“I’ll ring Donal directly to speak with him and the lads,” Martin told her. “Enjoy your holiday, Celia.”
Unencumbered and angry, Martin was anxious to find some kind of release. Normally, he’d call upon Shay to go down to the pub for a pint. But that was no longer an option. He thought next of Gavin but decided to instead call Conor since the guitarist didn’t have family obligations.
Conor was surprised but readily agreed to meet him in Dublin City for drinks, suggesting a club with a high-profile electronica act scheduled that evening.
When Martin got to the small brick building venue, he found a long line outside. Bypassing it and conferring briefly with the doorman, he went inside to find Conor had secured a table specially set up and roped off for them. The club was dark with multi-colored lights flashing rhythmically to the DJ’s beat. The dance floor was packed with an enthusiastic, young crowd. There was a bottle of Glendalough 13-year Single-Malt whiskey along with two fresh pints of Guinness on the table.
Martin knew just enough to recognize the whiskey as something above board.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked as he sat down.
Conor smiled. “It’s to toast.”
“Toast to what?” Martin couldn’t keep the scowl out of his voice. He had nothing to celebrate, that was for sure.
“You joining our little club of fuck-ups.” Pouring them each two fingers of the whiskey, Conor then knocked his glass against Martin’s and took a long sip.
Conor’s expression was so self-assured, so controlled. Martin could only wish to have that kind of confidence. The guitarist was the most put-together person he knew: handsome, well-styled, talented, intelligent, charming. Women and men were drawn to Conor for all those reasons. He was the ultimate rock star, and if Martin were honest, he would admit he had always been jealous of the guy.
Conor was what young boys wanted to be growing up. He was what Martin had fleetingly wished he could be back before he chose Celia and instead settled for married family life. Conor had gone in the exact opposite direction over the years as he lived the life of a bachelor, taking advantage of his freedom by bedding a slew of gorgeous models and actresses. Watching that had been both a voyeuristic pleasure and a frustration. It had been envy of Conor’s freedom that led Martin to jokingly suggest to Celia that they make him godfather to their firstborn. It was his way of trying to impose some of his own staid family life onto his carefree friend. He’d expected Celia to recoil at the idea, but she found it fitting given that Conor was Catholic and had a natural way with kids. Of course, Conor took so well to the task that they then followed with making him godfather to their other boys.
“Gav rang and when I told him we were meeting, he suggested a gift,” Conor said, forcing Martin’s attention to the present.
“What’s that?”
Conor reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a handful of individually wrapped condoms. “I think they’re your size.”
They were magnums. Martin’s years of repressed sexuality prompted him to slam his hand over the display so they wouldn’t be seen. Conor laughed as Martin grabbed them and put them into his own pocket.
“Just thought they might come in handy, you know, when you’re in some remote cabin or something,” Conor said with a wicked grin.
“Fuck’s sake.” Martin shook his head. And then he smiled. It did feel good to be able to joke about it.
“So, go ahead and tell me. How was it?”
“With Ashley?”
“Yes, with Ashley. Unless you’ve got a line of others that haven’t been publicized.”
Martin laughed. “Nah, just her.”
“I imagine she was quite . . . willing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Marty, she was all over you. It wasn’t hard to see how bad she wanted to have a go. And those neo-hippie types are usually pretty open, sexually speaking.”
“Yeah, she was that. It was definitely a good time.” He wasn’t accustomed to speaking about his sex life. The guys had never queried him about Celia and he had certainly never offered any details. This was different than talking out of turn about his wife, but that didn’t make it any more natural to do.
“Things still on with her?”
“No, there’s nothing with Ashley, though she’d like there to be.” Ashley had texted and called him frequently, unhappy that he was clearly not interested in pursuing anything more with her.
“Well, what’s the story, then? Are you back to make it up with Celia?”
Martin looked at his friend for a long silent moment before shaking his head slightly. He was grateful Conor read this for what it was: an admission of the ending of his marriage and also the notice that he didn’t want to talk about it.
They spent the next hour drinking, with Conor taking the lead on conversation. The whiskey and Guinness did the trick of taking Martin’s mind off his anger at being back in Dublin while his boys were unattainable in France. The alcohol buzz felt good and he sat back in his chair and finally looked around. It dawned on him that ninety-five percent of the club-goers were young men.
“Fucking sausage-fest,” he said with a nod toward the writhing bodies on the dance floor.
Conor laughed. “Jesus, you’re so oblivious sometimes.”
Martin looked at him in confusion.
“It’s a bleeding gay club, isn’t it?”
Martin felt a rush of heat fill his chest, wondering why Conor thought a gay club was the place to meet.
“Relax,” Conor said. “It’s for the music.”
As if on cue, the special act made their way to the stage and launched into their performance without any introduction. Martin sat transfixed as he watched LCD Soundsystem whip the audience into a frenzy with their special brand of electronic rock. The repetitive keyboard, guitar, and bass of the song “All My Friends” earned a huge scream of approval from the crowd.
Martin had always liked the American band, and this song in particular. But the theme of the lack of regret in your youth, and regret coming with age resonated especially now. The line about the sun coming up and still not wanting to “stagger home” got him to his feet. It made him want to let loose and feel young again.
“I’m gonna go get in the mix for this,” he said. “Coming?”
“No. You go, though. Enjoy.”
Once Martin was in the midst of the crowd, he could see why Conor hadn’t joined him. There were so many people that just being in the middle of it felt like an intimate experience. Bodies pressed against his, most of them men. Maybe it was the buzz he had on, but he found that he didn’t mind. It felt like being a part of something and he liked that. Being the one usually on stage had robbed this feeling from him, and he wondered why he had ever stopped really being a fan like this. Gavin and Conor went to see bands all the time, he knew. But he had stopped joining in on their explorations years ago. Now that he thought about it, he realized he’d stopped when he and Celia got serious and she started to set the rules for how he should behave. Going out with the boys was rarely allowed, even when he was on tour. She expected him to be reachable in his hotel room most nights.
“Martin Whelan?”
The question was shouted into his ear and he turned to find a young woman grinning at him. She was a brunette with big blue eyes, wore a tank top with no bra, short skirt, and had lust in her eyes. But her vocal recognition of him triggered a response all around them and soon people were crowding closer to him, slapping him on the back and calling his name. She reached out with a yelp when others started to push her away, and Martin grabbed her instinctively. He pulled her to him, holding her familiarly, and she held him in return.
“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning close to her to be heard. She was cute. She could be just what he needed right now.
“Ava!” she replied, excitedly.
“Happy to meet you, Ava.”
“How happy?” she asked and slid her hand down to his crotch.
Jesus, that was easy. He took her hand and pulled her through the crowd, finding the dark hallway that led to the restrooms. It was empty with the crowd being hyped up for the live band. She didn’t even wait for him to press her up against the wall before she started kissing him.
“You are so gorgeous,” she told him in between devouring his mouth with hers. “I always liked you best, but now I can’t even take how sexy you are.”
Why did they always want to talk? Martin wondered if that’s what all women—all women besides Celia—did. He kissed her deeply to keep her quiet and tasted the god-awful flavor of Jägermeister mixed with cigarettes. Maybe that wasn’t the answer. He instead leaned down and kissed her neck, squeezing her breasts as he did so. They were small and her nipples were hard points. As with Ashley, exploring a body new to him was the biggest turn-on.
In return, she pressed her body to his, squeezing his backside. He let one hand fall to her hip, curious to see if she was as ready to go as she seemed. Trailing his fingers downward, he reached under her skirt. She responded by spreading her legs for him. It was all the invitation he needed to slip his hand between her thighs. The fabric there was warm and damp and made him hard. She placed both hands over his crotch, rubbing him impatiently.
“Oh, I want you to fuck me so bad,” she said.
Before Martin could respond, he felt a hand clap him firmly on the shoulder. He straightened up and turned to see Conor.
“Take it somewhere private, man,” he said with a knowing smile.
Martin had an uncomfortable vision of taking this stranger to his home. Fucking her in the bed he had slept in with Celia was not a sexy thought.
“The toilets, Marty,” Conor said, his eyebrows raised.
Conor was looking at him like he was dumb. And maybe he was. Maybe he was stupid to have done everything he had to get to this point. The point where he had lost his wife and was poised to see his kids half the time if he was lucky. But this was his reality and there was no turning back now. That being the case, he was going to enjoy everything and every fuck he could.
“You can join us,” Ava said, putting a hand on Conor’s chest.
Martin laughed out loud. But the suggestion lingered in his mind for a second too long, including the image of Conor’s shirt completely unbuttoned along with open jeans that barely contain his bulge. It was so brief, but so specific, that Martin had to blink a few times to rid himself of it.
Conor smiled pityingly at Ava as he removed her hand. As if Conor Quinn would lower himself to shag a groupie. He hadn’t done that since he was nineteen years old. Since then it had been nothing but the most beautiful women in the world. Martin had no such standards, at least not at the moment, when he knew the woman in front of him was a sure thing.
“You two have fun,” Conor told her. “I’ve got some place to be.” As he was turning away, he leaned toward Martin, telling him, “Be sure to use what I gave you.”
It took a beat for Martin to understand what Conor meant.
“Wrap it up, Marty,” Conor urged. His tone was that of a big brother. He had no qualms about Martin continuing to cheat on his marriage. He just wanted him to be safe about it. And then he walked away.
“The Ladies will be empty,” Ava said, pulling him by the hand. He went with her, getting lost in the moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Rogue Bassist Caught a Whe-lan Again! Northsider Groupie Spills All the Details of Their Tryst!”
Danny Boy saw the tabloid headline during his morning walk with his dog, Roscoe, and it made him laugh out loud. He bought a copy, folded it under his arm, and kept walking.
Back at his brother Shay’s house, Danny Boy refreshed Roscoe’s water dish, made himself a cup of tea with buttered toast, and sat down to read the intriguing article.
Laughing at some of the colorful language, including the description of Martin being the “proud owner of the fifth member of Rogue, as it is reportedly large enough to take up room on stage with the lads,” Danny Boy shook his head in wonder.
No stranger to controversy himself where the band was concerned, Danny Boy never pegged Martin Whelan to be the next one of them to fall from grace. But so he had. Twice. At least they were both sex scandals and nothing to do with theft or drugs like his escapades had been.
Danny Boy had kept those issues at bay for a long time now, due in large part to his commitment to working for the band. He had rejoined Rogue on tour when they returned to the road after an unexpected break. That break being Shay’s wrist, as a point of fact. Danny Boy had been to blame for that, but he was convinced it all worked to Shay’s benefit as it was during the hiatus that he reunited with his girlfriend, Jessica. And now the two were living together in San Francisco, and Danny Boy was ostensibly house-sitting for his brother here in Dublin.
Though minding the house had been offered as something temporary, it would likely be more than that. Danny Boy had settled into the home and the neighborhood with surprising ease. The comfort he felt in the posh neighborhood was due, in large part, to his mutt being his constant companion. Neighbors he had never spoken to before struck up conversation with him because of Roscoe. The dog was a charmer, that was for sure.
Danny Boy had been adopted by Roscoe in the streets of Seoul. He’d gone out wandering in the early hours of the morning, trying to shake the desire to get high. With two and a half months of sobriety under his belt, he had been doing well. Learning the trade of stage lighting was a great way to focus, and being a part of something was satisfying. But as was the pattern of his life, it was only so long before he felt compelled to ditch it all and sink into the oblivion of heroin. This was accompanied, of course, by the relentless noise in his head that he couldn’t shake. It was the noise that had been overwhelming him since he was a kid—a steady cycle of self-doubt and self-hatred, and a conviction that he was worthless. The only solution he had ever found for this was heroin. When the noise got too loud, he escaped with the drug. It had been this way for going on twenty years now. And he surely would have found the fix he was craving that morning if Roscoe hadn’t started following him.
At first, Danny Boy eyed the medium-sized brown dog with suspicion. Being in an unfamiliar country, he had no idea what a stray dog like that would be capable of. But Roscoe quickly showed himself to be not only friendly, but also clever. This was on display when the dog circled Danny Boy and leaned in to nip his shoelaces.
“Aye!” Danny Boy told him, kicking out.
Undeterred, the dog did the same thing until Danny Boy’s shoelaces were undone.
“Well, thanks very much, you odd dog,” Danny Boy muttered.
Sitting on the curb so he could tie up his laces, Danny Boy felt the dog nudge his wet nose against his armpit.
“What is it?”
Perplexed, Danny Boy raised his arm, creating the space the dog had obviously craved because suddenly the animal was leaning against his torso as if they were best pals. Danny Boy looked down at the dog and got an open-mouthed, panting smile in return.
“You move fast, don’t you?” he asked and was rewarded with the dog cocking his head quizzically. The dog’s eyes were soulful. Danny Boy recognized something of himself in the gaze. It was a mixture of hardship and fortitude.
Tentatively, Danny Boy ran his hand over the animal’s flank. The ribcage was prominent, undernourished.
But he wasn’t Danny Boy’s problem. He had enough to worry about just getting himself through the day. Dealing with another being’s issues wasn’t in his wheelhouse and hadn’t been in a more years than he cared to remember.
“It’s a good move, I’ll grant you that,” he said. The dog leaned against him heavier. “Better luck with the next sucker, yeah?” He stood, gave the dog a rough rub on the head and walked on.
The dog kept pace with Danny Boy as he went, though. He tried to shake it by turning quickly around corners, and when that didn’t work, he stopped at a McDonald’s and treated himself to breakfast
. But Roscoe, as he would name him, sat dutifully outside waiting. When Danny Boy saw that the dog was still there, he went right back inside and ordered more food to go.
Sitting on the curb, he felt Roscoe nudge his armpit and this time he gave him a welcoming arm. He unwrapped the sausage biscuit he’d bought and set it on the cement. Roscoe sniffed it with wise suspicion.
“Go on, odd dog,” Danny Boy said.
Roscoe whimpered, pawed the offering, and then devoured it.
“Listen, you. I think you’re probably the coolest dog I’ve ever met. But I can’t have a dog.” This declaration was met with a crotch sniff and a paw on his thigh. “You don’t get it. All I can give you is that MacD’s. I’m off now. Don’t follow me.”
But Roscoe did follow him and even tried the shoelaces trick again. Danny Boy wasn’t amused this time. He wanted to be rid of the dog, rid of the responsibility it not only represented but was demanding.
“Just fuck off, will you?” he shouted and pushed the dog away with his foot.
The look of hurt—emotional, not physical—in Roscoe’s eyes was so naked that it made Danny Boy stop short. Inexplicably, tears came to his own eyes. He felt a rush of emotion he couldn’t decipher. Rubbing hard at the back of his head, he tried to shake off his confusion.
Roscoe circled him and then sat by his side. After a moment, he leaned into Danny Boy’s leg. The warmth and persistence of this stray dog had a profound and surprising effect on him. He dropped to his knees and gratefully accepted face licks.
The two were inseparable after that. Danny Boy took on the responsibility of having the dog, but found what he gained was a genuine friendship. They went everywhere together, without need for a leash, and without regard for whether animals were allowed. Danny Boy and Roscoe were a package deal. The constant companionship was something Danny Boy didn’t realize he needed, but more than anything, having Roscoe around gave him one more incentive to stay clean.
Now, Roscoe sat at Danny Boy’s feet under the kitchen table in Shay’s house, patiently waiting for the bread crusts he knew were sure to come.
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