I didn’t go to an NA meeting, either. Instead, I picked up take-away curry and went home.
Shay was a bachelor for most of his life, but somewhere along the way he bought an ivy-covered brick, two-story, detached house with five bedrooms and a wrought-iron gate outside and had it professionally decorated. The kid did okay. It’s masculine without being a bro-haven, and it’s put together without sacrificing comfort. It’s too big, though, which only intensifies the solitude I feel there.
Last night, Roscoe and I puttered around, then played darts before settling in to watch Fair City, purely to mock the melodramatic storylines of the soap opera that’s almost as old as I am. But then I got caught up in it and sat glued to the screen like an idiot until the end. I spent the next hour doing a web search on one of the actresses from the show, Sondra Delaney. She wasn’t the youngest thing on the screen, but she was blonde, cute, and had a great rack. Imagine my disappointment when I found out she had once been “linked” to Conor Quinn, Mr. Perfect himself. She didn’t quite have the same allure after knowing Quinn had been there first. Still, there were enough photos on the web of her in low-cut blouses for me to get the release I needed in order to finally fall asleep.
I dreamt I was in a church, watching a wedding. At first, I thought I was there to witness Shay and his girl Jessica do the deed. But then it became clear that the groom was Conor and the bride was Sondra. Only, they weren’t them. They were playing characters like they were the stars of Fair City. Halfway through the ceremony, it started to rain. Not outside like you’d think, but inside the church. It didn’t bother anyone. We all just kept up the wedding charade as the water came down in steady drops.
There’s a sharp tapping at my driver’s side window and I start awake. I’ve dozed off and am disoriented for a few seconds. Was I recalling last night’s dream or was I dreaming it all over again? I’m in the Porsche. Roscoe is whimpering, caught up in something outside the car. The rain has let up.
Then the tapping again and I turn, braced to see a park warden or a garda trying to chase me away.
Instead, I see Jules. She’s standing outside with the towel I lent her rolled up under her arm.
“Do you want it back or not?” she asks impatiently.
* * *
I get out and our dogs reacquaint themselves with the sniffing routine while I stretch out the kinks from my unexpected nap.
“Wasn’t sure I’d see you ‘round here again,” Jules says.
“And why not?” I ask with a sniff. “It’s our park now, too.” My back’s up in anticipation of more hassle over being a Southsider, but she surprises me by going in another direction.
“Well? Care to get out in it, then?”
I eye her for a beat, trying to see if she’s fucking with me. The paint splatters on her hands are fainter and fewer. She’s wearing a loose gray jumper on top of overalls and has a simple barrette pulling her hair away from her face. Her expression is guileless.
Tossing the towel in the car, I close the door and lock it up.
“Yeah, let’s do.”
We start off the same way as the day before but at a crucial point, head right instead of left to go in the opposite direction from the duck pond.
“So, do you make a habit of sleeping in car parks?” she asks.
“Not usually, no.” I leave it at that. I’ve never been prone to embarrassment over such things. If I allowed that, I’d never stop the scarlet from coming to my face with all the stupid things I’ve done.
“That’s good. I’d have to reassess our park meetups if so.”
“What, are you saying you’ll overlook my being a ‘poncy Southsider’?” I ask with a laugh.
She stops walking and after half a step, I do too.
“Listen, I may have laid it on a bit thick yesterday. I don’t even know why it came out like that. I really don’t care where you’re from. It makes no difference to me.”
“You’re sure about that, are you?” I don’t believe her for a minute. She and I both had too big of a response for it to have fizzled out this easily. Hell, I made a fool of myself rushing in for an emergency therapy appointment. It had to have come from somewhere real.
“You’d do well for yourself to accept what I’m willing to give you, Danny Boy. For fuck’s sake, I don’t even know you.”
That makes me laugh and I stare at her with a lingering smile. I’m definitely intrigued by her, though in the back of my mind I’m still wary of her reaction when I mentioned Rogue. There’s something there that I need to sort out. I may have no qualms about using my baby brother’s fame and wealth to my advantage, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone else do the same.
“Right you are,” I say.” What can I tell you about myself, then?”
“Let’s just have a walk. No need to get into it, yeah?”
“Yes, of course.”
We continue on and the silence between us is comfortable. Even though I know it would be wise to follow her lead, I can’t go for more than a few minutes without speaking. It’s a lifelong condition. I get antsy. I pick at my cuticles. My leg bounces when I’m sitting. I’m just not one for letting things lie.
“So, I had a thought. A lead on a painting job if you’re keen for one,” I tell her. “It’s an office, like, so not house painting, but it is in a sad state of affairs. The ugliest, drabbest green you’ve ever seen. Thought you could spruce it up.”
She glances at me skeptically. “This would be your office?”
“No, not mine. My therapist’s. It needs a cheerful coat of something.”
“Your therapist?”
I can see her stifle a laugh at my expense, but I don’t care if she knows I’m seeing Ms. Patterson.
“Yeah. Started up with her for my brother’s sake. But I think I actually like her.”
“And she’s asked you to arrange a paint job for her office?”
“Nah, that’s all me. Can’t imagine she’d say no to it.”
Jules’ eyebrows bounce in amusement. “Well, I wish you luck on that, but I’m not a house painter. Or office painter.”
“Well, then why in bleeding hell do you have paint all over you?” I blurt out, feeling like she had somehow led me astray.
She stops walking once more and I follow suit. “You really have a limited imagination, don’t you?”
“Then you’re an artist, is that it?” I should have known. It seems everyone has a hidden talent they simply must explore.
“Something like that.”
“Why all the mystery, Jules? Not proud of your work?” I’m teasing but also not. Her evasiveness is getting annoying. What’s the point of sharing a walk if she won’t share anything about herself? Might as well part ways if that’s how it’s going to be.
“No, that’s not it.”
“Well?”
“It’s just not something I usually share with men. It’s more of a woman thing.”
That intrigues me and before I can stop, I say, “A lesbian thing, is it? Didn’t peg you for that but doesn’t bother me.”
She laughs. “You remind me a little of someone, you know?”
“Someone brilliant, charming, and handsome, I suppose?”
“He was, but what I’m reminded more of was his lack of filter. He’d say things without always thinking them through like you seem to.”
“Gotta live on the edge somehow, don’t I?”
“Is that as wild as you get?”
“Now that I’m done with heroin, it is.”
She blinks at that. There’s no good way to tell someone you’ve been a heroin addict, so might as well just throw it out there and let the chips fall where they may.
“You’re clean now?”
“Have been for almost a year. Spook you?”
“It’d take a lot more than that, Danny Boy.”
“Seen it all, have you?”
“Enough, anyway.”
I nod, and we continue walking. The easy banter falls away to silence but
has left its mark on me. It feels incredible to get on so well with someone, but I realize she still hasn’t shared much.
“Maybe you should tell me a little something more about yourself?” I ask. “So we’ve both got a bit of exposure, like?”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Something personal, though. Something on the level of what I just told you.”
She contemplates this for a moment before a smile turns the corners of her mouth up. “Okay. How about this: I’ve fucked Gavin McManus.”
8
I can’t bloody believe it. She one-upped me.
“Recently?” I ask. The idea that Gavin has ever fucked anyone other than his “great love” Sophie is incomprehensible. The sap has made a career out of songs mooning over her.
“No, not recently,” she says with a sigh.
I think she’s disappointed I haven’t fallen over in shock. Thing is, there’s not a lot in this world that would truly shock me. I’ve seen too much shit during my years of running from one party crowd to another. See, I wasn’t your stereotypical junkie living destitute in drug dens. No, I tended to make “friends” with people who had money—trust fund kids, stock market bros, actors, musicians, and the like—who wanted to play a too little close to the line. I was their good time guy who knew the tricks of the trade, like how to heat the H on the spoon and inject it just right. These so-called friends felt safer doing hardcore drugs with me because I made it seem so easy and harmless, and in return I got a free ride. But there was always a time when I knew I’d overstayed my welcome and had to move on.
Of course, it wasn’t always the glamorous life. I’ve experienced the need so deep that I did just about anything to satisfy it, including taking the needle from someone’s arm after they’ve passed out with their high just in case there was enough of the stuff left to at least stave off my itch. I’ve spent plenty of time in neighborhoods most people can’t even fathom. The depth of poverty and hopelessness in those areas is the drug pusher’s dream. That’s the easiest place to find a fix. It’s also an easy place to get roughed up for no reason other than you had the nerve to make passing eye contact. I’m no fighter but being strung out will give you enough urgency to at least put up a defense. I was once losing in a scrape against some fella looking to release his frustrations with the world on me when a prostitute no more than twelve years old stopped to see if either of us was up for a go. The guy beating up on me saw fit to release me and go with her.
You’d think shit like that might make you reevaluate your choices in life, but when you’re hooked, there’s not a lot of passing judgment—on yourself or others. We were all just getting by, trying to drown the voices in our heads.
Which should give me some sympathy for Gavin given he has had his own struggles, but when I look at him I just don’t see someone damaged. He’s lived a privileged life for so many years, had Sophie in his corner, and seen unparalleled success with his band. On top of all that, it seems he’s also had the pleasure of being intimate with my new friend, Jules.
Then it clicks in my head why she had that reaction yesterday when I told her about Shay being in Rogue. It wasn’t some fond memory of having been a fan back in the day, it was the fact that she has history with McManus. It makes me wonder at her motives for being friendly today.
“You still in touch with him, then?” I ask.
“No. We had a . . . falling out years back.”
“What kind of drama was that?”
Jules laughs. “The Sophie sort. We were together for a while. Then he went and got engaged to her. Still, we kept our friendship for years after that. Then, he dropped me when he was separated from her. Haven’t spoken to him since.”
“And now you’ve come upon me. Am I to be your ticket back into Gavin’s world? Is that what this is?”
“Oh fuck off, Danny Boy,” she says dismissively. She quickens her pace.
“Just a simple question, love. I’m not presuming anything. Go ahead and set me straight,” I tell her as I match her gait. “Go ahead and tell me you came to the park on a rainy day all so you could return a fucking towel to me. I’ll believe it if that’s what you want. I really don’t fucking care.”
Once more, she stops abruptly and turns to me. “I came here on a rainy fucking day to walk my dog. What were you after? Sleeping in your car and waiting for what? For me, yeah? Why? So you could interrogate me about Gavin McManus?”
“I’m not the one who brought him up, for fuck’s sake.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
“I’m not asking anything of you. I don’t even—”
Before I can register it, she grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls me to her, pressing her mouth to mine. My confusion at her abrupt change from anger to seduction quickly dissolves as our lips part in unison, tongues desperately exploring each other. I wrap one arm around her slim waist and slide my other hand through her hair. She smells amazing. It’s something floral, clean. Her lips are incredibly soft and warm. I’m lost in her.
And she’s a ball of need, pushing herself against me and kissing me like I’m the man she’s been waiting for all her life. Only, I know I’m not that. She knows I’m not that either. It doesn’t matter to either of us, though, because in this odd, random connection, we’re each getting something. I don’t dare to question it. It feels too fucking good to be touched and wanted by another human that’s not just a mindless drunken hookup. It’s been too long since I’ve had this feeling. I haven’t allowed myself to really desire another person in years, convinced that the sentiment couldn’t possibly be returned since I’m such a fuckup.
She pulls away to catch her breath.
I don’t give her a chance, pulling her back to me, holding her face in my hands as I kiss her like it’s the last kiss we’ll ever share. For all I know, it will be. This unexpected snog has no chance of lasting. She’ll come to her senses any moment, and she and her dog will run off, never to return to this park just to avoid me. I know it with every fiber of my being, even though she continues to kiss me fiercely. Her hands are on my lower back, pulling me closer to her. She must feel my cock hard against her belly, but still she doesn’t stop.
I’m vaguely aware of Roscoe leaning against my leg. For the first time since I found him in the streets, he’s not my primary concern.
“My place,” Jules says, “it’s not far.”
That tingle I felt yesterday when she was teasing me about being brave enough to come back to the Northside returns. This time, though, it’s got a whole other subtext.
“Let’s go,” I say.
9
We don’t talk as we head toward the car park. Rather, we walk, stop and kiss, and then walk some more. It’s not the fastest way to go, but who the fuck cares? We’ve found some sort of insatiable connection here and it’s demanding to be indulged.
When we get to our cars, she tells me to follow her and I nod, silently praying she’s not going to ditch me somewhere along the way.
“What do you say, Roscoe?” I ask as we drive. “You think this will keep on or will she back out?”
Roscoe just eyes me and I pat him on the head.
Jules wasn’t kidding about living close by. She’s a seven-minute drive to an attached red-doored home in Howth. She slides right into street parking but Roscoe and I spend a few minutes searching for a spot with enough room not to endanger the Porsche.
“This is it, buddy,” I tell Roscoe as we make for Jules’ place.
I’m fucking nervous. Like I haven’t been in I don’t know how long. At least as far as being with a woman is concerned. I’ve had the stray one-nighter here and there, but this feels like something different. Not only because I like Jules, but because it feels dangerous. There’s more to her motives with me than I fully understand. It may have to do with McManus or it may be something else. What I do know is I’m not going to let any of that stop me.
The red door is open a few inches. I take that as the cue th
at it is and Roscoe and I enter. The house is small, but the bright white paint job makes it feel open. Roscoe finds Molly straight ahead in an enclosed patio, past the kitchen/dining room combo and adjoining living area. He helps himself to her water bowl. The furniture and decor are minimal. I’m accustomed to more space after staying in Shay’s big house. This place is definitely meant for a single person.
I hear music down the hall to the left and follow it. There are two closed doors, but the last one is open and is where the sound is coming from. I can’t identify the music. It’s something atmospheric rather than melodic. At the door frame, I stop and peer in. The lighting is a soft glow. Two of the walls are covered in mirrors. There is a paint drop cloth covering the entirety of the floor. Photography equipment is staged in a corner. A black padded massage table sits in the center of the room.
Jules has discarded her jumper and is leaning against the table. She’s got on the overalls I noted before, but with nothing underneath. A striking tattoo of flowers in vivid greens, blues, and fuchsia forms a sleeve on her left arm. Her right shoulder is covered with a black and white lotus flower. Her skin is otherwise smooth and white, the swell of her breasts exposed through the arm holes of the overalls. She makes that ridiculous garment look good.
“Nice place,” I say and take a step toward her.
“It’s no Southside mansion, but I like it,” she replies with a wink.
I move closer to her and she watches me with a heated gaze. There’s no confusion about what’s about to happen between us. We both know what this is, and the anticipation is delicious.
“This your workspace?” There’s a neat row of small bottles of paint, brushes, and other equipment along one wall. I don’t see any canvases or easels, though. Nothing is displayed on the walls that aren’t covered with mirrors.
“It is.”
I still don’t know what her work is, but I lose interest in finding out when she leans her hands on the table behind her and in turn her chest thrusts forward. There isn’t much fabric covering that chest and I reach out to unclasp her overalls. Though this move is abrupt and completely lacking in seductive finesse, she doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she catches her breath as my fingers take hold of the metal hooks. She wants this. She wants me. Her desire radiates off of her and I freeze.
Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5) Page 4