by Carter Blake
“Well, looks like you’ll just have to keep at it, won’t you, boyo?”
Killian tries to match Brian’s tone, but he fails. He sounds bitter more than anything else.
“Oh, please. You two are both immensely talented writers. I dare say you’re the best to ever come out of Ireland.”
“Indeed,” Killian mutters.
“You are far too kind, Miss Doyle. But who am I to refuse such a compliment from someone as talented as yourself?”
Who knew Irishmen could be so smooth?
The smiling bartender brings over a new pint for Killian to consume, and Brian immediately reaches for his wallet.
“Here, Charlie. Their drinks are on me tonight.”
Charlie takes the money from Brian, and Killian’s face turns nearly as red as my hair.
I’m not sure this is going to end well, but I’m not about to let Killian ruin my night.
After all, it’s not like I’m his or anything.
Our relationship is purely a business arrangement. Nothing more.
Killian
Fucking prick.
How dare he come in here and ruin a fucking perfect evening? Of all the inconsiderate, selfish things to do to a man.
And could his timing be any fucking worse?
I’m sure I’m turning shamrock green and rosewood fucking red.
My insides threaten to boil over. I swear, if the prick makes one more joke or pays Rebecca one more compliment, I’ll punch his fucking lights out.
And why is she looking at him like that? Her eyes are wide open, as if she’s admiring him.
Can’t she see what he’s doing? I mean it’s so fucking obvious.
All he wants is to get into her pants.
And here I thought Rebecca was a woman with judgment, a woman who was smart—street-savvy, even. But no, a bloke comes running along, pays her a few fucking compliments, and she’s all over him like a rash.
Okay, so I’m being a bit harsh by judging Rebecca like that. But she’s laughing at his jokes, she’s singing his praises, and she’s pretending to be interested in him.
Pretty close to being all over him at any fucking rate.
But why is this bothering me? I mean, there’s nothing going on between me and her. Besides our practical business arrangement, but that’s it.
The way he leans into her is outrageous. Hasn’t the man heard of personal space?
I mean, he can’t have because he’s invading Rebecca’s right now. If I had a piece of paper, I doubt I’d be able to slip it between the two of them.
“Don’t you agree, Killian?” Brian asks, turning toward me.
I just glare at him.
His fucking pathetic attempt at drawing me into the conversation is falling on deaf ears. I won’t be part of it. Instead of giving him a reply, I put my drink to my lips and take a sip.
Rebecca glances at me, all smiles, but then she diverts her attention back to Brian.
Fecking shite.
If he doesn’t leave us alone soon, I’ll either explode or smash something.
Instead of trying to listen in on their conversation, I try and focus on something else. But it’s too hard.
I try and think of a range of different adjectives to describe Brian, but it’s hard fucking work. Conceited, arrogant, self-assured, prick.
Pathetic list really. I mean, I’m a writer and should be able to sprout forth brilliant words like James fucking Joyce on a moment’s fucking notice, but alas, nothing is working for me tonight.
Rebecca’s entire face is lit up like a Christmas tree, and Brian leans casually against the bar next to her. An innocent bystander might think they’ve known each other for years. If they start kissing, I’m out of here.
They look so close they could be dating. I shake my head, close my eyes, and pinch myself. Man, is he really making a move on my woman?
Wait—what am I saying? She’s not my woman. Rebecca’s just someone who’s going to have my baby.
Of course, I can’t even explain my emotional turmoil to myself.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
One minute we were having a nice chat and the next, it’s ruined by the intrusion of Brian Flanagan. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s done this on purpose.
But then, he could have no idea what’s going on here.
Wait a minute. What the fuck is going on here?
Why am I overreacting? I’m carrying on like a spoilt five-year-old who doesn’t get his own way.
No. Fucking fuck this shit.
I’m not jealous. What’s there to be jealous about? We’re two friends in a pub having a drink, and we’ve entered into an arrangement about having a baby.
It’s all perfectly innocent, above board, and most importantly with no strings attached or emotional ties.
Then, why is Flanagan ruining it for me?
A little voice tries to be heard. It tells me what I don’t want to hear.
It whispers something like You’re obviously jealous Killian.
No, I’m not. Definitely not. I’m concerned for Rebecca.
I don’t want her to get hurt. Brian has a reputation.
He’s known to break women’s heart faster than a Ferrari can drive around a race track. I realize it’s a crap analogy, but heck, I’m struggling to string a fucking sentence together.
From what I can gather, she’s just left one failed relationship behind. She wouldn’t want to enter into another.
I down another gulp of whiskey.
Now, there’s something dependable right here. A whiskey won’t let you down.
It gets the job done, with the added benefit of tasting fucking good every single time.
Rebecca laughs, and Brian leans toward her. I’m ready to jump in and pull him off her, but then I realize he’s shaking her hand.
Obviously he’s said something amusing; otherwise, why would she be laughing?
“Farewell, my friend,” Brian says to me, but I only shoot daggers at him.
Either he doesn’t notice, or he chooses to ignore me. He gives me a wave and then he’s gone.
“He’s nice.” Rebecca’s eyes are shining as she stands up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she says, then turns to leave.
“Where’re you going?” I don’t mean to sound so sharp.
She stops and turns toward me. She briefly furrows her brow. “To the toilet if you must know. Want to supervise?”
She sounds sarcastic, and I regret my question.
Holy fucking shit. What am I doing?
Instead of pacing up and down near our seat, I decide it’s time to fucking get out of here.
What’s the point of hanging around? I don’t want to be here and watch the speeding train crash.
And if Rebecca falls for the smooth-talking, two-timing sleazebag Brian Flannigan, she’s going to be sorry.
If I tell her, she won’t listen to me, I know that much. She’s one headstrong fucking lady.
Anyway, what’s it to me?
I sigh. And I hesitate.
And I fucking hover at the end of the bar close to the front door. It’s as if my feet are suddenly glued to the spot.
My mind’s screaming at me to get out of here, to leave and run as fast as I can, but my feet refuse to obey.
In total fucking frustration, I stomp my foot.
Someone bumps into me.
“Fuck man, watch where you’re going,” I bark and glower at the offender.
“Chill, Killian,” he says and leaves me to it.
Chill.
Easy for him to say; he isn’t in my shoes.
Again, I can’t understand myself. How am I supposed to shed any kind of light on universal fucking turmoil or whatever the critics say I fucking do again?
Those days are behind me, if nothing else. Might as well start writing horoscopes to pay the fucking bills.
For an interminable period, I just stay where I am, with one foot pointed toward a quick getaway and the other holdi
ng me back. It’s like I’m suspended in limbo, the place between heaven and hell.
Fucking hell.
This is what Dante must’ve been fucking writing about. I’m loitering somewhere around the Eighth Circle at the goddamn moment.
Fucking appropriate, because I had just watched a fucking fraudster in action, chatting up the woman who was supposed to be my business partner.
One bright spot is that I’m free to leave this hell at any time.
And if I leave, what’ll that achieve?
Absolutely fucking nothing, I remind myself.
In fact, if I leave, I’m practically handing Rebecca to Brian on a silver platter. I may as well draw up a fucking contract for the two of them to have their own relationship, cutting me out of the partnership completely.
No fucking way.
“A bottle of Jameson,” I shout to the bartender and prowl back to my seat.
I’m not a runner. I don’t fucking run away from life.
In fact, I glare it right in the eyes and ask it, What the fuck do you want?
There’s no point in running away anyway. I mean, what am I running from, exactly? I remind myself over and over and again that I’m fucking overreacting.
Killian, you’re overreacting.
It almost becomes a mantra.
Back in my seat, I stare at everything and nothing. People all around me are having a good time.
There’s jovial conversation, friendly banter, and lots of laughter.
A joyful vibe fills the air, and I take a deep breath, trying to inhale just a touch of it for myself.
I grab the bottle of Jameson and pour myself a glass. Then, I pick up the glass and down in with one large gulp.
Before I’ve finished fucking swallowing, I fill the glass the again.
By now, my eyes are glued to the door. I’m waiting for Rebecca to come back.
The second glass goes down as fast as the first, and I’m onto my third.
On my fourth glass, I remind myself I’m a worthy human being. My value doesn’t decrease because some other fuckhead can’t see it.
And what does it matter, anyway?
I mean, at the end of the day...it’s all bullshit, anyway.
And with that thought, I gulp down my fifth glass.
Fuck the lot of you. I don’t need you, any of you.
Rebecca
Well, this is surely the last thing I expected to see.
Not Killian taking down a glass of whiskey. That’s too fucking expected in any day ending with y, especially down at the local pub where they seem to have no issues enabling every one of his bad habits.
Okay, one of his worst habits. It’s a fucking big one, but...
Seeing Killian pour amber poison straight from a poorly-cleaned glass right down his throat is not what’s taking me by surprise in this moment.
It’s the face he seems to be making after each swallow. And sometimes, in between—although there doesn’t seem to be many gaps.
“Okay. Okay,” Killian weirdly repeats the word as he finishes his latest glass.
The way he says it doesn’t sound to me like he’s saying okay, I’m done, that’s enough for tonight. His inflection seems to be saying, okay, I’m finished with that one—boy, this is hard work, but I’ve got a lot more drinking to do tonight.
Killian raises his arm in a quick, subtle gesture—for him, I’m sure it’s enough for the barman to come rushing over with more whiskey.
It takes a lot more for me to get anyone’s attention around here—but I’m not fucking Killian, am I?
Killian takes a sip from his pint of Arthur, which I thought was meant as a chaser. A chaser for each sip I mean, not for each glass.
And he fucking grimaces after that sip.
Of fucking Guinness.
It reminds me of my friend Steph’s twenty-first birthday, years ago.
Even then, she’s not someone I saw make any sort of intense face for any reason. The only expression Steph was known for was a warm smile, or a wonderful look of empathy as you unloaded whatever petty drama was going on in your life.
Yes, even at that age, that was something I could always rely on her for.
But the evening of her twenty-first, at some bar in Silverlake, our mutual friend, Cathy, her eyes full of impish glee, had her own wise idea of buying Steph her first shot of whiskey.
I don’t remember what sort of whiskey it was—not Jameson or anything like that, for sure—most likely, it was a shitty well bourbon that the bar got super cheap in bulk.
Smiling politely, Steph held up the glass, looking at it as if it were some handmade piece of art Cathy crafted just for her.
“Just take the fucking shot, that’s what it was meant for,” Cathy instructed our friend. “Just down the fuckin’ hatch, girl, that’s the way to do it.”
Steph poured the shot down as advised, and what spread across her face, almost instantly, was one of the most pained grimaces I’ve ever seen. A few seconds later, Steph had recovered and joined us in our hysterical laughter.
That’s still a treasured memory of mine, but seeing nearly the same grimace from Killian, repeatedly, for seemingly no reason at all at this point, is putting new, unwelcome dimensions on that grimace.
Much of the time I’ve spent with Killian, both years ago and now, has been intimate in many ways. But that doesn’t mean I know him.
Obviously, there’s a gap between how well I know Killian physically, and how well I know him otherwise. Tonight, I’m learning just how wide that gap is.
If I want to close that gap, I have a lot of catching up to do.
That’s a big if, and it gets bigger with every goddamned grimace he makes.
“Is the Guinness harsh tonight?” I ask.
I don’t know what response to expect. A laugh would be nice, at least for breaking some of this mysterious tension. Another fucking grimace would be something, I guess.
All I get is a shrug.
Followed by another gulp of Guinness.
Followed, a few seconds later, by yet another sour face. It looks like he’s trying to hide it a little, now that I’ve called him out on it.
His latest scowl is followed by a bit of a clue. I’ve already figured it wasn’t the taste of the alcohol that was inspiring Killian’s pained expressions, and his eyes traveling to the left somewhere confirms that his mind is on something in another part of the pub.
The joint is crowded tonight—it could be a lot of things.
Maybe there’s some other woman he’s seeing, maybe another woman he has a baby agreement with. Maybe she’s another American, too, and they met in Dublin when he was there to sign his latest publishing contract, and now she unexpectedly showed up at his local pub...
Fuck it—I take a look over there myself.
Okay, I wasn’t expecting to see all these grimaces from Killian tonight—why would I? However, I should’ve expected the reason for it by now.
There’s Brian Flanagan, standing by the bar, half-leaning against it elegantly, absorbed in conversation with two women who’ve clearly made their way to the bar just to talk to him.
Fuck, I never knew posture could be elegant, but then, I never knew Brian Flanagan was such a charming presence in person. Thinking about it, it might be the reason behind his success.
I’ve read a couple of Flanagan’s books, and I’ve figured there may have been some other reason behind his success than his writing.
Some of it is okay, but he’s not in the same league as Killian Walsh, even though they’re considered peers.
Admittedly, wrapped up in the moment with Flanagan just a few minutes ago, I was so impressed that for a moment his writing became better in my mind.
The spell, for me, is already broken. I mean, he’s still obviously an attractive, stylish, pleasant, delightfully gregarious...
Killian slams his pint glass down on the table as if he could hear my thoughts. Not hard enough to break it, fortunately.
“Carefu
l there, Mr. Walsh.” A bartender I’ve never seen before is there to deliver Killian’s whiskey. “I don’t know if your next royalty check’s going to cover a new table.”
“I told you to call me fucking Killian.”
The statement itself is kind of funny, but Killian’s tone of voice is frightening the living shit out of me. The fact that this is the first thing I’ve heard him say in ages makes it even worse.
“Well, Fucking Killian, please restrain from slamming any more of our pint glasses, at least until you have a new best seller.”
“Keep bringing the whiskeys, Rowan, and stop bringing the fucking lip.”
“How much more whiskey do you really think you’ll be needing tonight, Fucking Killian?”
There’s a flash of shame in Killian’s eyes as he registers the question from this Rowan guy—who, I’m deciding, I like very much.
Well, I’d like him more if he didn’t bring Killian the whiskey at all, but on the other hand, I’m not sure why I even give a shit anymore.
“Fuck this.” Killian takes the whiskey down in a single swallow, turns his head to where Flanagan is standing, and very slowly turns back to the table. “We’re getting the fuck out of here, Rowan, since you clearly don’t need our business.”
“Well, Mr. Fucking Killian, I don’t know how we’ll survive without providing you any more free drinks tonight, but I can’t make you stay if you don’t want to.”
Rowan leaves, maybe wisely, with that last quip, and Killian almost falls out of his chair before bumbling over to the exit.
I follow, trying halfheartedly to catch up.
Truthfully, I’m fine with leaving the pub at this point. But I’m not ecstatic about spending more time with Killian.
“Nice to see you didn’t abandon me,” he mutters when I finally catch up with him outside.
I say nothing.
What I wouldn’t give for a taxi right now, or a friend to call and pick me up. But here in the open air, on this path, it’s too easy to storm off somewhere.
On top of that, it’s getting to the point I should probably make sure Killian gets home okay.
But, goddamn it. This is all starting to feel too fucking familiar: the fear of what his mood is going to be like from one moment to the next, or what’s going to set him off, or even what’s really upsetting him.