Thomas & January, Book Two in the Sleepless Series

by Fisher Amelie

  I looked over at her transiently throughout the run. I found her to be one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met and that included Kelly, I was loath to admit. I couldn’t deny it anymore, not when every male within a five-mile radius could sense her coming and would have jumped in front of a bus to make way for her. Every guy we passed, I wanted to punch in the gut for glancing her way. God, I’m a mess. For her, I was a slobbering mess. I hated it and loved it all at the same time.

  She was a good five feet ten inches, possibly taller. She met my chin, which was practically unheard of. She had ridiculously long dark brown hair and blue eyes the color of the Atlantic. She was lean and beautiful and apparently talented according to Jason. He said she’d given up a full scholarship to Berkeley for piano. I was beginning to become enthralled with her and I absolutely hated it. I had to fight it. Had to.

  When we reached Anchor House, we both leaned against the wrought-iron railing to catch our breath. We sat for a good five minutes before we were able to acknowledge each other.

  “You’re kind of a hoss,” I admitted.

  “So are you, actually,” she said, wrapping the cord of her earbuds around her iPod. “Hear anything good?” she asked, gesturing to my own iPod.

  “Maybe. I was partial to a couple of indies who were too good to want a label’s interference, I think. There was one,” I said, thinking, turning her way. “A band in Paris. Feel like crossing the channel?” I asked with a slight smile.

  “Uh, um, of course,” she said too cheerfully, even for January.

  “Okay,” I said, skeptical.

  “What’s their name?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “All The Pretty Girls,” I admitted.

  “Lame,” she said, laughing.

  “Yeah, but if all bands with terrible original names were turned down, we wouldn’t have The Beatles or even Led Zeppelin.”

  “Yeah, Johnny and the Moondogs and the New Yardbirds would probably be playing pathetic hotel lounges right about now,” she said, then snorted, shocking the shit out of me.

  “You - how did you...?”

  “How did you?” She rolled her eyes and jogged up the steps into the Anchor House and up to her room, leaving me with my jaw flush on the concrete below.

  Zap.

  After dozing off a bit after my run, I woke flustered to someone pounding on my door. I turned on my back, tired as hell from the time difference, and pulled my cell out. Eight-thirty. Damn. Wait, I wasn’t supposed to meet January until nine. I dragged myself off the bed and threw the door open.

  January stood at my feet, absolutely breathtaking and in one of the sexiest outfits I’d ever seen. The kicker? She was practically covered from head to toe, go figure.

  “Is this okay?” she asked, frantic.

  “What?” I asked, dazed from her sheer presence.

  “Is this okay? For tonight? I have no idea what’s appropriate anymore. People in the city don’t dress like we do in Austin, Tom.” I got a kick out of the fact that she associated me with Austin although I’d lived in New York my entire life. “So, I figured it was the same for Dublin.” Her face bunched. “Help me?”

  “This is fine,” I said, not exactly telling the truth. The truth was, she made me want to rethink wanting to be alone. If she were my girl, Temple Bar could suck it and I’d just stay here, in this room with her, memorizing her face with my fingers and mouth.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” I stepped inside and she followed, shutting the door behind her.

  “Why aren’t you ready?”

  “Truthfully? You woke me up. If you hadn’t stopped by, I would’ve probably missed meeting you downstairs.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you want to bail?” she asked. “I don’t mind going alone.”

  Not if you paid me a million dollars, I thought, sinking another nail into my coffin.

  “No, I’m cool now. I want to get out and listen to a few bands.”

  “All right, I’ll meet you downstairs then.”

  I closed the door behind her and showered and dressed for Temple Bar quickly. I sat in front of the small mirror above my sink and wondered what the hell I was doing. I had no intention of looking for bands that night. I just wanted to stare at January. Oh, yeah, and make sure Ailin or anyone else for that matter, didn’t. I took a long look at myself in the mirror. I was twenty-two years old and appeared thirty, but that wasn’t because I physically looked thirty. It was because I wore my bitterness on my face like a second coat. I briefly thought for a moment if January could help me shed that coat but shrugged it off. I needed to remember that January would more than likely hurt the hell out of me and then I’d be an even bigger jerk than I already was and, to be honest, I was tired of being a jerk. It was wearing.

  I took the stairs into the lobby below. The friendly desk clerk pointed outside. I opened the door and found January sitting on the stoop below me so I joined her.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  “Yup.” She stood and wiped the dirt off her black skinny jeans. She carefully balanced herself down the steps on her ridiculous black heels.

  “You’re gonna break an ankle,” I observed before grabbing her arm. A thick, syrupy heat spread through my hand and laced its way up into my chest, making another icy layer crack and spit in anger.

  When she reached the walk, I let go like my hand had been at a hot stove. We walked in silence to Gogarty’s, my hand repeatedly wanting to guide her by her lower back around potholes or stumps. I had to ring my arm in every time it reached out.

  Gogarty’s was packed even for a Friday from what I could remember, all tourists, but the unbelievable traditional music there was enough to wrangle even a few locals. The door swung open and we were hit with the fragrance of classic Irish cuisine, in other words, a bunch of meat and potatoes, and yeast but the music, the music that filled the pub was truly tangible. It rang in the air and swept over each expectant ear, swirling to the rooftop and guided back down. It was beautiful, incredibly beautiful.

  Ailin saw us from across the bar and waved us over. We weaved our way through and he gestured to two empty seats beside him. January sat directly next to him and I next to her, but I got right back up.

  “What’ll you have?” I asked.

  “Uh,” she said, looking around, unsure.

  My brows narrowed. “Do you drink, January?”

  “Not really,” she shrugged sheepishly. “Just get me whatever you’re drinking.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think you want what I’m having, sweetheart.”

  “Condescension. Nice touch.”

  “Fine,” I said, lifting my hands in surrender. “I’ll get you a pint of Guinness.”

  “Good,” she said smugly, making me smile like a dumbass.

  I leaned down into her ear. “Whatever you do, January, don’t take a damn thing from these clowns. You hear me? We don’t really know them.” Her eyes were round in her head but she nodded. I sat back up and gestured to the others. “Pint, boys?” They shook their heads, their glasses over half full. Not half empty. Twenty-two years of Tie-Dye Tom couldn’t be erased so swiftly after all.

  I approached the bar and ordered two pints of Guinness instead of my usual McEwan's Scotch Ale. She would have been toe up from just the smell of it if I’d ordered her that. I gathered the pints and made my way back to January, setting the stout in front of her face and waited for her reaction. She smiled widely and picked up the pint. She hesitated, looking at me before bringing it to her lips.

  “Drink up, baby girl.”

  “I am,” she said, furrowing her eyebrows. “Stop ordering me around.”

  I sighed deeply.

  She took a long, deep swig of the stout and her face contorted to impossible angles, making me laugh my ass off.

  “What do you think?”
I asked.

  “I - I like it,” she answered, her face still slightly knotted.

  “I can tell.”

  She gave me a dirty look and I backed off, deciding to finally focus on the band playing that night.

  They were just finishing up a lively tune when they shifted things a bit and started a deep, dark lament. January shot upright in her chair and grabbed my arm. “Molly Bán,” she whispered to me, never taking her hand from my bicep.

  Molly Bán is a song of sad fates, a warning of sorts, meant for all young men.

  Come all ye young fellows

  That handle a gun

  Beware of night rambling

  By the setting of the sun

  And beware of an accident

  That happened of late

  To young Molly Bán

  And sad was her fate

  She was going to her uncle’s

  When a shower came on

  She went under a green bush

  The shower to shun

  Her white apron wrapped around her

  He took her for a swan

  But a hush and a sigh

  'Twas his own Molly Bán

  He quickly ran to her

  And found she was dead

  And there on her bosom

  Many salt-tears he shed

  He ran home to his father

  With his gun in his hand

  Saying "Father, dear father

  I have shot Molly Bán"

  Her white apron wrapped around her

  He took her for a swan

  But a hush and a sigh

  'Twas his own Molly Bán

  He roamed near the place

  Where his true love was slain

  He wept bitter tears

  But his cries were in vain

  As he looked on the lake

  A swan glided by

  And the sun slowly sank

  In the gray of sky

  “How do you know it?” I whispered into her ear. Her body shivered. Did I do that?

  She swallowed before answering. “My, uh, my Maimeó used to sing this to us when we were small.” A small tear threatened from her glassy eye making me uneasy.

  “What’s a Maw-mo?” I asked, curious as hell.

  “Maimeó is what we call my grandmother. She’s born and bred Irish. Came to the United States, Jersey, in the sixties carrying my father.”

  “That explains the name MacLochlainn,” I said, a slight grin tugging at my lips.

  “Yeah, Americans assume I’m Scottish because of the whole ‘Mac’ thing but I’m one hundred percent Irish. My mother’s family is Irish as well, but they came to the U.S. during the potato famine.” That’s when I realized that this must be like coming home for January.

  “It also explains the red highlights,” I blurted out without realizing. I almost slapped my hand over my mouth.

  Her mouth began to form the question, but out of nowhere a man lifted me from my seat, saving me...possibly.

  “Ah, it is you!” He exclaimed loudly for the whole pub to hear. He slapped me on the back, making me choke. “Right! Let’s get pissed, ya’ bastard!” He bellowed making everyone cheer.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as he pushed me toward the bar, “do I know you?”

  The guy had about ten seconds before I lost my cool.

  “I’m sorry, friend! I know your band! The Ivories! Ah, right, see this here, I know your music. You were here, were ya’ not, two years past?”

  “I was. I can’t believe you recognize me.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t really like ya’ much.” How comforting, I thought as the ruddy, large Irishman eyed me like piece of meat. He smiled after a moment, making me nervous. My hand formed a fist in preparation. “It was my lady! Agh! Did she have it bad for ya’!” I tensed nervously. “What’s the matter with ya’! Loosen up, man! What’s ya’ drink?”

  The guy was all over the place. “What the hell!” I said, “I’ll take a scotch, McEwan's.”

  “D’ya’ hear this, boys? The Yank drinks scotch! ’Round here, them’s fightin’ words!” He said, pinching my shoulder hard. I tensed again. “I’m just joshin' ya’, boy!” He laughed heartily and slapped me once more on the back.

  I downed the scotch in one gulp, wincing as it burned its way down my throat.

  “Another?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I’ve still got a pint at the table.”

  “That’s not your table there, is it?”

  “Uh, yeah, it is.”

  “No, it’s not, mate! You’re drinkin’ with us tonight!”

  I peered over my shoulder at January who had arched her back and leaned toward us, trying to listen in. When I caught her doing it, she righted herself, resting her chin in her hand on the table and pretended to be interested in Ailin’s boring ass conversation.

  “Is she with you?” The guy asked when he caught sight of January.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s January, but we’re here with those guys,” I said, though I don’t know why I even mentioned it. This guy seemed infinitely more interesting than dumbass Ailin.

  “They can come along then. Shane,” the guy said, offering his hand.

  “Tom,” I answered, swiftly shaking his hand with enough grip to let him know I wasn’t the type to take crap. This made him smile.

  I tossed my head toward Shane’s table, gesturing for January to follow and she stood. Ailin grabbed her wrist and for a split second I almost cocked back and hit the guy square in the jaw. She played it off with all the Southern charm I didn’t know she possessed, picked up our pints and followed me over, making me feel smug and a little bit stupid all at the same time.

  “Ailin’s angry,” she teased with a knowing smile.

  “Is he?” I asked.

  “Who’s this guy?” she asked, nodding toward Shane.

  “Apparently not a fan of The Ivories,” I answered vaguely, making her brows furrow.

  When we reached the table, Shane introduced us to his friends. “Tom, January,” he said, smiling at her by way of introduction to which she beamed back, “this is Cillian, Douglas, Niam, Rowan, and,” he beamed, “my lass, Siobhan.” Together, these men were five of the most formidable men I’d ever come across in my entire life.

  “A pleasure,” January said, immediately sitting next to Siobhan, an instant friend, it seemed.

  I nodded my greeting. I sat next to January and we got to know those strangers better than I would have ever thought.

  “So, you’re Irish, then,” Shane inquired of January after an hour of drinking. We were all warm and friendly by this time but I mostly observed...January.

  “Yes’sir,” January slurred through a slight buzz. I was cutting her off.

  “By what parts, miss?” Douglas asked.

  “By Killarney.”

  “Shut your hole!” Cillian said, slamming his heavy hand on the table, making January jump then laugh. “That’s me family’s town! What’d ya’ say your last name was?”

  “I didn’t, but it’s MacLochlainn.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I know your Uncle Donovan!”

  “Get out of town!” January exclaimed, eyes bright, and leaned Cillian’s way.

  “By the heavens, I knew you looked familiar. You’ve got your family’s eyes, lass.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “’Twasn’t meant as a compliment,” he teased but she slapped his shoulder in retribution, making him laugh.

  “My head’s reelin’,” Cillian said, looking on January. “Donovan MacLochlainn’s niece in my very presence. By God, I’ve heard nothing but talk of your talent from here to kingdom come for years. The town’s sick of it, but he carries on and on.” He sat up and looked around. January grabbed my arm, making me wish I could glue her hand there, but I was too distracted to dwell because she appeared nervous. “James!” Cillian yelled across the room. “James! Have you your board tonight?” he asked one of the band members near the bar top.

  “Ay
e!” James answered back.

  “But I have a gift for you, James! A Yank! A bloody Yank who can play like an angel apparently.”

  Cillian grabbed January’s arm and hauled her to her feet, the look of surprise on her face made my heart race. I stood and grabbed her other arm.

  “Come, darlin’, none of us bite,” he said, smiling.

  “But - I haven’t prepared anything. I haven’t played Maimeó’s songs in years!”

  “It’s like riding a bicycle, lass. ’Sides, you’re Irish. It’s in your blood!”

  I was right in step beside January. “Do you want to leave?” I asked, worried.

  She sighed but smiled. “The worst thing that can happen is that I forget and they boo me, right? Not so bad,” she said, wringing her hands.

  “Let’s go,” I said, taking her warm hand.

  “No, no. I think I can do this. They don’t call it liquid courage for nothing, right?”

  I smiled.

  January took the keyboards and began playing softly before winking my direction.

  “An Irishman walks into a pub,” she begins and the bar went silent. “The bartender asks him, ‘What'll you have?’” Her Irish accent was spot on. “The man says, ‘Give me three pints of Guinness, please.’ The bartender brings him three pints and the man proceeds to alternately sip one, then the other, then the third until they're gone. He then orders three more.

  “The bartender says, ‘Sir, no need to order as many at a time. I’ll keep an eye on it and when you get low, I'll bring you a fresh one.’ The man replies, ‘You don't understand. I have two brothers, one in Australia and one in the States. We made a vow to each other that every Saturday night we'd still drink together. So right now, me brothers have three Guinness stouts too, and we're drinking together.’