I didn’t want him to feel like I expected anything from him, so I let go of his and walked slightly faster, so I could keep a small pace ahead of him.
“It’s okay, Dalton, you don’t have to hold me hand to show yer thanks, friends don’t need all that,”I told him, trying to put him at ease.
I got about three steps before he grabbed me again, and this time when he intertwined our fingers, he held on tight. We looked at each other for a moment and then walked silently hand in hand to Ireland’s oldest pub, the Brazen Head. To me surprise, he didn’t let go of me hand when we walked inside, not when we sat down at the table, and not through our entire meal. Now, what the hell was I supposed to make of that?
Dalton
Camille and I spent all day running from shop to shop as she checked last-minute details off her list. She was incredibly organized and greeted each vendor by name. For the most part, I had held her hand througout the whole day, only releasing her while she drove or dealt with a vendor; otherwise, for some reason, I felt compelled to keep hold of her. I wasn’t sure if it was because she understood what I was going through at the jeweler’s shop and didn’t tease or make me feel stupid about it, or if I just wanted to hold on to her a little longer. Picking up the rings and doing all these last minute errands brought a fact home that I had been avoiding dealing with: I was leaving, and I was leaving soon.
The wedding party arrived in a few days, and then I would have to share Camille with everyone. Not to mention sneaking into Camille’s room would be at an end, because Synclair had eyes in the back of her head and would guess that something was up. So really, I had not days, not weeks, but only mere hours with her, and while part of me wanted to clear out of Dublin as quick as possible, another part of me couldn’t image leaving without her.
Now, as I stood waiting outside while she wrapped up with Leon, the tall, lanky, well-dressed man behind the counter of the bakery, I found myself fidgeting. I’m not a jealous person by nature and, normally, when a guy flirts with a woman I’m seeing, I don’t give it much thought. Mainly because I won’t be around long enough to wonder if she’s going to cheat or not, because my casual affairs aren’t like that. However, the longer the tall, dark, and way too touchy- feely wedding cake Artiste spoke, the more agitated I found myself becoming. Yes, I did say Artiste. That’s not my word for the twit, it says right on his damn business card. Apparently, when you own the only wedding shop in Dublin, you can call yourself whatever you want.
“You ready?” Camille asked as she walked out of the shop and over to where I was leaning against the light post.
“Are you?” I asked, more harshly than I meant to.
Her eyes narrowed and then she burst out laughing. “I am so bleedin’ ready - did you see how that touchy-feely wanker kept trying to kiss me hand like he was the bloody King of England? Ewww!” she squealed as she linked her arm through mine and steered us down the narrow sidewalk.
Happy that she wasn’t having any of pretty boy’s fake charm, I kissed the top of her head and smiled. Then a thought hit me: was that me? Did I hit up women with cheesy lines and over-the-top gestures? While I would like to think my delivery was better, I was kind of appalled to see the similarities.
“Camille?” I asked as we weaved around couples and people on their way home from work.
“Yes, Dalton? Do you have something you want to ask me?” she teased as she dropped her hand into mine and we lifted our interwined fingers to let a toddler race through between us. It was so easy it was almost natural, like finishing each other’s sentences.
“I know I’m sort of the charming, player kind of guy...” I looked away when she raised one eyebrow and smirked. “Is that what you see when you look at me?” Okay, surrender the guy card. I know, I know, next I’ll ask for tissues and a cupcake.
Camille came to a dead stop and my arm yanked back when I continued to walk and she didn’t. When I turned to face her, she released my hand and pushed me gently up against the brick of the small boutique, effectively getting me out of all the foot traffic that was milling around us.
Hands on her hips, she stared me down while shaking her milk-chocolate hair. “Dalton Hudson, you are nothing like that greasy weasel. I was only nice to him because he was doin’ me a favor by having the six-layer wedding cake delivered instead of us having to pick it up.” She rubbed her hands together like an evil elf. “Synclair and Sara left the cake to me, both complaining they were already too fat. So, because they wanted to get married on Halloween, I had James design wedding cake that looked like a coffin and the toppers are all versions of Reece, Synclair, Sara, and Lucas, but fashioned after Synclair’s favorite show, The Walking Dead. I even got him to make the inside red velvet so it looks like blood when you slice it, and the filling is strawberries and cream that will ooze with each bite,” she gushed.
Her smile reminded me of a child getting a load of presents under the tree at Christmas time. Her laugh was contagious and I found myself shaking my head and laughing at the idea of what my brothers and their brides would think of Camille’s prank. I had to admit, from one prankster to another, it was pretty good.
“Now, as for any similarity between James and you, there are none. Dalton, you are charming because it’s a part of who you are, not what you do. You are a nice, kind, loving, affectionate man, and women respond to you. Being gorgeous with a body that Zeus would be jealous of helps, too,” she said and then stopped suddenly. She must have realized all that she way saying, because she waved her hand as if to dismiss the conversation.
“Now, are ya done fishin’ for compliments, or do you need me to tell you how pretty you look in that dress?” She laughed.
Shaking my head, I started walking, while she called out through fits of laughter: “Do ya want to hear 'of course those jeans don’t make you look fat'? Or how about 'of course you’re special, everyone’s special'?”
By this time, the evil elf was laughing so hard she was leaning against the wall for support. Trying to be annoyed, but failing miserably at it, I caught Michael waving at me a few doors down. I picked up the pace. I definitely needed to have another guy around for a while, because I was giving Camille far too much comedy material at my own expense. I passed Keela on the way and she stopped to give me a quick hug.
“What the hell is wrong with that one?” she asked as she looked past me to Camille, who was now sitting on the ground, clutching her sides as she roared with laughter.
“I made the mistake of asking her a heartfelt question, and she chose to ridicule me,” I complained loud enough to make sure the cackling hell cat could hear me.
“Ah, does Dalton have a boo-boo?” she laughed again. “Don’t take it personal, lad, it’s not you, it’s me! Get it? Shite, I’m bloody hillarious!” she shouted as Keela pulled her up off the ground and began to dust the dirt off her jeans.
“She plastered?” Michael asked, watching Camille with a look of fascinated horror.
I shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder in the standard male greeting and looked back at Keela and Camille as they approached.
“Nope, unless you can get drunk on stupid,” I replied as I waited for the girls to proceed us into the pub.
“Dalton, we’re Irish, we can get drunk on anythin’, man!” Michael laughed and I followed him inside the dimly lit bar. I decided not to comment on the fact that I had eaten in a bar for lunch and now I was going to be eating dinner in another one; apparently, in Ireland meal time and drinking went hand in hand.
Dinner was simple fish and chips, which included pints of Gat, which I learned was another word for Guinness. Keela was the only that didn’t drink. Well, she did drink, but it was something called Bulmers, which is like the equivalent of a wine cooler. Dinner turned into good conversation. Michael and Keela entertained me with stories of Camille from when she was younger. As was custom, Michael bought the first round, I bought the second, and Camille picked up the third, but instead of a pint, she came back to the
table with a coke - but in Ireland, soft drinks are called "minerals".
Camille had barely taken a sip of her drink when someone walked by and “accidently” knocked her glass, causing her to spill most of it down her green turtleneck. I jumped up from the table, grabbed some napkins off the bar counter, and handed them to Camille, while stopping to glare at the person who stupidly was still standing in front of her, smiling proudly.
“You bloody slapper, you did that on purpose!” Keela accused, trying to move Michael out of the booth so she could get at Tara.
How I had ever thought Tara was worth sleeping with, I will never know. Her blonde hair seemed dull and lifeless and the blue eyes I once thought so sexy now just seemed empty. Not to mention, the woman had caused Camille loads of heartache by sleeping with Sean. Not that I think Sean Walsh is a big loss or anything, but a best friend should be the one person your boyfriend is safe around.
“Aw, shut it, you fat sow,” Tara warned as she turned her attention on Camille.
I had been watching Camille since Tara had hit her glass and noticed her face was very blank and she hadn’t looked up from her task of wiping the spilled soda off her shirt.
Sighing, she placed the napkins on the table and looked up at Tara. I couldn’t tell if there was sadness or just resignation as she faced off with her ex-bestie and man-stealing nemesis.
“Is there something you be wantin’, Tara?” Camille asked calmly, but the heavy Irish accent in her voice told me she was anything but calm.
“Want?” Tara cackled as she slapped her hand on the table. Camille didn’t flinch. “I already have Sean, I have a career as a make-up artist, I get to fly around all the time to exotic locations, and you ask what I want? Cami, you should be asking what else I could be wantin’." she said, loud enough to catch the attention of others in the pub.
“You might want to be praying for some really strong antibiotics, since Sean has fucked everything from here to Brazil, including yer own Ma, you stupid wagon!” Keela shouted as Michael grabbed her arms to keep her seated.
A few collective gasps were heard in the room and it wasn’t until later that Michael explained calling a woman a wagon was like calling a woman the dreaded C-word in the States. Again, I have to give it to the Irish: who knew such a harmless-sounding word, which usually brought to mind childhood summer days filled with red wagons that lugged all your dirt to the sand box, was really a sneaky insult.
“Whatcha goin’ to do, Keela, threaten to eat me? Or will you crush me to death with your two-ton ass?” Tara retorted and it took all of Michael’s strength to keep Keela from lunging over the table to scratch Tara’s eyes out.
Faster than I could blink, Camille was out of her chair, grabbing Tara by the back of the head, and slamming it not once, not twice, but three solid times into the table. Was Camille done? Oh no! Without even saying a word, she pulled back and punched the dazed woman in the face. Stunned, the whole pub froze as Tara’s front tooth dropped from her bloody mouth to the floor.
With all the grace and poise of a Queen, Camille walked over to Tara, who was being held up by two laughing Irish men. “I guess the only thing I can think of that you may be wantin’ is a good dentist to fix that hideous gap in your teeth.”
Pulling out some bills from her purse, she put them on the bar top and winked at the bartender, then made her way outside without even glancing back at Tara’s weeping form once. We all piled out of the booth and I dropped some bills on the table to cover the food and a little extra for the entertainment and hurried after Camille. I watched as Camille exited and Sean entered, and she didn’t even look up at him. I grabbed him when he went to follow her.
“Not now, Walsh,” I warned as I pulled him back from the door. Michael ushered Keela out and I nodded to him that I would be fine.
“I have something to give to Cami. I found her sketch, the one of the house on the hill,” he explained as he pulled out ten worn pieces of sketching paper that were folded up into a small sqaure. Grabbing the, sketch out of Sean’s hand I pushed him aside as I moved for the door.
“Thanks, Sean, I’ll make sure she gets it,” I told him.
“Maybe I want to be the one to give it to her, yank!” he sneered as he took off his trench coat and laid it across a table.
“You won’t be giving her anything ever again, Walsh; you never did anyways, you were a lousy friend, a horrible lover, and piece of shit boyfriend, you had no idea what you had in your hands and you fucked it up at every turn,” I said, shaking my head. I decided he wasn’t worth the impromptu monalogue I had considered giving him about all the wonderful things about Camille.
“Give it yer best shot, yank, her vagina’s got a no-trespassing sign tattooed on it,” he snorted and smiled when some of the bar’s patrons laughed with him. Shoving the sketch in my pocket, I decided against punching the dumbass.
“No, it says, 'no assholes allowed,' I’ve had the pleasure of visiting and I can tell you right now, Sean, it wasn’t Camille that was flawed, it was you, you were a boy… She just needed a man,” I said softly as I patted him on the shoulder like he was the kid on the short bus.
Exiting my second pub of the day, I was swallowed up by Camille’s arms wrapping around my neck while she jumped up and down, giggling like a school girl.
“That was fecking brilliant!” Keela announced cheerfully and she and Camille tried unsuccessfully to high five each other.
“So, the night is young, where to next?” Camille asked as she took the bag of ice that Michael must have gotten from the shop next door and put it on her swelling knuckles.
“I don’t know, slugger, you’ve had a pretty long day as it is!” I teased as Keela and Camille both rolled their eyes at me.
“Let’s go down to the club next to the church and dance,” Keela suggested and I could tell by the way Michael was watching her twirl around that he was definitely into her.
Trying to be a proper wingman, bro code and all, I agreed with Keela.
“Sure, why not? All the wedding details are taken care of and me parents won’t fuss since they have decided to go away for a few days in the country,” she added while Keela laughed.
“What did I miss?” I asked Michael.
The young guy grinned at me and shook his head, “Camille’s mother, a God-fearing Catholic woman, said there was no way she was goin’ to be fornicating with Jack when you were sleeping in the room above theirs.”
“So me Da has had the most awful case of blue balls and has decided to wisk me Ma away for a bit of privacy,” Camille explained, blushing just a bit.
“Camille?” asked a priest that was standing behind Camille, shaking his head. I say he was a priest because he was dressed like one, he carried an old bible, and had a long wooden cross around his neck. Actually, he was kind of creepy, and I wanted to ask if his bible was hollowed out and actually contained holy water that he used to kill vampires at night. Okay, so I’m a horror movie whore - it could happen!
“Father Simmons, how are you this evening?” Camille asked as she turned to greet the thin, graying old man. His brown eyes looked me over and I wasn’t sure if he was holding back a smile or a frown.
"Oh, my apologies, Father, this is Dalton Hudson, his brother is marrying me cousin Synclair,” Camille announced proudly.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shake his hand or kiss his large pinky ring, but I went for the handshake. I mean, there was no reason to go all Godfather triology here.
“Dalton Hudson, yer name seems familiar somehow... have we met before?” he asked and I shook my head. I would definitely remember meeting the slightly creepy man. No offense to the man of God or anything, but the way he eyed me and Camille gave me the creeps.
“Well, if you need anything tonight, Camille, I’ll be in the confession booth till about half past three,” he informed us.
“People confess at three in the moring?” I blurted out in wonder. I couldn’t imagine running to a church at three a.m. to confe
ss my lusty transgressions.
“Aye, me son, people come into church for all sorts of reasons, all of them planned and sanctioned by God,” he replied as he moved past us and continued down the street. I didn’t want to argue with the man, but I am pretty sure God didn’t sanction Kelly Treemont going down on me in the closet of the Sunday school room she taught in.
Hey, now! Stop. First, it was Thursday, the church was closed, and it was on her sexual bucket list; it’s bad form to turn down someone’s bucket list wish. Come on people, you know that - everyone knows that. Ugh… judgy group today, aren’t we?
“So are we goin’ or what? I have to work tomorrow morning, so I’ll be designated driver!” Keela offered and Camille seemed like she wanted to go have some fun, so I voiced my agreement and fell instep with Michael behind the two giggling girls.
“I’ll buy first round!” Michael announced as we walked toward the building that was thumping with some sort of disco tech music. Not really my thing, but if the girls wanted to dance, then we would dance.
I groaned. “Dude, I don’t think I can take any more Guinness tonight,” I told him, feeling like a lightweight after only three pints. I had heard people say that the Guinness in Ireland was stronger than anywhere else, and I feel like I could personally vouch for that statement.
“Naw, man! Tonight we don’t drink pints, we drink shots!” he answered as he approached a very large and surly-looking doorman.
“Shots? Shots I can handle, bring on the Patron,” I told him. Shots? Shots I could do; I once took fifteen shots of Patron tequila and still shot the bullseye in a target. Finally, a drink I could hold my own with.
“Tequila? Irish don’t shoot tequila, Hudson,” Camille teased and I really liked how her brown eyes sparkled with mischief.
“What are we shooting, then?” I asked warily; this could be bad.
“Whiskey, man, Irish Jameson Whiskey, and each round is two shots.”
Lucky Charms: A Hudson Family Series- Book 3- Dalton and Cami Page 24