Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5)

by Lara Ward Cosio

  That gets another laugh out of him. “I’ll tell you, I quite like being the boring one. But I won’t cop to being old. I was just tired from a rough night.”

  “Everything okay?”

  He hesitates, which is unusual. Jules was on to something when she said I reminded her of Gavin. Neither of us speak with a filter. Gavin does the same thing in his song lyrics. He’s always had the charm to take the edge off the brutal honesty that comes from this. That’s where he and I differ. My takes are usually just seen as offensive.

  “Yeah, it’s all grand now,” he finally says. “It was something that got me called down to Rosslare. I didn’t get home until late, so I’ve been catching up on sleep.”

  With that, he puts an end to the explanation by picking up his mug of tea and taking a sip. He’s in an oddly introspective mood and I question whether I should move forward with my plan. That better judgment doesn’t last long, though. It never does.

  “So, I’ve come ‘round to get your impression on something,” I say. “Or, someone, really.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “A friend of yours from back in the day. A woman named Jules O’Flaherty.”

  Gavin seems slow to register the name. It must be the lack of sleep. But now that I really look at him, I see he’s more than just tired. There’s an uncommon weariness about him that I suspect he brought back with him from Rosslare.

  “You do know her?” I prod.

  It takes one more beat, but finally, he clears his throat, drinks more tea, and nods. “Yeah, but haven’t had any real contact with her in years. What’s the story?”

  “That’s what I came to ask you. See, I met her the other day and it came up that she knew you. I’m curious if there’s anything I should know about her.”

  “Jules . . . what can I tell you about Jules? Well, she’s a true tough Northside girl, for one.” He laughs softly, staring out at the sea view for a moment, lost in thought.

  “You had a thing with her? Like, you were with her?”

  “Eh, yeah. Once upon a time.”

  “Before Sophie?”

  “Yes, before Sophie and I got back together for good. Jules was a singer, coming up at the same time as us. Had a good voice but didn’t really have the will to stick with it. She wanted success but not all the bullshit that goes into getting it.”

  Jules’ musical ambition—or lack thereof—is less important to me than what I ask next. “Why didn’t you two make it?”

  “Make it?” Gavin gives me a perplexed face before sorting it out. “Oh, you mean as a couple? I dunno.” He rubs his face roughly, fighting off a yawn. “We were just having a good time, I thought. Being young and pursuing music and all that. I never fell in love. She might have. But then we went our separate ways—her to tour Europe and us to tour America. That’s when I reconnected with Sophie, and I never looked back.”

  “How’d she take that?”

  “Not well at first. But pretty quickly she realized Sophie wasn’t going anywhere. We got back into friend mode. She was around at parties and hanging out in the studio when we recorded. It was fine.”

  That sounds so inconsequential. But based on the number of times Jules has brought up Gavin’s name since I met her, I know there’s more to it.

  “What else, though?” I ask. “Is there more to your history?”

  After a moment of contemplation, Gavin laughs and says, “Well, there was the one time she almost got me divorced.”

  “What was that about?”

  Gavin goes on to tell me that though he and Jules reestablished their friendship after he and Sophie were reunited, Jules always seemed to be angling to make it into something more. That included the time she stayed the night at Gavin’s place when Sophie was out of town. Sophie had been doing a Sports Illustrated photoshoot at some far flung tropical location, which delayed her getting back to Dublin. Gavin admits he was angry that she had changed their plans of a reunion since it had been weeks since they’d been together. So, when Jules showed up at his house, he was ready for her company—even a little eager for the opportunity to make Sophie jealous.

  “We were still young,” Gavin explains. Then he laughs. “Or at least young enough. I was aiming to hurt Sophie without really committing any sin. And Jules was game. There’s no doubt in my mind she would have helped me cheat on Sophie. But it didn’t happen. We just stayed up most the night listening to music and smoking weed and drinking. I fell asleep sitting on the floor up against the sofa. When I woke, Jules had curled up next to me, her head on my chest. And her hand on my cock.”

  At this, I look away from Gavin and around the open floorplan of the house. Never one to hold back out of any sense of decorum, I now find myself in the unusual position of worrying what effect Gavin’s words might have on someone else. But Sophie is nowhere to be found and I relax a degree.

  “This stuff—Sophie doesn’t know it,” Gavin said. “She doesn’t know that Jules tried to fuck me that morning. Or that I shut it down and we each cooled off with a shower. In separate bathrooms. What Sophie knows is that when she came home not long after that, Jules was in our kitchen cooking me breakfast as if we had just been shagging all morning. My brilliant idea to make Sophie jealous worked and nearly fucked everything up. It would take a whole lot more down the line to really tear us apart, but we survived that episode.”

  I’m not quite sure what to say about this revelation.

  “So, why did I tell you this intimate thing, you wonder?” Gavin asks with a wry smile. “Because you asked me what you should know about Jules. I have plenty of other stories—other times when she was happy to insert herself between me and Sophie, times when she latched onto Rogue’s success, times when she fed me coke as I was trying to quit.” He stops and takes a breath before leaning forward against the table and looking me in the eyes. There’s focus in his expression now. “It all comes down to this: she’s an opportunist. She’ll always do what’s good for her. So, watch your fucking back.”

  15

  This warning surprises me. Not because I had dismissed all such thoughts about Jules, but because Gavin is so firm in the declaration. He’s not known to drop friends easily. Hell, he’s still best friends with Conor Quinn, even after Quinn had an affair with Sophie. So, for Gavin to disavow Jules is something.

  I want to ask a million questions, but Daisy has woken from her nap and is taking drunken steps toward us, her blonde hair a bed-head scramble. Sophie trails behind her, letting the kid be independent but still close enough to catch her if she falls.

  When Gavin see his daughter, his blue eyes widen and light up. The smile on his face is pure joy and almost changes my mind about not wanting kids. I’ve never had that desire. And even if I did, I’d probably still choose not to have kids. Not when I know how easy it is to fuck them up, which I’d surely do.

  Gavin gets up and meets Daisy halfway, encouraging her to keep walking. She lets out a squeal and moves faster when he goes down onto his knees. Soon, she’s flying into his waiting arms.

  I’m no stranger to intruding upon others’ domestic bliss—doing so is what got me and Shay those decent meal from our neighbors a few times a week when we were kids—but I figure I can’t talk to Gavin about what I really want to with his wife and daughter in the mix, and so Roscoe and I take off.

  Before I go, however, I extract from Gavin the promise not to tell Shay about this. I argue that even though there’s nothing there with Jules, that wouldn’t stop Shay from worrying about it. Thankfully, Gavin agrees that there’s no need to stir things up for the kid.

  I find myself doing as Shay does when he’s got something on his mind: driving.

  I’ve never been into cars, but the Porsche is a fun machine. It responds to the slightest maneuvering, making you feel like you’re powerful and in full control. Must be why Shay likes these things so much. As kids, we had zero control over our lives. We were just fighting for survival.

  My directionless driving takes
us east on M50 before turning southward onto N81. The day is still gorgeous, even as I’ve traded Gavin’s sea view for the rural countryside of County Wicklow. I pull through the town of Blessington and figure it’s a good time for a pint. Murphy’s Pub right on Main Street does the trick.

  I seem to have hit the old folks’ hour as there’s a group of white-haired gents taking up the far side of the bar. They’re arguing amongst themselves over which horse to bet on. A race is being broadcast up on one of the three large plasmas on the wall. It’s an off time, so it’s just me and Roscoe, the bartender, and the old fellas who pay us no mind. Taking a bar stool a few seats from them, I nod to the barman. He’s got a mop of curly brown hair graying at the temples and the combination of a protruding belly and skinny legs that seems to afflict certain middle-aged men.

  “You bringing that dog in with you?” the barman asks.

  “My therapy animal,” I reply reflexively. It might as well be true. Roscoe has become an indispensable part of my life. I’ve just never done any paperwork to prove his value in that regard to others.

  The barman seems to consider challenging me on this, but it doesn’t last long. His easygoing nature, the thing that’s probably made him great at his job for a good number of years, wins out. He shrugs to himself and asks, “What’ll it be?”

  “Pint.”

  “Guinness?”

  “Is there anything else as fine on God’s green earth?”

  He tsks in agreement and sets about the long pour in the proper fashion. It’ll be ready for me in a few minutes time.

  “You here for a drive around the Blessington Lake?” he asks.

  “The what?”

  The barman goes on to tell me I’ve stumbled upon one of the hidden glories of not just County Wicklow, but all of Ireland. In fact, famed Irish writer Brendan Behan called it the “jewel of Wicklow.” The lake is really a reservoir and has fifty miles of shoreline. The drive around it promises not just views of the water, but of pristine mountainscapes. The barman proudly boasts of the fact that many a film and television show has been produced in this very town, centering on the breathtaking lake and surrounding picturesque villages.

  After almost five minutes of this gushing, I say, “For god’s sake, do you work for the Irish Tourism Board or what? Can’t you just listen to my troubles like a normal barman?”

  The fellow laughs ruefully. “I do get excited, especially with the weather so fair. Brings out the poet in me, I suppose.” He takes a moment to finish pouring my Guinness before setting it in front me. He then leans his forearm against the end of the bar and gives me his full attention. “Tell me your troubles, son.”

  “Well, it can’t be like that. It’s supposed to flow natural like. You’re not my fucking priest, are you?”

  The barman sighs in agreement rather than frustration. “Right you are. Let me just check on the fellas at the end there and I’ll be back.”

  I take a good long pull on the Guinness and it goes down lovely as can be. And I wonder what Jules is doing all alone where I left her in Shay’s house.

  16

  Jules’ declaration that we were some kind of magic match for each other because we are both fucked up had left me speechless. I’m aware enough to understand I’ve always been attracted to women who have their own issues but being called out on it so blatantly threw me. She was bluntly suggesting we acknowledge our shortcomings and that that acceptance of one another would be something unique we could get from no one else.

  My answer had been no answer at all. Instead, I pulled her to me and kissed her with such intensity and desperation that I was close to tears over the torturous feeling of it. That didn’t stop me, of course, from fucking her right there in the sitting room. And then again upstairs in my room. And finally, once again in the Man Cave after spending a good part of the night drinking Jameson, playing snooker, and trying to keep her off Shay’s drum kit.

  I left her sleeping on the sofa in order to go talk to Gavin.

  I laugh softly to myself sitting here in this pub thinking of the fact that she still doesn’t have my cell number. There was no reason to exchange numbers when we were naked in each other’s company.

  “Another, then?” the barman asks with a nod toward my nearly empty pint glass.

  “Ay.”

  While waiting for the Guinness to settle, the barman takes another stab at being the kind of sounding board people in his profession usually are.

  “And so, what brings you our way?” he asks.

  “Just out for a drive. Needed to clear my head a bit,” I admit.

  “Let me guess—problems to do with the female persuasion?”

  “You could say that. It’s complicated.”

  “I’ve heard all kind of things in my day. Give me a try.”

  “How about this one: the girl I’m sleeping with used to be with a mate of mine. That mate just told me the girl is trouble. She seems like no more trouble that the average person. But do I take his word and move on? Or do I stick it out and see for myself, whatever the consequences?”

  The barman lets out a low whistle as he ponders my predicament. “Well, the expression ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ came about for a reason. Unless this girl is your one? Like the song goes?”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. The man is quoting a Rogue song to me. “You’re My One” was their runaway smash hit off their second album. It propelled them to worldwide fame. It was so big they could have quit and lived happily off the royalties of that one song. That’s great for them, but it’s meant that the song has become a cultural fixture. You still hear it at least once a day on the radio in the shops. And yokes like this barman quote it as if it’s some sort of Shakespearean sonnet.

  Just to grate on my nerves even more, the barman starts humming the song before launching into a passionate rendering of the lyrics, “My heart, that feral bird, has found the sky in your eyes.”

  “Ah, I just love that part. Speaks to my love of nature and my love of love,” the barman says.

  “Fuck’s sake, man,” I tell him. “Get it together. I’m not in love with this woman. I’m only trying to figure out if I should even give it a chance.”

  “Always give love a chance, that’s what I say.”

  I suspect this guy’s lady gave him a wake-up blowjob this morning but stop myself from saying so. No one has the right to be this happy, this positively giddy, over the mere idea of love.

  “Thanks very much,” I say. When he finally passes me my second pint, I turn away enough to give him the hint that I’m done asking for his advice.

  After the barman’s sales pitch, there’s no way I can’t do the drive around the lake. Roscoe and I make the journey, stopping where possible at inlets and chatting with fisherman on a catch and release mission for coarse and pike. It’s as stunning as advertised. And peaceful, too. It gives me the space to think through what I want with Jules.

  What I realize is that the warning I got about her is the exact type of thing someone would say of me. Meaning, Jules is right. We’re both fucked up. And we’ll be judged for that by anyone who knows us. So, why not see what we can be together?

  And if that ends up being trouble, well, it won’t be the first time.

  17

  Jules is nowhere to be found when Roscoe and I get back to the house. And because I’m a dope and don’t have her cell number either, we get back into the car and head to her place.

  I spot her car out front and hear music inside, so I know she’s home. But she doesn’t answer my knock. Being a persistent bastard, I keep up with the tapping until she’s forced to come to the door. She’s just out of the shower with wet hair and in a robe, looking exasperated.

  “Danny Boy, what do you want?”

  “Ah, no. That’s not the game we’re playing, love,” I tell her as Roscoe and I head inside. Roscoe makes for Molly—and her food dish—out in the patio.

  Resigned, Jules shuts the door, folds her arms across her chest, and stares
at me.

  “You came ‘round to my place last night unannounced with a bit of a proposition. I never did answer you, though, did I?”

  She cocks her head and does her best to act disinterested. This tells me she’s none too pleased that I ditched her earlier. I hadn’t expected to be gone for quite as long as I was, but I know that excuse won’t help me here.

  “Problem is, you were too fucking sexy for me to keep my hands to myself,” I say, hoping to win her over with flattery.

  “Get to your point,” she says, clearly unimpressed.

  “My point, Jules, is that I think you’re right about us. About who we are and what we can get from each other. So, yeah. Let’s be fucked up together and see how it goes.”

  There’s a smile at her lips that she’s trying to hold back. But it disappears once I keep talking.

  “Just one condition.”

  “Oh, there’s a condition?”

  “Let this be about us. I don’t want to hear Gavin fucking McManus’ name from you again.”

  She lifts her chin and straightens her back. For a moment I think she’s going to argue against this. But then she goes in the opposite direction and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Perfectly fine with me,” she says.

  So, there it is. We’ve decided to . . . what? Be in a relationship? Neither of us really has the answer to that. This grand little moment of me showing up to say we should be together suddenly turns awkward as we watch each other expectantly.

  “Well,” I start but say no more.

  “Em, yeah. Right,” she agrees.

  After a pause, we both laugh.

  “Drink?” she asks.

  And so it begins. This is how we will ease into our fucked-up connection.

  “Let’s do,” I say and watch as she moves toward the kitchen.

  This reliance on drink feels all too familiar. This is all I’ve ever done with women. Usually it jumps very quickly from alcohol to heroin, but even though Jules and I skip the H, it still feels like the same thing. Ms. Patterson would call it my pattern of avoidance. In other words, I have always used substances as a way to dodge meaningful relationships—with others, with myself, blah blah blah.