Seeds of Tyrone Box Set

by Debbie McGowan

  Patrick gave Seamus a speaking look. “Come on now.”

  “Aye. What happens when you aren’t young an’ pretty anymore, Patrick?”

  “I’ll have my cooking to fall back on then, won’t I?”

  “I suppose,” Seamus mused. “If you—”

  That was when the brothers both heard what Dee had said and turned—not to her, the little minx—but to Chancey! He shrugged.

  “I said she might get a sip off of one of ya. Told her she wasn’t getting a taste of my rum and Coke on the plane.”

  “Please!” she begged, looking between the brothers, who looked at each other.

  “Yer gonna get us kicked out of here before the party’s even really started,” Seamus warned. But then with a mock whisper he said, “Suppose if your father abides you and your lush ways, we could give you a taste.”

  “Extra stout for the girl?” Paddy asked.

  “You know it.”

  Deidra squealed, having no idea what she was getting herself into. If Chancey thought for a second his daughter would take more than the smallest sip of the bitter stout and not gag on the taste, he’d have refused. But there came a time for all of them to learn their lessons. Dee’s first lesson: Guinness tastes like ass.

  “You’re not really going to let her drink,” Jill said sternly.

  Nearby, her pregnant wife, Lily alternated between standing, sitting, readjusting her position, and having to beg Jill for help to get back out of the chair again. Chancey valued his life, so he didn’t ask her if she was having twins, but the thought had crossed his mind more than once that evening—she was as big as a house.

  “Not drink,” Chancey said. “She gets a sip. It’s a party after all.”

  Jill huffed and started massaging Lily’s shoulders. She must have hit a particularly sore spot because Lily’s face tensed and then went totally lax, and any protestations she might have added to her wife’s were lost to the pressure of Jill’s hands.

  “Anyone going to sing?” It was Michael who asked.

  When Seamus had asked if he was jealous about the boy—the only one at the party other than Dee who wasn’t old enough to drink—Chancey had answered honestly. Those jealous feelings had passed. But even if they hadn’t, there was a world of things that might have changed his mind. The last twenty-four hours, spent wrapped in Seamus’s arms, fucking until they couldn’t possibly fuck anymore; the innocence of the young man, Michael—his charm and wonder about everything around him; and the fact that like Dee, Michael seemed to have developed a crush of his own.

  “Well, get on with it, then,” Seamus said to Michael, pointing to the microphone set up at one end of the room. “Let’s hear your best Tina Turner.”

  Chancey had expected strippers—this being a stag party and all. But what kind of strippers would they be? He didn’t know and, truth be told, he was grateful they’d opted for booze and karaoke instead. He didn’t want to stuff dollar bills into the underthings of an exotic dancer while Seamus sat beside him—he didn’t want to look at anyone other than Seamus—and he sure as hell didn’t want Seamus looking at anyone else.

  Besides, with strippers in the mix, Dee would have been left out. Not that every little girl needed to go to a stag party—but he didn’t want to drag her along to Pennsylvania just to dump her somewhere.

  “I’ll sing with you!” Dee volunteered enthusiastically and leapt up from the table, giving Aidan a minute to breathe.

  “Thanks for looking out for my little girl,” Chancey said, sliding into the seat his daughter had vacated.

  Aidan smiled and nodded. “She’s…uh…enthusiastic.”

  “Can be.” Chancey took a sip off the mug of beer he’d been holding for a while. Didn’t need to get shitfaced with Dee looking on. “She’s been down a lot lately. Truth be told, I was worried how she would take this trip, but she seems to be having the time of her life.”

  On the small platform, she and Michael looked through the songs, playfully bantering over what they would choose.

  “Thank you for coming,” Aidan said. “I know how much it means to Seamus. Patrick says he’s been something of a mess over you.” Then realising he’d shown his hand, Aidan blushed a very vivid red.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him you said that.” But inside, Chancey was smiling.

  Apparently, Dee and Michael shared a deep, bonding appreciation for Miley Cyrus because that damn Wrecking Ball song came on.

  “God, no,” he muttered.

  His daughter was talented in many ways, and as her father, maybe he was supposed to think that everything she did was brilliant—but she had not inherited her mother’s singing voice, and Michael, too, wasn’t exactly a world-class superstar.

  “Just keep grinning,” Aidan prodded gently. Chancey didn’t need to be told twice, he’d been saying that’s lovely, darlin’ since she first started singing the ABCs and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. It was Kaylee who thought they should get her a voice coach.

  “Think about it, Chancey,” she’d said. “If we could get her singin’ up, she and I could do a mother-daughter act. Wouldn’t that be the cutest?”

  Except even back then he’d had to wonder if Kaylee Clearwater would have been able to share the stage with anyone, even her daughter. Once she became Kaylee Starr, there was no doubt. She stopped trying to mould Dee into her duet partner and focused even more on herself.

  When the song ended—and fuck if that wasn’t going to be in his head all night—Jill immediately followed suit and dedicated You’re Beautiful to Lily, who grinned into her ice water.

  True to his word, Patrick went to the bar and returned with the drink, sitting next to his admirer.

  “An extra stout for the lady.”

  “A sip,” Chancey warned.

  “I think you should let her chug it.” It was Jill, sarcasm dripping from her words. “And is anyone going to check the door? We really might get kicked out.”

  “Or arrested,” Lily offered helpfully.

  “I’ll check.” It was Jill’s brother, Harrison. He’d been quiet all evening, sitting in the corner, nursing a beer and trying not to be noticed—which had worked for the most part. Unless he spoke, Chancey’s eyes generally passed right over him.

  They were renting the private room, and he doubted anyone was going to burst in, but wouldn’t that be a helluva way to end the stag party?

  Dee waited until every eye was on her before she raised the bottle to her lips. He could see it in her expression—she was definitely going to try and take more than the demure little sip she had promised. Chancey sat back in his chair and waited.

  “Go on, then,” Seamus said.

  Dee threw her head back, the bottle going straight up in the air. There was one fat bubble that glugged upward as some of the stout went into her mouth, but then nothing. She hadn’t put the bottle down, but she wasn’t drinking either.

  “You OK?” Aidan asked.

  Her face had gone red, and her eyes were watering. She shook her head back and forth, bottle still in hand.

  “Need some water?” Patrick asked, obviously biting down hard on a laugh.

  The bottle went up and down.

  “Want to spit it out?” Chancey asked.

  That’s when Dee lowered the bottle, her cheeks full like a chipmunk’s. Oh, she’d done herself in good, hadn’t she? Tears streamed down her face at the bitter taste, but she wasn’t about to give up this battle of wills. Chancey finished off his beer in a smooth gulp and slid his empty glass over to her.

  “Spit it out, darlin’.”

  “It’s OK,” Lily assured her. “I hate Guinness, too.”

  “Truth be told, this lout doesn’t love it so much,” Seamus said, motioning towards his brother. “And he calls himself an Irishman.”

  Clenching her fists together, Dee closed her eyes and swallowed long and hard. Her whole face crinkled, her lips pursed, and she gagged loud and long after her mouth was clear, but she’d drunk it.

&n
bsp; Aidan passed the water over to her, and she gulped it down.

  “That…” she said, a look of horror on her face.

  “Tastes like ass?” Chancey finished for her.

  She nodded quickly.

  “So be a kid and stick with root beers.”

  Chancey wouldn’t tell her, but he was damn proud she’d managed to get that whole mouthful down without spitting it out. Dee was mule stubborn and proud, and it made him proud in return. But if he was going to praise her on something, it would be her roping and riding, or her dance, not winning over a mouthful of extra stout.

  “Glad that’s over,” Jill said, but even she was smiling. “Who’s singing next?”

  “I think Seamus should,” Chancey said, because he was feeling mischievous. They’d promised to keep their hands off each other—at least in front of Dee—but Seamus had taken it to a whole new level and had practically ignored him the entire evening. Chancey got it, he really did. It was hard to look at each other and not want to sneak off to the bathroom for a quickie. Every time their eyes happened to meet, Chancey was taken back to their last few hours at the hotel.

  Sex had been impossible. So much screwing in such a short period of time—the heart was willing, the body was exhausted. So instead, they had lain together on the dishevelled bed, Chancey’s foot rubbing against Seamus’s, Seamus commenting on how much he loved Chancey’s body hair.

  “I’m a bit hairy, aren’t I?” Chancey grinned, tugging on his own chest hair. “Afraid you might like me more—what’s the word? Manscaped.”

  “You? Manscaped?”

  “Jesus. I had nightmares about hot wax.”

  “You did not.”

  He chuckled. More than one, actually. “Didn’t know how I compared to the men before me. I think I’d have to draw the line at waxing though, even if you did prefer a little less hair.”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah?”

  Seamus grinned and scratched his ear, looking decidedly sheepish.

  “What’s that look?”

  “No one to compare you to, is there?”

  “What?”

  “Well, I did all right with the ladies, but, well, didn’t ye know, Chancey? That night a year ago? That was my first time with a man.”

  Chancey smiled, pleased to hear it.

  “What’s that look?”

  “Me likin’ what I’m hearing.”

  “Do ye now?”

  Chancey looked down between his legs where his cock, which had sent up the white flag and cried no more, no more was now stirring with interest.

  It had been almost nine hours now since he’d even kissed Seamus. To go from a year apart to withdrawal after only nine hours of no physical contact—how he was going to survive Seamus getting on that plane, Chancey had no idea. But they still had Thanksgiving and the wedding.

  Seamus was looking at him now—staring, actually.

  “What?”

  “I asked if you’re going to sing with me?”

  “Lily, now would be the perfect time to go into labour,” Chancey said. Lily laughed. He looked back at Seamus, who was smiling gently. God, that ‘yes’ had danced on the tip of his tongue when Seamus asked if Chancey wanted him to stay. Stay, stay forever. Come back to Kansas, and we’ll set up a life together. But Ireland was home for Seamus, and he seemed happy enough there.

  “All right, then, what are we singing?”

  Chapter Thirty:

  You, and Tequila

  “Oh my god. This is gonna be so embarrassing!” Seamus heard Dee huff behind him as he and Chancey made their way up to the makeshift stage. Chancey picked up the ring binder containing the song list and flicked straight through to the end.

  “Is it on there?” Seamus asked. The way his stomach was churning, he was sort of disappointed when Chancey nodded to confirm it was. “Are you sure you want to do it, only…” we’re not drunk, and we mean it this time.

  “Unless you want to do something else?”

  Seamus couldn’t answer that—not in their present company. Still, at least the stag party was a good chance to recover from the physical exertion. He glanced behind him at the two barstools, trying to decide whether standing on aching legs was more or less painful than sitting on uncushioned wood. Or, indeed, sitting on anything.

  “Shay?”

  He shrugged. “Fine by me,” he confirmed, leaving Chancey to find the right track. The equipment was archaic, there was way too much echo on the mics, and the spotlights were shining right in his eyes. Beyond their dazzling halo and the deafening thrum of blood in his ears, he heard Paddy winding Dee up.

  “Tone deaf, he is, Dee, so you’re not the only one wishin’ for earplugs just now.”

  Seamus shielded his eyes with his hand and glared at his brother, who gave him a cheeky wink and a grin. It was all well and good him being smug. He should be thankful he was only getting dodgy country songs and not some fella’s danglies waggled in his face.

  Chancey lifted the mic out of the stand closest to him and signalled to Seamus to do the same. The song title came up on-screen, and Seamus took a deep, steadying breath, trying to draw in courage from the beery air. It was only karaoke. It had never mattered before, and it shouldn’t matter now. Stag night, just a laugh with the lads…and lasses. But…

  This song. Hadn’t it started out as a bit of fun? That first night at Lulu’s, when the girl turned up with the karaoke machine, and Chancey had, as always, had a skinful, but Jaysus, could the man sing! Then the challenge to the new boy, all of ’em laughing and jeering in jest, though they’d assumed a six-foot-four gangly Irish lad wouldn’t be able to hold a tune. They were wrong. Music ran like blood through the O’Malley side of the family, along with the red hair and freckles, like the two qualities were intrinsically connected—it was something they’d heard often as kids at family gatherings: oh, the baby’s a redhead, is she? When’ll ye start her on the drum, then?

  “What I want to know,” Paddy hollered, his accent thickened by Christ knows how many he’d had by now, “is which of yous two is Kenny and which is Dolly.”

  Everybody laughed, and didn’t that make it all the more ridiculous? They were taking it too seriously, as always.

  Chancey swaggered up to the stage, scooped the mic off the stand, and crooned his way through three country classics, while Seamus, already in far too deep, sang along, completely unaware that he was doing so, and that he had an audience of his own.

  “Why don’t you get up there and sing with him?” Lulu suggested.

  “He seems quite content on his own,” Seamus argued, picking up his beer and acting like he couldn’t care less.

  “Aw, come on, Shay,” Chancey beseeched through the mic, beckoning with a handmade clumsy from being well on the way to sozzled. The mic stand went over, and before he knew it, Seamus was up onstage setting the thing upright and playing Grace Potter to Chancey’s Kenny Chesney…

  Always too damn serious, and now they’d upped the stakes, because now it meant something.

  As the gentle acoustic-guitar-strummed intro began, the laughter died away, and all eyes were on Seamus and Chancey. They’d sung the song dozens of times before, standing just as they were at that moment: rigid, facing the screen, waiting for [intro] to turn to lyrics, and that was how they’d stay throughout their ‘performance’, never daring to look at each other, because they were two men, singing a love song.

  You and tequila make me crazy…

  He didn’t need the lyrics; the words were a reality, etched into his brain, although the tequila had been an excuse. Drunk as hell, they were, and a good thing it was too, or they wouldn’t be here now…following a hands-off rule, pretending that neither was aware of the other standing right next to him, singing the same words. Two more nights together—back at Paddy and Aidan’s, which was probably as well. Another night like last night and he’d be dead before he made it onto the plane, but they had time to make up for—that which they’d already missed and the mont
hs and months looming ahead of them.

  Two nights…were not enough…and then what? They’d go their separate ways, back to dude ranches and fields of sprouts. Christ. Was he really turning down a life with Chancey and Dee for feckin’ sprouts? It was foolish pride, saving face—he’d wanted to go back to Ireland and so that’s what he’d done, because it was the only thing that had made any sense back then. Now it made no sense at all. He could be with Chancey.

  He could be with Chancey.

  But on what terms? Don’t touch each other in Dee’s company? And was that just tonight, or always? From the way Chancey had reacted to them holding hands, Seamus could tell how uncomfortable he was at the public display of affection. Would they be forever living a lie, pretending they were nothing more buddies? If that was what was on offer, would it be enough?

  They were at the instrumental before Seamus realised he’d been so detached from everything he didn’t know if he’d been singing or not. He shifted his eyes in Chancey’s direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of his expression to know if he’d let him down. Chancey was looking right back at him, and Seamus slowly turned his head, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He wanted to look away, unsee the tears, because Chancey didn’t cry.

  All those times they’d got drunk together, their long hours of talking online, their admissions of love—the kinds of situations where tears were almost expected—not one fell. On a stage in the private function room of an Irish pub, with brothers and daughters and future in-laws watching, Chancey Bo Clearwater was crying, and the last chorus was only a few bars away. And then the song would end, taking the magic with it. Seamus reached up and wiped a tear from Chancey’s cheek. Hands clenched microphones slowly rising in readiness for the final chorus, neither willing or able to break eye contact.

  You and tequila…

  “I’ll come back to Kansas.”

  The thud of Chancey’s microphone hitting Seamus’s back set off eardrum-bursting feedback, but they hardly noticed, with their arms around each other, salty-wet kisses pelting Seamus’s lips, and stupid brothers and future in-laws whooping and cheering.