When Irish Eyes Are Sparkling

by Tom Collins

  Warning

  This story is intended for adults only as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your reading material carefully where it cannot be accessed by underage readers.

  When Irish

  Eyes Are

  Sparkling

  Tom Collins and Thirteen

  Aspen Mountain Press

  When Irish Eyes Are Sparkling

  Copyright © February 2009 Tom Collins and Thirteen

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

  Aspen Mountain Press

  PO Box 473543

  Aurora CO 80047-3543

  www.AspenMountainPress.com

  First published by Aspen Mountain Press, February 2009

  www.AspenMountainPress.com

  This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-60168-190-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Editor: Loukie Adlem

  Chapter One

  *Liam*

  All that summer’s day I’d felt strange, off kilter, as if I was dreaming and not awake at all. It only got worse as afternoon rolled into evening. It was a good thing waiting tables in Aunt Rosie’s pub didn’t require much synaptic capability if you knew the job. Like everyone in my family, I’d learned the job while I was in diapers.

  The problem was I had a backlog of images floating around in my head. I’ve never been able to do much drawing or painting when someone dumps me; which happens all the time, as my twin, Brendan, would say. He understands why it bothers me because it would bother him the same way. Every time a relationship falls apart, I feel like it’s my fault. Hell, some of the girls even admit it. Those who don’t try bullshit me with, “It’s not you, it’s me,” tell me, “You’re clingy, Liam and it suffocates me.”

  I’ve tried to reign myself in, but it never lasts long. I start telling them how I feel and get to calling them too much because I can’t stand going too long without hearing their voice and after that it’s just a matter of time. I always drive them away. One even said I loved her “too hard.” I don’t even understand what that means. Apparently it’s a bad thing.

  So, there I was, minding my own business as the day flowed, smooth as silk, around me. Brendan was in the back office with our Uncle Matthew, Aunt Rose’s husband, cooking the books, while their son, Erin, was at the griddle with Aunt Rosie cooking the food. That left Bren’s girl, Jillian, and I to serve the few customers who came in for dinner. I was at the bar with nothing much to do when Aunt Rosie came out of the kitchen rolling a keg of beer on its bottom rim.

  “Stop your doodling and help me with this,” she said.

  Of course, the words lost their sting since Erin mimicked them in perfect sync from the other side of the pass-through.

  “Shut it, you!” Aunt Rose called into the kitchen. “I told your father we ought to’ve sold you to them Gypsies when we had the chance, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  We laughed at the old line she pulled out any time one of us, especially one of her own kids, irritated her. I jumped up and came around behind the bar to help her wrestle the heavy, aluminum barrel into place. First, we had to unhook the empty from the tap, but any one of us could do that in our sleep. Next, we wrestled it out and jiggered the fresh one into its place and hooked it to the tap.

  “I am gettin’ too old for this shit,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead. She was thin and dark-haired, like most of the family, her son and I included. Her frailty was deceptive, however, for beneath that pretty exterior lay an iron core.

  “Awww…you’re not old, Auntie. You’re like good Irish whiskey, you just get better as the years go by,” I insisted, hoping she’d feel better.

  “That’s kind of you to say, sweetie, but Irish whiskey doesn’t have to lug fifty-five gallon kegs of beer around, and I do.”

  “So, make Erin bring them up from the cellar from now on.”

  “Thanks for volunteering me, cuz,” Erin shouted through the window. “How about you?”

  “What? You’ve got plenty of muscle on you, and she’s your mom, man. You ought to be volunteering yourself. How’re you gonna feel if one of these gets loose from her and flattens her, eh? Like a shithead, that’s how! Or, God forbid, she has a heart attack and no one notices ‘cause she’s down in the cellar? Huh? Huh?”

  “I haven’t reached my heart attack years just yet, Liam,” she protested, but Erin was talking over her.

  “Alright, alright…Jeeze! You’ve laid the guilt on thick enough already. I’ll bring up the kegs from now on when I’m here, Mom. Just tell me when you need one.” He managed to sound resigned and magnanimous at the same time.

  “That would be nice, Erin, thank you.” Her head turned toward the outside door as she headed back into the kitchen. “Here’s Mister O’Brian. Get his drink for him, would you, Liam?”

  “Sure thing,” I replied, already collecting a whiskey tumbler from the stack with my right hand while grabbing the Connemara from its place in front of the mirror with my left. I poured a hearty three fingers into the short, square glass, no ice since he liked his whiskey neat, and drizzled in about a tablespoon of raw clover honey into the bottom.

  Old Mister O’Brian had been coming for his daily sipping drink since the day my grandfather opened the doors in 1965. No one ever asked what he’d be having.

  I used my finger to catch the drips from the mouth of the honey jar. Guaranteed, if there's some other intelligent species in the galaxy, and they have bugs that make a honey-like substance, the automatic response to getting some on one's manipulation digit would be to suck it off. I popped the finger into my mouth as the door opened, letting in the cantaloupe hue of a brilliant sunset. The burly shape of my uncle, Gabriel, blocked the light as he came in, followed closely by a stranger. It was a young man, twenty, maybe twenty-two, hair as red-gold as the honey in my hand. He was cute, but too rugged and broad for my taste.

  I was about to turn back to Mister O’Brian’s drink when the stranger glanced in my direction. His gaze caught mine, a clear and piercing, amber brown, like fine cognac. I could see it from across the room. His eyes dropped to my mouth, where my honey-coated finger rested. His lips parted and I saw a flash of pink tongue; the breath caught in my chest. His eyes skittered over my form then returned to mine. They seemed almost to glow as he walked into the beam of a track-lighting spot. There was something there, hiding, something deep, smoldering, carnal.

  “Oh, wow,” I moaned around my finger as that devastating glance liquefied my guts.

  He was a hell of a lot better looking than I’d first realized. The wash of light from overhead cast his features in sharp contrast, defining planes and angles that were hidden a second before, lending him an elven air. Everything about him was bathed in honey.

  My aching lungs sucked in a gulp of air, carrying the sent of honey with it. A hot shock of arousal shot down my back, kick starting my heart into a gallop on its way past. He returned his attention to where he was walking. I realized this must be my uncle’s new partner, because I couldn’t help noticing how the seat of his dark blue EMT uniform pants snu
ggled up against a set of cheeks that made me want to bite something. I was biting something, my finger, which I pulled back out of my mouth.

  The ferocious hunger I thought I’d seen in his eyes stunned me. It was unlike any look anyone had ever aimed in my direction before, so I wasn’t certain, but my body had no doubt. One glance and I was lightheaded, weak-kneed and hard enough to drill through the mahogany bar in front of me—and, they were sitting in my station.

  Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit, ran like a litany in my head. How was I going to serve this guy without my tongue hanging out? I felt like Scooby Doo when he didn’t know if he should run away from the monster or toward the Scooby Snacks. The feeling of being caught in a dream washed through me again, and I wondered, for a second, if I could be in bed asleep right now.

  “Ok, ok…get a grip, man,” I lectured myself. “He’s just a guy, like any other guy…” I snagged a couple extra order pads from under the counter and stuffed them into the center pocket of my waiter’s apron in hopes of hiding the painful wood I was sporting—thanks to Mister Honeyman. “He’s probably not even interested. You probably misread his expression…He-ee-he’s probably just in a bad mood or something. I mean, who wouldn’t be, having to ride around with Uncle Gabe all day? You’re probably just horny and, whatcha call it…” I picked up Mister O’s drink and carried it around the bar to his table, “Projecting!”

  “Projecting what, lad?” Mister O’Brian demanded.

  “What? Oh, nothing, Mr. O. I was thinking out loud. So, you’re good for the night, yeah?” I replied, placing his ticket on the table. He never wanted more than the one drink and he always left the money and tip on the table. He was a good customer.

  “You young fellas get stranger every year,” he declared in his soft Irish bur as he had at least once a month for as long as I could remember.

  “Aye, sir, we do, but I’d wager you were a right freak to your elders back in the day,” I joked, mimicking his accent.

  “Well, now, ye’ve got me there, lad,” he chortled, smacking his lips around the sweetened whiskey, “and yer a cheeky li’l blighter too.” He laughed again and waved me away with a, “Gi’ on wi’ ya.”

  I turned and took visual aim on my destination. Uncle Gabe didn’t usually sit in my station. The only reason he was in my station this time is because Jillian and I switched tables. I hoped he wouldn’t mind too much when he found out. Truth is, I think I made him nervous, or uncomfortable somehow. I’d never been sure why until recently, when it occurred to me that he could be sensing in me what he sensed in his brother, my uncle Joel. Uncle Gabe wasn’t good with new things, things that were different. He adjusted, but it took him a while. When Uncle Joel came out, Gabe didn’t take it too well. It wasn’t because his brother was gay; it was because someone he thought he knew was suddenly unknown.

  My uncle’s gay, but I’m not. I love girls; in fact, my twin’s girlfriend who waits tables with me is about as hot as they come—not that I’m interested in getting with her. Why would I be? I have her, in a way, because she’s Brendan’s. No, what I’ve been thinking about for some time is the idea of trying men. It’d been on my mind more frequently these days. The desire had become even more compelling since Tammy broke up with me a few days before summer vacation, but I’d yet to see anyone who really interested me.

  Until now. Again, the sensation of lucid dreaming overwhelmed me. What were the chances of my uncle bringing in what looked to be the perfect man just when I was open to a relationship with a one? It’d been ages since I felt that horrible-sweet sensation of butterflies, only this was more like millions of Indy car racer butterflies ricocheting off the walls of my stomach.

  Mentally, I girded my loins, glanced down to be certain my hard-on wasn’t showing, and walked over to stand in front of Honeyman. I thought I’d start off with a smile and just a little, “Come get me, baby,” in the voice.

  “Can I do ya?” I asked, my voice rose on “do,” making the question hang in the air. That wasn’t what I’d meant to ask, nor was it the tone I’d meant to use, but it was what came out, sure enough. My heart spluttered. I felt so awkward, like I was fifteen and trying to get my first date.

  “What…can I do for you?” I corrected, laughing in the embarrassed way you do, hoping no one notices it’s to cover embarrassment, but people do, and you know they do, and everyone pretends they don’t. I thought I might puke.

  Honeyman acted as if I hadn’t said anything since I came up, just studied the menu. Uncle Gabe, on the other hand, looked irritated. “What’s with you, boy? Oh, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know! Beer and—” he turned to his partner and gestured for him to order.

  *Oliver*

  It was the eyes. I could have ignored the kid, save for the eyes. I say “kid,” but he wasn’t but a year or two younger than I was; it was because I always feel older than I am, and this one looked so kid-like. Mischievous smile, a lick of black hair falling over his forehead, the sort that might be tousled by a laughing dad, his finger in his mouth as if he’d done something naughty.

  He was not, however, a kid. Not at that height, and with that kind of frank, knowing look.

  Those eyes. Huge. And green as leaves. Who in hell had eyes that green? Who in hell had them in a pub called “Irish Eyes”? A pub with painted eyes as green in its logo? They were impossible, fascinating, wonderful—and very similar to those of my new partner, which made me wary.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  I’d met my partner five days ago when I’d been transferred from an ambulance service in the sleepy suburbs to one smack in the middle of the city. I was on the very last leg of my paramedic studies, all tests behind me, most on-the-job work completed. The final requirement of my journeyman training was to be paired up with an old-timer and let loose in the field.

  I assumed this last part of my training would be a piece of cake, as I knew and had worked with all the EMTs at the suburban service. Then it got bought out. All the EMTs I knew went elsewhere, and my paramedic program transferred me to Rapid Response Ambulance Service, located just south of downtown. There I was shackled to one Gabriel O'Shaughnessy.

  I knew from the minute I walked up to Mr. O’Shaughnessy’s rig on that warm Sunday morning that I was in big trouble. O’Shaughnessy had auburn hair, fierce green eyes and a square, hard-as-rocks build that spoke of careful hours in the gym. Under other circumstances, I’d have allowed myself a minute of appreciation for this hunk of a partner. My admiration for his sexy looks was instantly killed by the fact that every one of those toned muscles was tensed with anger.

  “You haven’t any right!” he was snarling into a cell phone. His voice had a low strain to it, as if he was in a losing battle to keep it civil. “I don’t care how great an opportunity it is, Fiona, this wasn’t part of our agreement.” A long pause. The man’s locked jaw worried me. Heck, it scared the shit out of me. When I was a kid and had done something wrong, my dad’s jaw would lock like that, usually before his eyes went cold and his voice took on a cruel, mocking edge.

  “You are NOT going to guilt me into giving in,” he finally snapped. “And we’re not discussing it now. I’m on shift. We’ll argue about it tonight.” Another pause. “Yes. We. Will,” he insisted in a way that told me I wasn’t going to fare well in disagreements with this man. He slapped shut the phone.

  For a minute he fumed, hands fisted to the point where I was sure he was going to crush the phone. Then his eyes came up and fixed on me. I mean they locked in as if they were targeting me for a missile. “Sutton?”

  “Oliver Sutton, yes—” I held out a hand.

  He slapped the ambulance keys into my hand. “You drive.”

  I suppose he thought he was too mad to be behind the wheel, and since he was supposed to be showing me around, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. But you never know when you might get called to the scene of an accident. In fact, it was all too likely we would get such a call, and in that case, the driver at the wh
eel ought to know his way around. I’d done my homework, studied maps and streets, but I’d only moved here last week! I could easily drive us the wrong way by mistake.

  A brave, responsible soul would have pointed this out. But, “Yes, sir,” is what I said, and got into the driver’s side.

  O’Shaughnessy directed me, gruffly pointing out landmarks, one-way streets, quick ways to get from here to there. He was still fuming, and I heard him mutter something resentful about raw deals and being saddled with a snot-nosed rookie. No doubt he meant me. Then, to make matters worse, just as I’d feared, we got a call, traffic accident. My hand shook as I flipped the siren, and my stomach churned as my foot hit the gas. I couldn’t fuck up. Could not, even if I didn’t know the roads, even if O’Shaughnessy looked ready to bite my head off. Someone was counting on us, and if it all went wrong, it would be my fault no matter what.

  My new partner yelled at me when I went left instead of right, which would have been faster, and, later, missed a turn off. We got there in eight minutes. It was a two-car, intersection smash-up. Both drivers were seated on the curb rather than lying on their backs, a good sign. O’Shaughnessy was out before I’d set the parking brake, and kneeling by the man holding one arm and bleeding from a scalp wound. I went to check on the woman. She was fine, just shaken up and trying to explain things to the police. I went over to help my partner. There was no sign of anger in him.. He spoke to the man with gentle respect, asking him questions, gingerly probing the injured arm to assess the damage.

  “You’re gonna be fine,” he reassured him.

  It was the sort of professionalism I’d come to expect in the EMT world, but I was still impressed. I brought out the gurney and we got our patient laid out and into the rig. This time O’Shaughnessy drove, getting us to the nearest hospital in two minutes. Our patient was transferred into the hands of the ER, the eternal paperwork quickly filled out, and back we went to the barn.