarrassed. Hell, she might have been as drunk as I was and doesn’t remember either. I decided I would do my very best to put her at ease; after all, I was used to women losing control around me and I needed to make sure Camille knew that I was perfectly fine with her exploring her newfound comfort with the male anatomy, using me as the test subject.
Satisfied that there was nothing to worry about, I jumped into the shower and hoped to God this headache followed the water down the drain.
Twenty minutes later, I was ready to bash my own head against the freaking wall. Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound was incessant, the throb a testament of my Guinesses hangover. Walking down the stairs, I prayed that Kathryn had real coffee this morning; it was definitely not a tea kind of day for me.
“Dalton, lad, I’ve got some strong coffee and breakfast cakes waitin’ for ya in the oven!” she called brightly from the living room as I made my way to the small kitchen.
“You, Kathryn, are an angel, I swear!” I told her. That wasn’t just crap, either, right now that woman was the Alpha and Omega of my world as she provided me coffee and sustenance. Hopefully, once I had gulped down a black cup of joe and whatever these breakfast cakes were, I could get the pounding in my head to stop. Otherwise, I was going to seriously consider suicide by self-decapitation. Yeah, it was that bad.
“You look like shit, boy,” Jack announced as I was grabbing what looked like a fresh coffee cake from the oven.
“Careful, Jack, if I find out you’re not treating Camille's mother right, I’m going to steal her away for her coffee cake alone,” I joked, trying not to let on to just how crappy I felt.
“I take it you learned the Irish custom of buying a round?” he snickered like the cruel, evil man that I was fast becoming to think of him as.
“Yeah, something like that,” I replied, adjusting the turtleneck sweater I was wearing. Funny, when Sara insisted I pack a few, I had actually complained. I was definitely giving Sara an extra hug when I saw her next, since the turtleneck was the only thing keeping me from explaining the love bites on my neck. I was pretty sure I was quicker than Jack, but something told me if Synclair found out that I had hickies from her cousin, Camille, she would glady hold me down and let him bludgeon me to death with sharp objects.
My survival instinct was at an all time high so I decided to just play dumb with Jack about the happenings of last night until I could talk to Camille. Speaking of which, where the heck was she? My best guess is that she was trying to avoid me, but that was going to prove difficult because as soon as I could see straight I was going to hunt down the little hellcat and we we’re going to have a "Get right with Dalt" talk.
“Apparently, the Irish have guts of steel and can drink their weight in beer, because I got my ass handed to me last night. I’m not even sure how Camille got me into the car. Speaking of which, I’ll have her drive me to the site after breakfast and get yours.” I told him once I remembered that I had gotten to the bar with Camille. Shit, nice job, Dalt. You leave the man’s car at a construction site and maul his daughter… you are so fucked! Gee, it was nice to know I could count on my inner self to give me a pep talk when I needed one; now all I needed was a sharp stick in my eye to complete my morning.
“Whew, you really were wasted last night, Dalton. Michael drove you home in my car and Paul followed so he could give him a lift back. It took me and Michael both to get you up the stairs,” Jack told me, smiling.
Okay this was good, Michael got me home. I thought he was a good guy. I remember he was the one that lent me the clothes I had worn last night and showed me where the "toilet" was. 'Cause don’t call it a freaking bathroom or you’ll piss yourself before anyone will tell you that’s not what it’s called here. I mean, I get it, I expected a little razzing of the new guy and being American, I was sure, got me extra ribbings, but it was all in good fun. I had watched those guys ready to back up Camille when Walt came storming up those steps at her. I was sure each and every one of them would have glady given up their job if it prevented her from being humilated by begging for their wages.
That brought back the memory of what happened at the site: Camille had quit and, instead of the crew getting screwed over, she had stood up to Walt and got Daniel the foreman’s job. My guess was she hadn’t even mentioned it to Jack yet.
�
��Speaking of Camille, she was amazing last night, Jack, you should have seen her. Walt may have raised her, but she’s a Patrick through and through.” I smiled when Jack’s head popped up in surprise.
It was time he knew just how much of a Patrick his daughter was, and as soon as I told Jack, I was going to call Synclair. Of course, I wasn’t going to mention what happened between Camille and I, my only hope is that the crew adhered to the man code and didn’t bust me with Jack or Kathryn. Yeah, you girls have a woman’s code and we guys have the bro code. Rule number twenty-three states that no man shall rat out another man with a girl’s father when said first man witnesses the second man making out with a girl.
Don’t believe me? Trust me, it’s there; don’t kill the messenger, this is sacred information I am parting with here. Like you don’t have your own weird codes. How about the hair flipping one? Yeah, I know all about the hair flip. When you’re on the dance floor and you flip your hair over your shoulder, your hoard of female friends will swoop in and spout off so many excuses for why you have to leave that the poor guy just stands there, not even realizing he was just put in the "not a chance in hell, get me away from this creeper" zone. See? I told you I know women. Okay, my little sister Rachel told me that one, but my point still stands - both genders have rules.
I spent the next twenty minutes singing Camille’s praises. Okay, there was a little self-preservation here, because I knew at some point Jack was going to find out I had been getting really friendly with Camille. However, I was so damn proud of how she had out-smarted Walt that I wanted the world to know how amazing the woman was. I surprised myself at how much I made a point to let Jack and Kathryn, who had joined us when she heard Camille’s name, know how she stuck it to Walt and Finn and saved the day for her crew.
When I was finished, Jack was beaming with pride and Kathryn was wiping tears from her eyes.
“I’ll be sure to tell Camille not to worry about Walt cutting off Kathryn’s alimony, she doesn’t need his money; I’m going to take care of my girls,” he said in a voice that was filled with pride. He hugged Kathryn to him and kissed her head, and she closed her eyes as she snuggled into his chest.
This was what I remember best about my parents. Before they died, they were always hugging and kissing. They were very affectionate people and, even when my father was upset, he made sure to let my mother know it would pass and that he loved her dearly. I couldn’t imagine finding a love like that. A love where even in the throes of a heated argument, you took care not to say something you had to take back, to never go to bed angry, to never get bored of being with one person for your whole life. I just wasn’t convinced that kind of love existed anymore. It didn’t seem like people stayed together or worked things out; as soon as someone was unhappy, they bolted. My brothers had been the exception, but they had to lose the women they loved before they pulled their heads out of their asses and fought for and won that everlasting, Disneyland love that they ultimately got.
I couldn’t imagine any woman taking me that seriously, not after I had become known as the "Charming Hudson", the playboy of the family. I still believe I would grasp love with both hands if it ever came along and grabbed me by the balls; if someday some woman came along that made me stop wanting something casual, I would do anything and everything to keep her.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Dammit! Okay, this time I know that wasn’t my head, because Kathryn had given me two strong Ibuprofen and what had been a deathly pounding was now a dull throb. I looked at Jack, who looked at Kathryn, and then they both looked at me. Yeah, you know how in the movies when something like this happens, the person being stared at gets some lightbulb that goes off in their head and understands what those odd stares mean? Yep, not happening here. I stared back at them both with a blank look on my face, because that was exactly what I was pulling - a blank.
“Okay, help me out here, I’m still slightly hung over. What am I missing?” I asked, figuring the direct approach was best in this situation.
“You thought the bangin’ all this time was yer head?” Kathryn asked like she was trying not to laugh.
“Um, yeah, but now that the headache is subsiding and I don’t feel like I need to spend the next few hours hanging over the toilet, I can clearly hear it, and it actually sounds like… No! She wouldn’t dare!” I shouted as the lightbulb moment finally kicked in. Hey, better late than never.
“I told her you’d be right pissed if she started on it without talkin’ to you first,” Kathryn told me as I jumped up from my chair.
Jack chuckled as I placed my dishes in the sink and stomped toward the backdoor.
“This should be good,” he whispered to Kathryn as I slammed out of the house.
Slamming the door did nothing for my head but I was too ticked off at the moment to care. How dare she encroach on my gazebo build? I thought I had been pretty clear. My whole purpose for being here was to build that damn gazebo, not to have some amateur come in and mess up my framework!
I came around the corner where I had left the base of the gazebo tarped to protect it from the rain. I pulled up short when I realized how much she had already gotten done. Just how long had she been awake before I stumbled out of bed? Looking at my watch, that I had wisely set for the current time zone, it showed it was after one in the afternoon. Crap, I hadn’t meant to sleep so late, but then I hadn’t meant to go to a bar and get hammered either.
I wanted to be pissed, but she had already framed the first stage of the gazebo, bascially the bottom section where the lactice work would go, she’d even built the steps that led up to the base level. It looked good too, the frame was straight and the posts along the bottom were equally spaced. I even had to give it to her on the stairs. She made the stairs wider so that it would be easier in heels to walk up them without tripping. That showed her knowledge right there, seeing as most people made the common mistake of making stairs short and narrow instead of long and wide, never thinking of the practicality of having to walk up those stairs in heels.
“It's shit,” Camille looked up and shouted at me.
All my anger faded as I listened to her words. Feeling the need to reassure her I smiled, “No it’s not Camille,” I told her honestly.
She shook her head and put up her hand as I took a few steps toward her.
“Stop Dalton, it’s shite really! Don’t come up here or you’ll mess it all up,” she hissed as she stood in the center of the frame with her hands on her hips. She was wearing blue jeans, a green sweater and her brown hair was pulled up into one of those messy buns that women work so hard on just to make it appear like they didn’t try at all.
I just stared at her. She must be more embarrassed than I thought. Okay, I could do this, I would just use kid gloves to ease her into the conversation about last night and once we spoke all the awkwardness would be gone.
“It’s not shit Camille and I’m not going anywhere sweetheart, we need to talk about last night,” I told her in a tone that let her know I wasn’t kidding.
Her blue eyes blazed with irritation and I took another step towards the gazebo.
This seemed to really piss her off, and she stomped down the stairs and stopped about two feet in front of me.
“No, you dumb wanker, it’s shite! Cow shite! You stepped in one of the cow’s paddies and you’re goin’ to track it all over me hard work!” she told me as she pointed to my boots.
Sure enough, I looked down and saw that I had indeed stepped in cow shit. Wonderful, it was like God was looking down and saying, "Hey, Dalt, let’s see how shitty I can make your day," no cow paddy pun intended.
By the time I had cleaned off my shoe, Camille had already gone back to work on the frame and seemed intent on ignoring me.
“Just why are you working on this? I thought everyone agreed that I was building it,” I asked, starting to feel less and less like I wanted to use the kid glove approach.
Again, she stopped nailing a piece of the framing and placed her hands on her hip
s to glare at me. “Firstly, I never agreed to you buildin’ anything, that was Jack and me Ma. Second, it wasn’t goin’ to get built itself, now, was it? Who knows what time you were going to be up and around, since obviously you were wrecked after last night’s activities!” she spat at me with so much venom that I actually took a step back.
“Is that what you’re so pissed about? I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed about last night, Camille, but you don’t have to be. I really liked it,” I told her, hoping to put her mind at ease. Did I remember the epic makeout session? No, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
I watched her eyes narrow and then, suddenly, she grabbed the air nail gun from the frame floor and pointed it at my, well, let’s just say it was pointed at the head below my waist.
I jumped back, not understanding what the hell she was so mad about. Okay, maybe she was upset about what happened, but I was an excellent kisser so that couldn’t have been the issue!
“What the hell is your problem, Camille? And stop pointing that damn nail gun at me before you hurt someone,” I yelled hoping that she would lay the tool back down on the ground before she accidently pulled the trigger on purpose.
“You like goin’ at it like a rutting bull in dark alleyways behind pubs, is that yer thing, Dalton?”
What? Was she telling that I had basically mauled her in the alley behind the bar? Even I had to cringe at that; Camille deserved more than she and I going at it in a dirty alleyway.
Lucky Charms: A Hudson Family Series- Book 3- Dalton and Cami Page 14