by Penny Reid
So I did. I let him in. And when he came in, he gathered me in his arms and held me against his big chest. I didn’t cry. My mind was blank.
We stood for a time, I had no idea how long, and then Sean said, “You’re going to have to tell the father.”
I stiffened. I heard the words. I knew—rationally speaking—he was right. But every fiber of my being rejected his assertion.
LIKE HELL.
. . . dun dun DUN!
Since that horrible morning, I hadn’t seen or spoken to Bryan Leech, but I’d followed what he’d been doing—or rather, who he’d been doing. He had a new girlfriend. They’d been dating for two months. She was an actress. She had red hair.
Apparently, he had a thing for redheads.
Bryan had made no attempt to contact me—after all, he hadn’t even known my name—so I decided not to care. This consisted of me emphatically Not. Caring. by going to concerts and clubs with my two best friends, drinking too much, and making out with strangers.
I AM THE WORST MOTHER EVER.
. . . dun dun DUN!
I couldn’t think because there were too many things to think about. I sent a desperate prayer upward, begging God, striking a bargain: if this child was okay, if my drinking and partying over the last few months left this little person untouched, then I would never, ever drink alcohol ever again.
Please oh please oh please . . .
“Did you hear me, Eilish? You’ll have to tell the father.” Sean hugged me tighter.
I nodded distractedly. At this point I was fairly certain Bryan Leech had forgotten I existed. I knew with complete certainty he would have absolutely no interest in my child.
“Nothing has to be decided now.” Sean kissed my forehead, prying the pee stick from my fingers and placing it gingerly in the sink. “Come have a cup of tea. Lucy sent over a new peppermint blend from that shop you like in New York, Tea and Sympathy.”
Lucy was Sean’s girlfriend and one of my favorite people in the world. She lived in New York and Sean lived in Dublin, except when he was traveling with the team. Sean and Bryan were teammates, part of the Irish National Rugby team. They weren’t exactly friends, but they were friendly.
I hadn’t told Sean about Bryan, partially because Sean had a mean streak. He was infamous for his nasty grudges and lack of conscience when it came to people he perceived as enemies. I didn’t want Bryan to suffer.
That’s a lie.
Part of me wanted to cut his enchanted dick off and burn it.
But mostly, after the last three months of thinking about that night way too much, I blamed myself.
I’d been sober. I’d wanted him to seduce me, and—drunk or not—he’d been an epic seducer. I’d had a crush on him for years. I’d been infatuated by the idea of him sweeping me off my feet. For heaven’s sake, he had been my fantasy for years. That night I became that girl, the girl I’d always scorned and internally mocked.
He’d melted my cold, pragmatic, sarcastic heart. I may have regretted everything the morning after, but what had happened between us that night had been one hundred percent consensual.
At least, from my perspective it had been. But, apparently, Bryan had been so drunk he hadn’t even remembered my name. Perhaps he hadn’t been capable of giving consent. Maybe I’d taken advantage of him. Perhaps I’d been the seducer . . .
Ugh. I was so tired of this loop of self-recrimination and doubt.
Collapsing onto the couch, I rested my elbows on my knees and covered my face with my hands.
“Eilish,” Sean prodded, “will you tell me who he is?”
I shook my head. I wouldn’t. That morning had been terrible, so terrible, humiliating. Bryan’s apathy and rejection had carved a hollow space out of my heart, leaving a wide, gaping hole. I’d been naïve, too trusting before. Too honest. Too uninhibited. Too reckless. Too stupid.
But I would never make that mistake again. I needed a plan and it needed to be a good one.
I was determined. No matter what it took, Bryan Leech would never find out about my new superpowers.
HE WILL NEVER FIND OUT!
. . . dun dun DUN!
2
@THEBryanLeech: The main problem with being sober: you can tell when people are faking their laughter. #MyJokesArentFunnyAnymore
@RonanFitz to @THEBryanLeech: Your jokes were never funny. #SorryNotSorry
*Bryan*: ~Five Years Later~
I hated parties.
Well, maybe hate was too strong a word. It wasn’t necessarily that I hated them, they just weren’t my thing anymore. They were also inconvenient as they had all the stuff I was supposed to avoid: drink, drugs . . . women.
“You don’t have to be here,” William offered with his trademark quiet solemnity.
I shook my head but kept my eyes fixed on the closed doors at the end of the hall. “No. I wouldn’t miss it.” Would rather be home in my slippers watching Judge Judy, sure, but duty calls.
That was my style of party these days. Throw in a slice of Battenberg and some Werther’s Originals and I could go wild on a sugar high. But no, today was William’s birthday, so I was going to try and keep my grumpy old man behavior to a minimum.
Try being the operative word.
No promises.
My teammate, and the guest of honor for this particular party, tugged on the sleeve of my suit jacket and brought us to a stop. “Hey. Seriously. You’re eighteen months sober.”
“Has it been eighteen months already?” I stroked the stubble on my chin and cracked a grin. “Time flies when you’re killing house plants.”
He didn’t need to tell me how long I’d been sober. I still counted the days, but not for the reasons people might think. Yes, I’d been sober a year and a half, and oddly enough, I didn’t miss any of it; the late nights that turned into days, the constant hangovers, the inability to remember the events of the previous evening—that had been the true misery.
The main problem was other people, people who knew me as the fun-loving, party-hard bloke I used to be. They were uncomfortable with my sobriety, thought I’d gone “sad” and “boring.” Kept asking me if I’d have a drink.
Go on, treat yourself.
One won’t kill you.
Except William “The Brickhouse” Moore.
“You can leave at any time.” His frown deepened.
I gathered a breath and met Will’s earnest brown eyes. The bloke was entirely too earnest. “I’m fine. Don’t worry, I’m not going to fuck up your birthday party.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
I placed a hand on his shoulder and slipped on my very best you can trust me expression. “You’re not supposed to worry at all. This is your party. Let’s go in and have a good time, knowing I’m on call to be your designated driver.”
We both knew that was an empty offer as Will never drank, at least, not that I’d ever witnessed. Regardless, my teammate nodded with some reluctance and finally turned back to the double doors where sounds of the party carried out into the hall.
I eyed the doorway to the revelry as we approached, feeling nothing but grim determination. Nowadays my life consisted of training and clean living. Well, that and taking care of my mother, and she was enough of a handful for ten men. Needless to say, I was kept on my toes.
I opened the door for Will, happy to push him forward and into the fray ahead of me. Maybe I was using him as a shield, a decoy—just a little bit—but I felt no remorse. The man had the moral fortitude of a saint and the temperament of a puritan minister.
I ensured I wasn’t around alcohol very often, but sometimes—like tonight—social obligations were expected of me. Will was from the States, and he didn’t have any family in Ireland, so I’d be a shit not to show up. Plus, we were flatmates, having grown closer over the last eighteen months.
Although, judging from the look of the place, I doubted Will had much of a hand in planning the party. I’d bet my last jockstrap some WAG organized the wh
ole thing.
“Nice party.” I nudged Will a few inches forward; the crowd hadn’t noticed us yet. “Did you demand the silver and gold streamers? Or was the chocolate fondue fountain one of your mandates?”
My teammate sighed, though it sounded more like a growl. “None of this is necessary.”
I cracked a grin because Will hated excess. The man had lived in a spartan studio apartment on Baggot Street before we’d recently moved in together. Our place was right on the quays, but it was on the top floor so it was quiet. I liked quiet.
Before I could respond, we were spotted and I stiffened my spine, not quite ready to face the throng of well-meaning team members, their significant others, and the others—hangers-on, sycophants, and groupies.
A memory struck me of a party just like this one, where I’d met Jennifer, one of my many ex-girlfriends. Now there was a fake if ever I knew one. Unfortunately, Jennifer was a prime example of the fact that I was born with blinkers on. Couldn’t see clearly when there was a pair of tits and an arse in my face—and too many pints of beer in my gut. Jennifer had gotten a good fifty grand out of me over the course of our “relationship,” though long-con was probably a better description. The woman had been out for my money from the start, and given, like I said, I was born with bad judgment, too trusting, and was constantly drunk, I’d been easy pickings. A total mark.
“Well, good luck, mate.” I stepped to the side and gave him a shove forward. He didn’t even sway. The man really was built like a brick shithouse.
“Wait, where are you—?”
“Happy Birthday!” Shouts erupted from approaching partygoers, and I took that as my cue to abandon William to the crowd, glancing over my shoulder only briefly to see they’d placed a crown on his head.
Chuckling lightly, I pulled an envelope from my jacket pocket and set the gift—two concert tickets to Coldplay—on the table next to several large garish boxes. I hesitated, frowning at the small envelope next to the wrapped presents. Deciding it might get lost or overlooked in the pile of larger objects, I turned from the table and slipped the envelope back in my pocket just as I caught sight of a long, silky river of red hair.
That color was my kryptonite, always had been. The woman’s back was to me, but I could make out a tall, willowy frame. The aforementioned hair was draped over one pale shoulder, showcasing a delicate, swan-like neck.
My eyes were glued to that neck, and I was struck with a sudden urge to bite it.
In a sexy way, mind.
And this was odd because I hadn’t wanted to give anything or anyone a sexy bite in over a year. Not even a nibble. Then my entrancing view was ruined when Ronan Fitzpatrick stepped in front of me.
“You look rough. Been letting that loss get to you?” he asked with a commiserating expression.
“Isn’t it getting to all of us?” I replied, suddenly grumpy at the reminder. A fortnight ago, the squad played a Six Nations match and we’d had our arses well and truly handed to us by the Welsh.
“You can’t win them all, Leech. We brought the trophy home last year. Let’s just focus on that.”
I considered the irony of the statement, because Ronan was beating himself up about the loss far more than any of us. He was team captain, and even though he pretended not to, I knew he felt responsible. “Who are you trying to convince, me or yourself?”
He grimaced and downed a gulp of beer. “Yeah well, next year we’ll bring it home again. Management is making a few changes. Did you hear they hired a new physio?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. Everybody hates Connors.”
Our current physiotherapist had the worst personal hygiene of any man I’d ever met. Tell me who wants a bloke who hasn’t washed his hands after using the john getting up close and personal with their glutes? No one. And don’t get me started on his halitosis; I suspected it could be cleared up easily if he simply brushed his teeth.
Ronan nodded. “True.”
“Bryan, you left before I could . . . uh, can you, ah, help me out with something?” William asked, joining us. He looked flustered, his cheeks red and his posture rigid.
“Of course. What do you need?”
He glanced over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze to where a group of girls stood giggling and whispering to one another as they sized him up. And when I said girls, I meant it. None of them could’ve been any older than seventeen, and still, their eyes were lit up with the promise of snagging a rube. Ahem, I mean, a husband.
“Christ,” I swore. “Who let the baby WAGs into the building?”
“Don’t you mean wannabe baby WAGs? Were they even invited?” Ronan added gruffly.
“One of them is Orla Flanagan’s younger sister. The rest are her friends,” William informed us, sounding stressed. “They want me to dance with them.” He shook his head quickly. “I don’t dance.”
“Nor do you dance with children. Every single one of them is a Daily Mail headline just waiting to happen,” I said, my crankiness rearing its ugly head.
I was five years older than William, but I felt protective of him. Probably because he was too nice for his own good. The kind of nice that could be mistaken for interest by naïve little girls. Or less than naïve little girls. They’d have themselves up the duff and walking down the aisle before he even noticed the holes in the condom. I may have made some poor choices in my time, but at least I could say I was never stupid enough to get anyone pregnant.
“I’ll set them straight. Ronan. Make sure none of them try to swoop in by me while I’m laying down the law.”
He chuckled and nodded while I turned and approached the gaggle of girls. I realized the error of my ways when their eyes lit up at the sight of me. Thanks to my highly documented party years, I was more well known than Will, and these girls obviously recognized me. Not that they saw anything of the real me. If they actually saw the real me, the shine would’ve left their eyes in a heartbeat, because the real me looked more like Walter Matthau from Grumpy Old Men than Zach Efron from whatever sappy movie he’d starred in lately.
“Bryan Leech!” one of them squealed, and I winced. Only dolphins should be allowed to achieve such a pitch.
“Dance with me?” another of them asked excitedly.
“No, he should dance with me,” said another.
“Bryan, do you like my skirt? It’s not too short, is it?”
“You signed a ball for me after Ireland played the All Blacks a few years ago, do you remember?”
I held up a hand, feeling a headache coming on, then dealt each of them a firm, fatherly glower.
“Firstly, leave William alone. He’s not interested. Secondly, no, I won’t dance with any of you. Don’t be bloody ridiculous. I’m fairly certain I’m old enough to be your father.” I pointed to one of the girls who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. “Thirdly, that’s not a skirt, it’s a belt. And fourthly, most of my twenties are a blackout, so no, I don’t remember every kid I’ve met.”
One of them glared at me. Another’s mouth fell open in shock. And the third, well, the third one looked like she was about to cry. Jesus Christ, this was why I needed to heed the advice doled out in my AA meetings and avoid females altogether. Sure, I’d probably been a little heavy-handed, but where the hell were these girls’ parents?
Without another word, I turned and strode away, found the bar, and asked for an orange juice. Lifting the glass to my mouth, I scanned the room, recognizing all the usual suspects and trying to shake the residual guilt over my harshness.
But then, boom. I locked eyes with the redhead and a force or a weight drove the air from my lungs. This time she was facing me.
I inhaled a greedy breath, my chest inexplicably hot, and reined in even greedier impulses.
Fuck.
She was beautiful. Wide blue eyes, a rosebud mouth, long lashes, and flawless skin. She wore an understated green dress that exposed her shoulders and hugged her tits, which looked to me like the perfect handful.
I wanted her.
I had no business wanting her.
No, strike that, I wouldn’t allow myself to want her.
I’d already killed five house plants, and in accordance with my AA sessions I had to ensure at least one survived for six months before I even considered starting a relationship. Therefore, I definitely shouldn’t have been looking at those baby blues and getting ideas. But I was. I was getting so many ideas. Doggy-style, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, sixty-nine, the squat, the spider.
Okay, so the spider’s when you . . .
Wait a second. Why on earth was she looking at me like that for?
Gorgeous Red’s eyes were wide, frightened almost. In fact, she looked like she’d just seen a ghost. Abruptly, she turned and disappeared into the crowd. I slammed my glass down on the bar and, moving on instinct, went after her.
It took me a while, just long enough to start questioning what the hell I was thinking—because I wasn’t thinking—but I eventually found her chatting with a group in the far end of the nightclub. As soon as she spotted me, she bolted again.
What the hell?
She wound her way through people, slipping down a corridor that led to the bathrooms. I’d been in this club more times than I could count during my twenties, so I knew the layout. The corridors on either side of the bar met in the middle, so I hustled my way to the next one, my strides fast and purposeful. I smiled when I met her head-on and she stopped in her tracks, clearly startled. Her hand went to her chest in fright.
I closed the rest of the distance between us, leaving only about three feet of space. My eyes wandered, tracing her exquisite neck before meeting her eyes.
“Hello,” I said.
What’s the plan, Bryan?
I grinned, mostly at my lunacy, because I had no plan. This was crazy. I wasn’t allowed to have plans. There could be no plan, not now, not yet, not until my AA sponsor and I agreed I was ready for plans.
Sexy plans.
Her mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. She seemed lost for words. If I hadn’t been interested before, her reaction made me maddeningly curious. Was she a star-struck fan, or had she read about my past and thought I was a down-and-out scumbag, someone to avoid at all costs? I had to admit, the possibility of the latter irked me, because I wasn’t that bloke anymore.