When Irish Eyes Are Sparkling

by Tom Collins

  My uncle got his Guinness first. He lifted it, sniffed, murmured happily and sipped it through the foam as I set the iced water next to Oliver. Oliver watched Uncle Gabe with a curious expression, as if he were wondering what was to like so much. I set the juice between them and glanced between Oliver and it. He looked from the glass to me, pointed to the glass and then to himself with a questioning expression. I smiled and nodded a couple times fast, and watched him expectantly. Uncle Gabe’s expression was transparent concern, as if he thought I might poison his partner.

  I didn’t care, because Oliver had lifted the glass and brought it to his mouth. I saw his nostrils flare as it approached and his eyes widened in surprise. He even smiled a little.

  “Cranberry juice,” he stated, sounding pleased and took a sip while watching me through his red-gold lashes.

  “An-Antioxident….” I tried to explain like a halfwit. I felt like Woody, in Toy Story, when Bo Peep kissed him, kind of loose all over and empty headed.

  There was that look again, like an animal paced behind his eyes, a big lion with its red-gold mane ruffled and spiky and hot amber eyes like Oliver’s. Icy-hot waves rolled through me, making my hands shake on the tray. I tucked the tray under my left arm and smiled again, trying to pretend I wasn’t having trouble breathing.

  “Thank you, Liam.” The sound of my name in his voice was almost my undoing. I had to get away from him for a few minutes or I’d rocket in my shorts, and that would be a degree of bad I didn’t want to experience.

  “Well…I better go check…something…” I muttered, indicating the bar behind me and scurried away like a rodent.

  *Oliver*

  Creamy stout, creamy horseradish sauce with a bite. God help me, the kid was toying with me. He had to know exactly what sort of cream I was really after. I mean, even if the table was hiding the bulge in my pants, he couldn’t be blind to the way I kept looking at him. Fuck it. I wanted to stare at him all night long, while listening to that wonderful voice. Did he know what a hypnotic voice he had? Irish step dance had become tap-dancing in America and that’s what his voice was like, an Irish lilt made American, more intense, more energetic and expressive, engaging the listener with the rise and fall of syllables.

  I wouldn’t have cared what he was saying, except I wanted to make sense of it. Like that teasingly, drawn-out mention of the special. He’d pretended to have forgotten it, his green eyes going dreamy, his voice going soft. One long-fingered hand had settled on my shoulder, not quite a caress but I could still feel the heat it left. Then, after reeling me in, he’d finally exclaiming, “Lamb!” in a way that he’d have to have known—he must have known—I’d hear as “Liam!”

  Like the punch line to an agonizingly erotic joke. As if that wasn’t enough, he’d added that coda about pleasing me! Had he wanted me to tease him back? To prove with a witty retort that I was worthy of his interest? I’m not good with words. Actions yes, but not words. In fact, I was once dumped like garbage because I couldn’t maintain an intelligent conversation.

  Liam had stood waiting for some response, and all I’d done was hold tight to my step-mom’s social rules, like a drowning man to a life preserver. Say “Please” and “Thank you.”

  He must’ve thought I was some kind of courtesy geek. If he’d only known.

  How did I want my “Liam”? Under different circumstances, I would have whispered the answer in his ear: With trousers down and up against a wall, please. Doesn’t matter which direction he’s facing, I’ll make do with either.

  The worst thing was, for all his captivating innuendo, I didn’t know for sure if he was interested or playing around, having fun at the expense one very helpless and lost gay man. And given that he was Gabe’s nephew, it mattered. I was tempted to get up and see if he’d follow me into the restroom, as anyone truly interested and aware of what he’d been doing to me would. He’d saunter in, and I’d grab that green polo shirt of his, pull him into the stall. I’d reach under his little, black apron, unzip those cargo shorts and weigh his sweaty balls in my hand before kneeling down to get beneath the bit of cloth and at his juicy bits. His hairy calves promised deliciously hairy thighs I imagined he would smell of musk and malt from the beer. A silky cock I could tongue, until his thighs quivered—

  Right. And then Gabe would walk in on us and I’d be found the next morning, a flattened pancake on the road with distinctive whitewall tire-marks all over my remains. The autopsy would show that for my last meal I had cranberry juice and something creamy.

  With a bite.

  I watched Liam cross the pub, ass lost in those black cargo shorts, mocking me. How’d he know I liked cranberry juice?

  Gabe cleared his throat, and I blushed guiltily, thinking he’d noticed the way I was ogling his nephew, but his gaze was on his half-finished beer.

  “I like this place,” I blurted, before he could say anything. Did I sound like I was covering something up? I did, didn’t I? “Family business?’

  “Yeah,” he said. “My parents started it up over forty years ago. Everyone in the family takes a turn working here. My sister over there—” He pointed to a slender woman with short dark hair stepping out through the kitchen’s swinging door, “—she runs it now.”

  Right. Apparently, my temperamental partner had not only gotten friendly, but decided to open himself up to me by inviting me to dine at his family’s beloved pub. At a guess, having sexual relations with his nephew on the premises would, to put it mildly, not be a good move unless I wanted to fuck things up between us. Forever.

  Eyes off the nephew, Oliver, stop wishing he’d come back, stop thinking about his eyes, his voice, that hand he’d set on your shoulder, getting him naked….

  Gabe cleared his throat again. “I, um, didn’t give you much of a fair shake this week.”

  “Someone told me why. S’all right.”

  He didn’t look like it was. His glance went from his drink to a large, framed photograph of Ireland on the wall. “You must think it pretty awful, the ex and I arguing that way, not thinking of the boy—”

  “No,” I said quickly, and he must have heard something else in the word, because his eyes came up. “My parents got divorced when I was that age,” I went on, “And while I don’t imagine it’s easy for the kid to hear you arguing about him, at least he knows you both want him.”

  That was more than I felt comfortable saying, especially when I saw his gaze sharpen with interest, but he was my partner, and if he was finally going to open the door a crack and let me peek into his life, it was only fair that I did the same.

  “Well,” he went on, “I wanted you to know I’m aware of what a shit I’ve been. I mean, it wasn’t just my troubles with my ex that had me in such a mood. I was pretty resentful. A month ago I was part of a trio. Then Rhonda left to be a full time mom and Jack’s back troubles got too bad for him to continue. I thought I was gonna be made the third wheel with one of the other duos, but—”

  “You got picked to be my keeper. I won’t even try to imagine how frustrating it is, to be part of a perfect team and then get stuck with someone who doesn’t even know the tune, let alone how to get in sync with it. I can’t blame you for not—” I stumbled, drew in a breath, “—not wanting me.”

  “Didn’t say that,” he grumbled, and added, “If it means anything, everyone at the barn feels they lucked out, ‘cause you seem able to deal with me and that means they don’t have to.” He smiled ruefully. “So if you were hoping to get out of this arrangement—”

  “No,” I said seriously. “I’m the lucky one. You’re amazing out there.”

  He shrugged and swigged down some beer. “I’m damn good, yeah.”

  No false modesty for Gabe. I liked that. “That’s how good I want to be. If I stay with you, I will be. You’re stuck with me.”

  “Drink to that,” he murmured, and we clinked glasses.

  “Here we are!” Liam was back, which jolted me, as I’d managed to get my mind off him for half-a
-second, and now it was back on him. His apron was lifted and acting as a mitt for the hot plates he was holding. I took a secret glance at the revealed crotch of his shorts. There was an unmistakable bulge there, along the left thigh. My heart thumped.

  A plate was deposited in front of me. The heavenly smell of grilled lamb wafted up, intertwining with a ginger-sweet fragrance from the bright orange carrots. There were six thick chops on the plate, the fat still sizzling from the fire. That’s when I realized how hungry I was.

  “Thanks,” Gabe said as Liam set the other plate down. “Oh, and you can tell your aunt that Connor’ll be with us for the summer,” he added gruffly, as if it were no big deal. “She’ll need to give him something to do while I’m at work.”

  “Really? Yes!” Liam whooped, less reluctant to hide his enthusiasm. “Ours, all ours for the summer. Never fear, Unc, we’ll take good care of him. He’ll peel potatoes and scrub dishes, learn all the tricks of the family trade like rolling beer kegs.” He grinned, then, with a reassuring wink at me, “We O’Shaughnessys have a long standing work ethic. Goes all the way back to Ireland. In fact, we ought to make it our family motto.” He spread his hands as if presenting a banner. “What bollixing child labor laws? Hm. Maybe put that in Latin under a shamrock? What do you say, Uncle Gabe? For a family crest?”

  Gabe’s lips were twitching but he refused to smile. “Your tip is disappearing.”

  Liam slapped his left hand over his heart as if devastated. “You’re gonna give me less than nothing? A negative tip, that should be interesting.”

  “I’ll give ya a smack upside the head if you don’t get moving.”

  He saluted us and marched away. Just before he got to the bar he ran into the cute waitress. He nabbed her and she, falling in, let him tango them up to the window. He dipped her back, before bringing her up again and kissing her hand. She held out a corner of her pleated black mini-skirt and curtsied in thanks.

  Girlfriend? I wondered with a pang of jealously. Eyes off, I reminded myself, and concentrated on my food.

  It was phenomenal and I told Gabe as much, which seemed to please him. The herbed potatoes had a delicious crust, the carrots a meltingly sweet-spice taste and the mint jelly, a refreshing tang. As for the lamb, it was the most tender, juiciest, most flavorful I’d ever had in my life.

  It almost—almost—made up for not getting a bite of Liam.

  Chapter Two

  *Liam*

  I felt like I’d made some headway on Oliver with the cranberry juice, but I made a complete ass of myself when I delivered their food. He wasn’t showing any sign of interest, at least none I could recognize. Except that look, a look that gave me chill bumps and fever at the same time. I couldn’t be sure I wasn’t imagining it, painting him the way I wanted him to be.

  I doodled on napkins while watching him make his way through a hearty meal like a champion. There was no hesitation, he set to it and his attention never seemed to waver. The man knew how to eat, that was for sure. It almost killed me every time he sucked meat juices off his fingers, and the way he gnawed on the bones—by the time they were getting to the end of their meal, my skin felt electrified. While I set up their desserts, I thought about going into the bathroom to rub one off real quick, but knew too many things could go wrong with that idea.

  I timed it so that their desserts were ready just as Roddy finished bussing their table. He was out of my delivery path as I stepped up. I set a dessert and a coffee in front of each of them.

  “Decaf,” I stated, pointing at Oliver’s cup, “for the young gentleman who needs his sleep. Coffee goes really well with this dessert. Yours is a blueberry crumble. You struck me as a blueberry kinda guy,” I grinned.

  “I didn’t order dessert,” Oliver stated, looking worried.

  “No, of course you didn’t. I knew he was paying,” I gestured toward my uncle, “and I knew he’d be having dessert and would expect you to join him. I knew what he would want and guessed you’d go for the blueberry because…Ok, see, my cousin, Erin? In the kitchen? He always watches the food channel, and his favorite show is Good Eats with this food scientist guy, Alton Brown, Ok? Well, the other night they were having a marathon and he’d been watching that show for like two hours and I was bored out…of…my…mind from it, but he wouldn’t change the channel ‘cause it’s his TV, so he was sitting on me to keep me from getting the remote ‘cause I was trying to get it from him—”

  “This story has a point, I hope?” Uncle Gabe interrupted, throwing me off my stride. “I mean, this is an anecdote, right?”

  “The point is—” I started to say.

  “And why is this berry sticking its tongue out at me?” Gabe interrupted again, pointing to the doodle I’d done in raspberry sauce on his dessert platter.

  “It’s not sticking its tongue out at you. It’s a raspberry giving you a raspberry.” I demonstrated my meaning by giving him one. It was nice and loud too. “Now,” I went on, “my point is that one of the episodes I was forced to watch was all about blueberries. According to this show, blueberries are filthy with antioxidants. S’why I thought this is what you’d like for desert. See?” I indicated the superhero-looking doodle on Oliver’s platter, “It’s Antioxidant Man, out to undo…the foul Free Radical…Gang…”God! I’m such a dork! “I hope I wasn’t wrong.” That last bit sounded so pathetic; I wanted to sink into the floor. I waited, desperate for this drop-dead dude to tell me I done right.

  He looked to my uncle, who shrugged and picked up his fork saying, “It’s up to you. It’s your dessert, so if you don’t like it, send it back.” He dug into his raspberry crumble with as much pleasure as I’d expected. “Don’t let his being my nephew stop you,” he added after chasing the bite with a sip of coffee. “Treat him like you would any other waiter.”

  Deciding I’d made a bad choice, I reached with my left hand for Oliver’s platter saying, “I’m sorry. I’ll get you—”

  “No,” he said, catching my arm. He didn’t grab me; he just laid his hand on my forearm. The breath caught in my throat and my gut burned with cold fire. ‘Oh, wow!’ jittered around in my head. The constant, throbbing pulse in my groin began pounding like a jackhammer. His platter, which I’d lifted off the table, trembled as my hands shook from adrenaline overload. He took hold of the plate from his side and looked up at me.

  “This is what I want. Thank you.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, straightening up.

  “Yeah,” he confirmed. I grinned like a loony bird.

  “You did good, “ Uncle Gabe said around a mouthful of crumble, “but next time ask what he wants, don’t try to guess.”

  “Ok, right,” I said to my uncle, beginning to back away. “Great!” I said looking at Oliver, pleased that he was happy. “Oh! I almost forgot.” Reaching into my front pocket, I pulled out a handful of little creamer cups and set them next to Oliver’s coffee. “I wasn’t sure how you took it, so I brought some creamers in case.”

  “You’d know if you’d asked,” my uncle harped.

  “Yes…! I know, Uncle!” I barked, surprising everyone, including myself. “Thank you for the…” I began backing away again, “sound advice…I will be sure to keep it in mind.” To Oliver I said, “Enjoy your dessert.” I turned to retreat behind the bar, wishing I could have just a couple minutes of jackass-free time in front of Mister Oliver Honeyman.

  I couldn’t imagine what Oliver must be thinking of me by this point. Forgetting the special, Uncle Gabe pointing out all my mistakes, acting like a twelve-year-old with his first crush—God! What in hell was wrong with me? I had just put the counter down over the walk through section of the bar when Oliver got up from the table.

  Oh, look at him walk, I thought, graceful, steady. He’s a calm sort, doesn’t get riled easy. Look at his arms swing; smooth. He has soft hands, I recalled from his touch on my arm, which still tingled. What could he do with those hands, if he were willing, I wondered. My imagination supplied me with some creative answers. Oh,
he’s looking at me…because you’re staring at him like a fucking serial killer, you moron! I flushed and looked away quick, pretending to clean some glasses, but couldn’t stop myself from watching him go into the washroom. Realizing Gabe was alone at the table, and not even thinking about it, I vaulted the bar and trotted over.

  “Tell me everything!” I demanded, flopping down next to him.

  “About what?” he asked, pretending not to know. I punched him on the shoulder, “Ouch!” he exclaimed, dropping his fork to rub his bicep. “That hurt.”

  “Pussy,” I stated and rolled my eyes, “Now, spill it. I want to know everything about him, and make it fast, ‘cause he’ll be back any minute.”

  “It’s gonna leave a bruise, ya little shit. What’s with you? You're acting like a dog smelling a bitch in heat.”

  “Oh, c’mon! Even you have to admit he’s hot.”

  “No, I don’t, and why should it matter to you? You’re not gay…are you?”

  “No, just…curious.”

  “There’s no time to tell you everything,” he insisted. “When did you get so strong? You couldn’t punch that hard last fall.”

  “I started working out a few months ago. I’m getting pretty ripped too. See?” I jerked my shirt up. “I’ve got a solid four pack and the beginnings of a sixer. Getting a little definition on my chest too, not to mention the familial hair is starting to make an appearance.”

  I ruffled my fingers over the silky, black fuzz covering my chest and abdomen. I smiled, proud of what I’d accomplished in the past few months. Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. My head turned and I saw Oliver back from the washroom. My heart stuttered. The blood drained from my head, only to rush back in, causing a blush unlike any I’d ever experienced before. I jerked my shirt back down just as my uncle began talking.