I let it go, preferring to go along with her revised framing rather than question it. Because questioning it would mean I’d have to start back to doubting her intentions all over again. I just want to linger in this good connection we’ve found today.
30
It’s early evening by the time we finally shower and dress. The rain is still coming down and expected to last through most of the night, which is too bad since we’re leaving tomorrow. Neither one of us feels like going to one of our local bars for the night, but Jules volunteers to run out to get us dinner since our hotel doesn’t have room service.
There’s no television in our room and an internet signal is spotty at best. This hasn’t been a problem as our nights up until now have been spent out, with plenty of drink to occupy us. I pace restlessly as I wait for Jules to come back. That feeling of calm I had earlier has disappeared, replaced by trepidation. I worry I’ve set something in motion with declaring my love for Jules. I’ve never done that before. Well, not with that kind of genuine feeling. I’ve definitely told women I love them, but it always had some sort of angle behind it, usually in pursuit of securing the next high.
I don’t know what is supposed to come next. What do people do when they’ve made this grand statement? Is it supposed to change everything? I just don’t fucking know.
My phone buzzes and I’m glad for the distraction. It’s Shay, texting me.
“Sorry it’s so late,” he starts.
It is late in Dublin. Not here. But Shay doesn’t know that because I’ve lied to him. I’ve lied about all of this stuff with Jules and that reminder ratchets up my unease.
“No worries,” I tell him, quickly calculating that it’d be about midnight in Dublin. “Not that late.”
“Everything good?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s been quiet. You know, the usual. You?”
“Your special therapy sessions okay?”
Oh fuck. I had forgotten about that story. “Yes, good. Making progress, I think.” I close my eyes, wincing over this bullshit. “How’s L.A.?”
“Sunny.”
Typical Shay. He’s not the most verbose fella.
“Marty staying out of trouble?”
“You haven’t seen the tabloids? He’s got a fresh scandal.”
I haven’t heard or seen anything about that guy because I’ve been in this protected bubble. It’s been all Jules, the beach, and tequila.
“Oh, that thing,” I say, hoping it will suffice. “Par for the course, these days.”
There’s a long period while I wait for Shay’s response. He must know I’m off, and probably suspects I’m using or something. That’s how his mind works. He jumps to that conclusion at the slightest indication of me slipping. Of course, I’ve given him good reason for that over the years.
“I need to ask a favor.”
The abrupt change in direction surprises me. My brother is not one to ask for my help.
“Sure. What is it?”
“Marty will be back in town after this trip. Can you check in on him? Be sure he’s himself?”
I laugh out loud. The idea that I’m trusted to check up on someone else is foreign. Am I capable of that? Have I earned that in Shay’s eyes? I feel buoyed at the thought that Shay trusts me to look after his mate.
“Yes, of course,” I type, grinning.
“Appreciate it.”
And with that, Shay tells me to say hi to Roscoe and signs off.
Fuck me, it feels good to think I’ve come far enough that my brother can rely on me for this. Mind, it’s not a lot of responsibility, but it’s something. Especially if it’s to do with one of his band mate brothers. Shay must really be worried about the state Marty’s in. That fella’s clearly taking the mid-life crisis plunge and got Shay anxious over it. I resolve to fix things right up if I find Marty in a self-destructive way.
I’m so hyped on the idea that I forget my usual reticence where Rogue is concerned and tell Jules all about it when she returns, loaded down with bags and dampened all over again by the rain.
“You’re his minder, are you?” she asks, bemused.
“Well, I’ll do what I can.”
She nods without conviction but goes on to tell me she had internet connection at the restaurant and got caught up on the latest goings on with our man Marty. Seems he hooked up with Lainey Keeler, one of the most famous actresses of the day. The press has jumped on it and is being especially hard on Lainey, calling her the homewrecker of Martin’s marriage.
“Jesus,” I say with a sigh. “Those guys have a special talent for airing their dirty laundry.”
Perhaps she plays off my new openness to talk about the guys, because she says with forced casualness, “I also found out that Sophie is pregnant again.”
“How’d you learn that?” I blurt it out, unable to stop the sudden suspicion that she once more knows too much.
“Gavin rang and told me,” she deadpans, and I believe it for a moment. Then she sighs. “Tabloids again, Danny Boy. He was on some chat show with James Corden and let it ‘slip,’ though I’m bloody sure that it was well planned out.”
“What does that mean?”
“Gavin has always been a calculating bastard. He knows how to play things in the media. So I’m sure this was for a purpose. Maybe to throw the attention his way instead of Marty’s for a spell.”
“Well, if that’s the case, it was good of him, wasn’t it?”
She considers this for a moment. Nodding slowly, she says, “I suppose so. Shall we eat?”
31
Jules has brought back plenty of alcohol to go with our fish tacos. We have a six-pack of Negra Modelo, a bottle of Siembra Metl Cenizo mezcal, and a bottle of Siete Leguas tequila. She says it’s in honor of our last night, but what we do is get fucking trashed. It starts as a happy kind of drunkenness but takes a turn when she shows me what else she brought back.
“I know you say you don’t like it,” she tells me quickly when I scowl at the marijuana joints she has in her palm. “But maybe you just need to try it again, without heroin in your system to alter it. It would be so nice to mellow out together with this.”
“Have you been especially stressed out, Jules?” I ask with feigned concern, which she ignores.
“No, it’s not that. It’s just—it’s a harmless good time.
She called cocaine harmless as well, but I won’t register that until later. Right now, I’m just pissed off that she’s pushing this again.
“You go ahead,” I tell her. “I’m not into it.”
“Just try a little. If it gives you the same bad vibe you had before, then that’s it. We’ll both stop.”
“Jules—”
“Come on, don’t be so rigid. I mean, I like you rigid, but not about this,” she says with a wink.
Her effort to flirt underwhelms me. “I’ll have more of the mezcal and leave it at that.”
She deflates in disappointment before throwing everything she’s got at me. “Come on, baby. You said you loved me, didn’t you?”
She’s smiling, trying to spin it into a gentle tease, but it feels like pure manipulation. She knows it wasn’t easy for me to get to the point where I could say I love her and now she’s just using it as some sort of … what? Blackmail? Is having said that I love her supposed to give her free reign to push me into things I don’t want to do? Is that what comes with a real relationship? Jesus, the good times we had this trip and especially today now feel like a lie.
“Let’s enjoy our last night in lovely little Tulum in style,” she continues when I’m silent. “We’ll smoke a little, and then we’ll probably get hungry enough to eat those chicharrónes I bought.”
I eye the grease-stained bag she’s referring to. Chicharrónes are bits of deep-fried pig skin. We’ve seen them offered everywhere but haven’t been brave enough to try them yet. Looking back at Jules, she seems relaxed, playful even. And I second-guess my hesitation, questioning whether I’m seeing things as they real
ly are or if I’m creating my own version like Ms. Patterson says I do.
I’m halfway to rationalizing things, ready to slip right down into doing what I shouldn’t, when Gavin’s warning comes to mind.
She’s an opportunist.
But what is her game here?
“Let me have your lighter,” she says, ready to push forward regardless of the fact that I haven’t officially consented.
“What does getting me high get you?” I’ve said the quiet part out loud, one of my trademarks.
She freezes and looks at me. But she’s silent.
“It must get you something. Gavin said you’re only after what suits you. So, what does this do for you?”
I can hear her breathing in the quiet between us. Her whole body had gone tense.
“What are you saying?” she asks stiffly. “You talked to Gavin about me?”
“Well, yeah. Seeing how we had something in common, is all.”
This explanation doesn’t go over well. She’s barely containing her fury as she grabs my lighter from the nightstand and gets started on one of the joints.
“And what, exactly, was this conversation about?” Her voice is cold, clipped.
“It was harmless, as you might say. I just thought I’d better let him know about you and me.” This isn’t exactly how it went, but even I know better than to be completely honest at the moment.
“Why?”
“Because the man signs my fucking paychecks, for one.”
“That’s crap and you know it.”
“Jules, meeting you fucked with my head. I couldn’t believe it was all random—”
“Jesus, not this again.”
“Especially,” I continue, “not with the way you brought him up in so many different ways. I had to get his take on just what the fuck I was getting myself into.”
She’s pacing and smoking, her mind at work.
“And so, he told you that I’m only out for myself, is that it?” she says with exaggerated patience.
“Basically, yeah.” Hearing her repeat it back makes me sorry I said anything. It’s a shitty thing to say about someone. But before I can get too lost in that feeling, she exhales a stream of smoke directly at me and I’m reminded of how careless she is of my sobriety. Not just careless, but actively detrimental to it. I wave the smoke away and tell her, “Fucking put that thing out.” I realize now that she’s done a good number on the joint that it’s hashish, the more potent form of marijuana. That shite would have really fucked with me.
With that thought comes the memory of something else Gavin said. I hadn’t given it much thought at the time since it came along with a barrage of other things he revealed about Jules. But now I do. He said Jules “fed” him cocaine when he was trying to stop. It clicks then, what she was hoping to do by getting me to start up with her here. In much the same way she did with Gavin, she was looking to prey on my weakness. For fun? For control? Because she’s screwed up? In the end, I realize the bottom line is that she’s fucked up and wanting to drag me down with her.
“Was Sophie sitting her pretty arse right there during this conversation?” she asks.
This concern about Sophie surprises me. “What? No, she wasn’t right there.”
“And what else did that poncy Southside bastard say, anyway?”
“It’s no matter at this point. I didn’t take his advice. I decided I wanted to take a chance on you.”
“What advice was this?”
I cringe when I realize I let that slip. There’s no way this is going to end well. “Just, you know, that I mightn’t want to get with you.”
“That’s what he said? In those words? That doesn’t sound like him. And yes,” she says, “I do know how the man talks. I know him better than he ever gave me credit for. He’s off writing songs to Sophie, giving her credit for being the one and only to ever understand him.” She scoffs in disgust. “As if I hadn’t picked up the very pieces of him all those years. I was the one there, helping him through his darkest days. Not her.”
This revelation has me taking a physical step back. What I had feared from the start has become reality. She’s still mad for Gavin. And that means she almost certainly went after me—maybe not right from the start, but as soon as she learned of my connection to him—in order to inch closer to him. She’s been biding her time, but it’s all coming out now.
“What. Did. He. Say?” she asks slowly, emphasizing each word with barely controlled fury.
Because I figure it can do no more harm than I’ve already done, I tell her the truth. “He told me to watch my fucking back.”
32
Of course, I’m wrong and this only amplifies our row. Jules is beside herself that I not only spoke to Gavin about her but that he denigrated her to me. I’m furious with how clear it now is that she’s desperate to have something with him again. It’s not even necessarily that she’s wanting to be with the man, but she clearly craves his acknowledgement of her place in his life. She feels cast aside and bemoans the fact that she’s put herself in this position of repeatedly supporting him, only for him to always choose Sophie.
We go round and round in circles, completely ignoring how this all got started—her insistence that I get high with her. At one point, she breaks down crying and I’m ready to give in just to make this all stop. But then she manipulates things again.
“You don’t love me,” she whimpers. “You don’t. If you did you wouldn’t treat me this way.”
That’s all I can take. Throwing up my hands, I tell her, “How can I love someone I can’t trust? How can I love someone who undermines my efforts to stay clean?”
“I’m just your excuse. You put on me everything you don’t want to take responsibility for. Aren’t you supposed to be owning your shit? Isn’t that what your precious Ms. Patterson is all about?”
I don’t like that she’s brought up Ms. Patterson and it must be clear as day on my face. It’s an opening for her to strike out at me and she takes it.
“Oh, there’s something there, isn’t there?” she says. She wipes dry the tears that had streaked down her cheeks. Her eyes light up as she senses how she can hurt me. “Is it that you’ve gone and done the most clichéd thing there is and fallen for your therapist?”
I turn away from her and she laughs in response.
“How pathetic—but wait!”
Looking back at her, I see she’s got a furrowed brow and a finger to her lips, pretending deep thought.
“Is it,” she starts, “a mammy thing you’re after with her since yours was basically non-existent? Or do you want to fuck her?”
“I want you to fuck off, how about that?” I tell her.
She claps her hands together excitedly. “I know! It’s some twisted combination of the two. She’s a mammy substitute that you want to fuck. Am I right, Danny Boy?”
“You’re sick in the fucking head. I should have listened to Gavin. He had good reason to leave you far behind.”
That’s her soft spot. Anything to do with Gavin. Her face falls and I know I’ve done damage. But it doesn’t stop me from continuing to go after her.
“Why would he choose you over a fucking goddess like Sophie, anyway? She’s everything you’re not, everything you’ll never be. I’ve seen the love between them. You never stood a fucking chance.”
Her response surprises me. She rushes me, pushing me so hard that I stumble backwards. And she keeps pushing me until I’m up against the door and our bodies are pressed together. Our eyes meet, and I see fire in hers. It’s rage and hurt and devastation. And then it turns to need.
We’re both breathing heavily, adrenaline jacked up. The anger between us morphs into lust. I know it’s not right. I know this is just like an addiction, but I don’t have the will to stop it. She doesn’t either.
I lean down to kiss her, and she bites my lip. Hard. I pull away quickly, but not before the damage has been done.
Wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand, I see a sme
ar of blood and look at her. Had I read her wrong?
The answer is revealed when she grabs at the front of my shorts. She wants to play rough. I can do that—with limits.
I grab a handful of her hair and pull her head back so she meets my eyes again. The forcefulness thrills her, and she watches me with a small, expectant smile. “Let’s do this, Jules. I’m game,” I tell her. “But if it goes too far for you, you need to say a safe word.”
“What word?”
“Gavin,” I say, and she closes her eyes. “You say his fucking name if it’s too much.”
“That’s—”
“That’s who you’ll be thinking of anyway,” I finish for her.
She reaches back and slaps me hard across the face. The sting jars me for a second.
“Whatever else you think of me, don’t you dare say my feelings for you aren’t real. You’re the one I want, damn it.”
Slapping the shite out of me is a funny way of showing it, I think, but don’t say.
Because I don’t care.
I don’t care about anything anymore.
I just want to fuck her.
33
As soon as I come, I pull away from Jules and get up. She goes limp on the bed, her skin still reddened where my hands grabbed and spanked her. I have my own marks where she dug her nails into me and bit me. It was intense, mixing pain and pleasure. I gave her two orgasms along the way. And my one has completely drained me.
I stumble to the bathroom and into the shower, leaning against the wall as the water falls over me. As I try and fail to focus on the aqua colored wall tiles, I realize I’m still drunk.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and fall to my knees to vomit out all the beer and tequila and mezcal. Along with it come tears of sadness and disappointment. I haven’t felt this bad—physically and emotionally—in a long time. The pisser of it is that I knew from the start that I was only looking for trouble by being with Jules. I knew it. But I went ahead and did it. Just like all the other times in my life where I willfully made the wrong choice.
Once the dry heaving has left me, I grab the sink and pull myself up. Wiping away the steam from the mirror, I examine my haggard face, my raw lip, the scratches and teeth marks all over my neck and shoulders. She never did use the safe word. This is what I got instead.
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