“I called Shay straightaway,” I say. “Woke the kid there in the States but had to be sure he knew the trouble his mate was getting himself into. Even if it was also a laugh.”
Ms. Patterson hasn’t budged. She’s still a block of ice. Like frozen water, she’s contracted into herself to form a solid, impenetrable mass. I’m at a loss for how to get through and back to our old relationship. I panic at the thought that this is how relationship will be now.
“Fuck, what is this?” I ask. “Are you angry with me?”
This startles her, and her posture loosens the tiniest bit. A crack in the ice.
“No, Daniel. I am not angry with you,” she says. “I’m just eager to get on track and talk about you. Martin Whelan’s troubles are his own and shouldn’t take up time we could be working on you.”
“Got it.” I pause. “But you did catch the part of how well hung our man is, yeah? That’s what you call a silver fucking lining. What a thing to publicize.”
Her defrost is now well underway as she raises her hand to her mouth to try to hide a smile. I feel like the weight of the world has lifted from my shoulders. Besides Shay, there’s no one more than Ms. Patterson that I want to please.
“So, I guess I’m in a relationship,” I say, getting to the admission I’d promised myself I’d make. “With Jules, the Northersider woman from the park.”
A moment passes as she takes this in. “I see. And what does a ‘relationship’ mean for you?”
“I dunno. Just that we’re going to spend time together and see where it leads.”
“Does that seem quick at all to you?”
“I have no real experience to compare it to, so can’t say.”
“Have you never been in a relationship before?”
I shrug. Then I open my mouth to tell her about the woman I thought was going to be my life partner, the one who died of an overdose next to me in bed. But I stop short. That woman was someone I’d known for mere weeks, the majority of which was through the filter of heroin. The reason I don’t put forth this story as an example of a relationship—something I’ve had no problem doing in the past, even to my own brother—is because Ms. Patterson has been making a concerted effort in these sessions to get me to separate reality from fantasy. I’ve spent basically the last twenty years concocting versions of my life that aren’t exactly true. I got so good at it that I’ve convinced myself some things were true when it was really all a fabrication. But it’s how I’ve been able to avoid dealing with a lot of shit over the years, including the chaos in my head. Most of my bullshit has been harmless, just spouting off to either get a reaction to amuse myself or shaping a story in a way that benefits me somehow. Ms. Patterson argues, though, that it has robbed me of authentic experiences. She says it’s meant I’m not actually participating in my own life when I spend all my time looking for the angle, strategizing on how to spin the story into something different. This didn’t exactly ring false, and after I let it sink in a bit, I agreed to try to consciously look at things with a view to what is real.
That’s what Ms. Patterson was so intent on me sorting out when I stormed in on her dinner date. She told me a few times to look at what had really happened, that the version of things I was suggesting where she was having a laugh at my expense wasn’t the real one. I came to see that, but only when it was too late. Our “work” here is to get me to the point where I make the right decisions at the right time.
“Well,” she says, “why don’t you tell me more about your girlfriend. You said she’s a housepainter?”
“Nah. Turns out I got that wrong.” I tell her all about Jules’ mission with her painting and boosting women’s self-esteem.
“That’s an interesting endeavor.”
“I suppose. Doesn’t do much for me.”
“It’s interesting in that you might say she’s helping these women discover their sense of identity.”
I blow right past that insight, saying, “Maybe so. More power to her and all that. Like I said, it’s hard to get all worked up about it. Especially knowing what her real source of income is.”
That intrigues Ms. Patterson. She looks up from the notes she had been making and watches me expectantly.
“She used to be a singer. Julia O’Flaherty is her name. Was a decent act back in the day when Rogue was getting up and running, too. I wouldn’t know. I was in . . . Italy? I don’t know. Somewhere like that. Anyway, turns out she and your man Gavin McManus had a thing. They were together for a time.”
“Small world,” she muses.
“Is it, though?” I can’t help but ask. “I wonder about that sometimes. Anyway, Jules did pretty well for herself. Had three albums. Did a single with McManus. But she’s been out of the industry for a while. Still does all right with the royalties from all that.”
“How does Gavin feel about you seeing her?”
“Why should he care? Married with a kid and all? It’s been years since he’s even seen her.”
“Okay, then it’s no problem to bring her around with you.”
“Well, I’m happy to keep things quiet for the time being, actually. There’s no need to shout this from the rooftops.”
She eyes me for a long moment. “What does Shay think?”
“Haven’t had a chance to tell him. And not sure I need to rush to that either. The kid’s got plenty to deal with now. I don’t want him to worry about this.”
“Why would he worry about this? If what you say is true—that there are no concerns with her being in the picture.”
“Because that’s what he does. He worries. And sure, I’ve given him a million legitimate reasons to worry, but this isn’t something he needs to take on. I’ve got it covered.”
21
That’s what I truly believe: that I have it covered. Even as over the course of the next few weeks, I fall deeper into dependence on Jules. She’s like a drug to me. I can’t get enough of her and she seems to feel the same way. It’s exactly what both Ms. Patterson and NA warn against—that a relationship too soon in the recovery process can become a substitute for drugs, therefore jeopardizing the path I’m trying to forge. But just like every other time I’ve slipped, I convince myself that it’s different. That I can handle it. I’ve got it covered.
For her part, Jules is good on her promise and never once mentions Gavin or even Rogue again. That fear of mine—that she’s got ulterior motives—fades away. In its place is the gnawing worry that she’s pulling me toward the life I’ve been trying to leave behind. We go to parties together with people she doesn’t know well, but yet insists on attending. She likes to smoke weed at these gatherings and is relentless in wanting me to join her even though I’ve explained more than once that marijuana is the one drug that—paradoxically—amplifies the chaos in my head rather than letting me escape it. We drink too much when we’re together. But we also laugh a lot. And fuck a lot. The good feelings outweigh the bad. That’s what I tell myself.
Then things get dicey one night when Jules drags me out with her to a club in Temple Bar. It’s for her friend Jacob who is re-opening the place after a fire had shut it down. She’s keen that we show our support. Our presence doesn’t matter all that much for most of the night as the specially advertised 2-for-1 drinks fill the place beyond capacity.
When the crowds thin out as it gets close to two in the morning, Jules leaves me in the booth we’d been sharing with Jacob and a few others, so she can go to the ladies.
Jacob is a Scot with a heavy accent, rail-thin, pale, and has a recently shaved head. He’s telling me all about how much he misses the shoulder-length dreadlocks he used to have.
“I gave ‘em up for someone who ended up leaving me not long after,” he moans. “The bitch of it is, they had always said it was my bleedin’ signature. And now, it’s like I’m missing an essential part of me.”
It’s clear enough to me that Jacob’s gay, but I’ll go ahead and play along with his non-specific pronouns since he doesn’t want
to be out about it.
“They should never try to change who you are, mate,” I tell him. I’m not at all invested in propping up the guy, but it’s an amusing way to pass the time at the moment. “If they really liked you to begin with.”
This resonates for him as he watches me and nods slowly. But then his eyes go a little glassy. Turns out he’s not so much agreeing with me as he is drunk.
“Aye, Jacob,” one of his buddies says, “remember when we had a laugh and cut off McManus’ hair?”
That perks him up and he smiles wanly. “That was fucking epic.”
“Gavin McManus, I suppose?” I ask, though I know the answer.
Dublin is such a small fucking city. All roads lead back to Gavin or Conor or Rogue. People glommed onto them with maybe even more ferocity than their success warranted as a way to give U2 the finger. That band has been lovingly hated for so many years that when Rogue came up, it was as if Dubliners were happy to turn their backs on them by giving all their attention to Rogue.
“Yeah, that cocksucker,” Jacob says, slurring the words. Then he laughs, starring at some middle-distance. “At least I hoped he was.”
I don’t know what the fuck that means but I can’t be bothered to ask. Not when I have Jules returning to us, all bright-eyed and practically vibrating from the inside out. She promptly sits on my lap and kisses me.
If I didn't know from her appearance alone, I know from the taste in her mouth as she kisses me that she’s just done cocaine. It’s a peculiar sour, sweet, salty flavor that is reminiscent of medicine, but yet unlike anything you’ve ever gotten over the counter. I don’t get enough from her, though, to feel that numbness that comes with having rubbed it directly on the gums.
What I do get is pissed off. I push her off me and stand up while wiping at my mouth. That doesn’t work to take that tempting taste out of my mouth and so I spit on the floor.
“Danny—” Jules starts.
“Fuck off,” I say. “This is not cool. You know I can’t be around this shit.”
“It’s nothing,” she says. “It was the tiniest taste. I barely even feel it.”
“Oh, is it time for that?” Jacob asks with a grin. He ignores the tension and pulls a baggie of white powder out of his pocket and his friends at the booth all move closer to him.
“Not for me,” I say. “I’m out of here.”
“Come on, don’t be that way,” Jules says. “It’s harmless, really.”
I pull up the sleeve of my thermal shirt and slap my inner elbow. The tender skin is marked by a series of small scars. “Go on and stick the needle in for me while you’re at it. Is this where we’re headed? This what you want, Jules?”
It’s a dramatic gesture but it goes unnoticed as the group at the table focuses on the lines being cut and passed around. I’m not surprised at the lack of response to my outburst. They’ve all got their priorities, too lured in by the prospect of getting high to bother with me, including Jules, who glances at me, then back at the cocaine.
That’s answer enough, and I turn and make for the door. Roscoe is at Jules’ place. I don’t have a key, so I’m distracting myself with thoughts of how I’ll jump the wall to her back patio to get him when someone grabs my arm and tugs so hard that I’m spun around.
Jules has caught up to me just outside the club.
“I’m sorry, babe,” she says. “I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry.”
There are tears in her eyes. This throws me. I know we have this weird, dependent connection, but I hadn’t thought it got to any kind of emotional level. It’s felt like we’ve been using each other more than anything else, but with us each understanding that that is what’s going on so it doesn’t feel dirty. It was comfortable. It’s what got us through the otherwise lonely nights.
“I’m so sorry,” she says again. Now the tears fall down her cheeks and she lets them. “I love you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Fuck. She loves me? I don’t know what to do with that. I can’t return the words to her. My lack of a response hangs awkwardly in the air as the rain comes down on us.
“Just—just kiss me,” she says desperately.
She’s giving me an out. It’s the out we always take when things get too deep.
And like the addict that I am, I fucking take it.
I pull her to me and kiss her, trying to ignore the faint trace of coke in her mouth and instead concentrate on the way her tits press against me. I know she’ll be revved up to fuck because she’s high. She’ll feel that need. It’ll amplify the experience for her. I’ve been there and done that. I should know better than to enable this. I do know better.
Still, that doesn’t stop me.
We get as far as the Porsche before I let it escalate. Luckily, we’re parked in a darkened patch of the street around the corner from the club, so when Jules straddles me I don’t think twice about someone else seeing us. The light rain and our body heat fogging up the windows helps shield us from passersby.
She’s kissing me frantically, grinding on me to the point of it hurting. She can’t help herself.
I grab her hips to still her and she looks at me in surprise, her chest heaving.
“Take your top off,” I tell her, and she smiles.
The top and bra fly off as I work to unbutton my jeans from under her. She’s got on a skirt and the knickers are easy enough to push to the side. As my cock slides into her, I think about the fact that this is the first time we’ve had sex without a condom. The feeling of her without anything between us makes me moan.
“Tell me you love me,” she breathes. “Tell me.”
I ignore her and bury my face in her chest, taking her nipple into my mouth as she rides me hard. She’s immune to the pressure of my teeth as I bite her tender skin. She doesn’t mind when I grip her ass so firmly that I’m sure I’m leaving marks. She’s not just riding me. She’s riding the high.
Once again, I hold her hips still to get her attention. She looks at me, pained at the prospect of stopping at this moment.
“Is this me you want?” I ask.
“It’s you I love,” she says.
“Say my name.” I allow her the slightest movement against me, tilting her hips forward so her clit gets the good action.
“Danny fucking Boy,” she says with a laugh.
Releasing her hips, I move my hands to her tits, squeezing them with satisfaction. She doesn’t move, though. She’s waiting for my command.
“Go on. Come for me. But don’t stop until you’ve got my every last drop.”
That’s what she wanted. As much as she is a feminist and wants to be in control of her life, I’ve found she loves to be told what to do in bed. Or in the car, as the case may be. She does as she’s told and we both find the delicious distraction we were after.
There’s no acknowledgement by either of us the next morning of what went on the night before. We don’t talk about her doing cocaine or how she tried to dismiss it. We don’t talk about her saying she loves me. Or how I didn’t return the sentiment.
We do acknowledge the amazing sex in the car, though. That’s when Jules lets me know she’s on birth control. I’m relieved to hear that. We joke about where we might get our freak on next. We’ve done it in a restaurant toilet and a car.
“Maybe we should take a trip somewhere, just so we can try out the mile-high club,” she says with a devilish grin.
“Where would we go?”
My question turns this hypothetical into something more, and we spend the good part of the day brainstorming and looking up places on the internet. Jules steers us toward higher-end hotels or resorts in each location, making me realize how quickly she’s shed all that Northsider holier than thou bullshit she espoused when we first met. In fact, she’s embraced my “poncy Southsider” lifestyle quite easily. She likes when we drive the Porsche. She likes when we stay in Shay’s luxurious house.
I hadn’t thought very much about the progression of all that until now. A warning
bell goes off in my head. It’s the worry that her flipping so quickly means she’s using me.
Rather than confront this, I decide one way to test how tied she is to these material things is to get my own mode of transportation. For reasons I don’t quite understand, I reach out to Conor Quinn to assist me. He got a motorbike not long ago and I ask him if he’ll lend me his expertise and show me some of the basics to see if it’s something I might want to invest in. His ego suitably stroked, Mr. Perfect, agrees.
22
We meet on a Sunday morning in Sandyford Industrial Estate to take advantage of the quiet streets of the business park there. Conor’s waiting when I arrive, decked out in dark jeans with his usual silver pocket chain, biker boots, and a black and red leather jacket that conforms to his broad chest. Mirrored sunglasses cover his eyes, and yet I can sense his amusement as I step out of the Porsche. I’m in my usual gear—old jeans with suspenders and a stretched-out tee shirt over a thermal.
I don’t often feel inadequate in comparison to other people because I learned long ago that I’d really be fucked if I started that. It was always a better plan to not care how I rated against others, to just do my own thing and be my own person. I’m successful at this most of the time. But whenever I’m near Conor, all that disappears. He’s better looking, smarter, more confident, more accomplished, and just generally a step above most everyone else—and that definitely includes me. It’s no secret that’s why he irritates me so much. All those feelings rush forward now as I join him at his bike, and I wonder why the fuck I thought asking him to lord his knowledge over me was a good idea.
“Hey man,” he says with a nod.
“Thanks for this,” I tell him.
“Sure. Where’s Roscoe?”
It’s exceedingly unusual for me not to have Roscoe at my heels, but I left him with Jules on this occasion. I still haven’t told Shay about her, so there’s no way I’m going to tell Conor.
Looking For Trouble (Rogue Series Book 5) Page 9