30DaystoSyn

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “I know how you feel, bro,” he told the fish.

  There was no one there to hear him. Apparently Craigie had spent the night on the sofa. The medicine man was snoring loud enough to wake the dead when he stumbled out of bed looking for Melina.

  “Wake up, asswipe!” he’d ordered, shaking Craigie.

  “Piss off,” Craigie snapped.

  He shook him again. “Where’s my woman?”

  “I said piss off!” Craigie said, slapping his hand away.

  “Where is my woman?” he repeated as loudly as his numb head would allow.

  “With Jono, you fuck-puck!” Craigie snapped. He growled as he sat up, swung his legs from the sofa. “He took her to Cedar Oaks.”

  “Without me?”

  Craigie looked up at him. “You aren’t there are you?” he asked.

  “Son of a bitch,” he cursed. “I wanted to go.”

  “You were in no condition to go,” Craigie stated. “Get me a cuppa, will ya?”

  “I’m not your bumboy,” he told his friend. “Are your arms and legs painted on?”

  “Fuck you,” Craigie replied as he bent over to slip on his sneakers.

  “Fuck you! And get the hell out of my suite.”

  “You’re getting to be a real gutsache, you know that?” Craigie mumbled as he got up. He tucked his shirt into the waistband of his pants.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replied, dismissing Craigie with a wave of his hand.

  When Craigie was gone, he’d taken a shower then lay down on the sofa because the world around him kept skittering away at times. He could eat the crutch off a low flying duck but wasn’t sure he should eat anything just yet. His stomach felt a bit queasy and there was still a dull ache over his right eye.

  “He doesn’t do well with stress, does he?” she’d asked.

  “No and not having you here when I woke up is stressing me the fuck out, woman,” he grumbled aloud.

  He was annoyed that Melina hadn’t been there when he woke. He’d called her name several times before he realized she wasn’t going to answer. A quick turn through the suite had revealed nothing but Craigie drooling and sawing logs, smacking his lips and farting in his sleep. He’d been tempted to douse the bastard with a glass of iced water but he really didn’t have the energy so he’d decided to shower instead.

  Standing under the hot water, he’d lowered his head to let the stream beat down on his shoulders. It ran down his cheeks and dripped from his chin as he stood there with his eyes closed and a fat one poking toward the wall. How he could possibly have an enormous erection with two potent drugs circulating through his system was a mystery. He’d dropped his hand to his shaft to rub one out.

  As he relieved himself, he thought of her, and the more he thought of her, the lonelier he felt. He had wanted to be with her today. All day.

  And tomorrow. All day.

  Saturday he planned to fly her over to Savannah for a midnight cruise. Stand on the deck of the sailing ship and watch the sun come up over the water.

  Then there would be Sunday.

  Sunday was going to be something very special for her. He was moving heaven and earth to see that it was.

  “What if she takes the check and says see ya?” Jake had asked. “What then, bro?”

  He refused to think bad thoughts. He refused to consider she would walk out the door without a backward glance. He refused to believe things wouldn’t turn out exactly as he had them planned.

  “Melina,” he said as he came. He came hard and his body jerked. He snapped his eyes open—ashamed as he always was—when the last spurt left his cock. Masturbating brought back memories of spying on the women at the brothel as they conducted their business. It also brought back to him the nights in Parrie when the only relief had been his hand upon his cock.

  Dropping his head to the wall of the shower, he had never felt so alone in his entire life than he did at that moment.

  Drew had dozed off while watching the latest blockbuster sci-fi movie the Kiwi had sent along with the massive seventy-inch flat-screen TV that took up a goodly portion of her brother’s room. On the shelves beneath the gigantic viewing screen was state of the art electronic stuff that Drew could access from his wheelchair. An all-region DVD player so he could watch movies from England and Down Under; a sound system with MP3 and CD players; the controls for the Xbox and only the nerd gods knew what else.

  “Time to go?” Jonny asked. He’d spent the day in the Kiwi’s stead and had played games with Drew that she would never understand how to play.

  “I’m a bit tired myself,” she whispered as she spread an afghan over Drew.

  “Triptoflan,” Jonny told her. “Turkey sedative.”

  “Tryptophan,” she corrected. “And actually it isn’t the turkey meat but the carbohydrates like the stuffing, dinner rolls and the sugar from the desserts you consume with the meal that increases the production of sleep-promoting melatonin in the brain.”

  He blinked at her. “Yeah, that’s the ticket,” he said. “Melon toenails and all that.”

  “You goofball,” she accused. “You know perfectly well what I said.”

  He grinned. “Got my number, don’t you, chickie?”

  “Yes, Jonny, I do,” she stated.

  On the way out to the chopper, she hooked her arm through his. “What kind of meal can I expect tonight?”

  “Oh, a real downhome Southern meal,” he said. “Turkey, cornbread dressing—and thank you for calling it stuffing since you think I wouldn’t know what dressing meant—with giblet gravy, mac and cheese, collard greens with pepper sauce, rutabagas, fried okra, cranberry sauce, sweet potato soufflé with raisins and pineapple, ambrosia, Waldorf salad and pecan pie for dessert. Wash all that down with sweet iced tea and it’s a heart attack in the making.”

  They had reached the chopper and he helped her inside. Once seated, she narrowed her eyes. “Please tell me you don’t put ketchup on your turkey.”

  “We Kiwis slather everything with tomato sauce, love,” he said, buckling himself in. “It’s a national law. You can be arrested if you don’t.”

  She sniffed as the bird began to lift off. “Perfectly good waste of turkey if you ask me although…”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “I like ketchup on fried chicken.”

  “There you go!” he said with a wink.

  A light mist began to fall as they reached cruising altitude. She looked out the window at the kaleidoscope of scenery passing beneath the skids. The sun was going down and it lit the myriad windows of the Atlanta skyscrapers in a strange reddish-gold light. They were miles away from downtown yet the reflection of the light on the glass lit the darkening sky.

  “He went all out this year,” Jonny said. “Spike said he even has entertainment for after the meal.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Oh yeah,” he replied. “Usually we sit around and play euchre or backgammon or poker. He’s very competitive as if you didn’t already know that.”

  “I know enough not to ever play backgammon with him again,” she said drily.

  “I think you’ll like the entertainment,” he said with a smile. “And even if you don’t, tell him you did because it’s costing him an arm and leg.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see,” he said cryptically.

  * * * * *

  She sat across the table from him and he kept smiling wistfully at her. She knew it was the heavy drugs in his system. He was—he’d told her when she asked how he felt—comfortably numb.

  “Good?” he asked of the potato soufflé she was tasting.

  “Infinitely so,” she said. “I like the marshmallows on top.”

  She felt his bare foot rubbing along her shin and raised an eyebrow. He gave her an innocent look as he happily munched on a big helping of fried okra. His toes were tickling her and she fidgeted in her seat.

  “Something wrong, love?” he asked pleasantly.

  “
I’m getting stuffed,” she replied and realized as soon as his eyes widened that had been the absolutely wrong phrase to use.

  Apparently everyone else did, as well, for eyes and heads snapped toward him and forks paused in midair.

  His grin was slow and markedly evil. “Then I suggest you save some room for dessert. That, I promise, will fill you up.”

  Heads and eyes shifted to her.

  She felt the blush from the bottom of her neck to her forehead. “I probably won’t have dessert,” she muttered.

  A slight gasp came from somebody as heads and eyes flew to him. It was like watching a slow motion tennis tournament.

  “Oh, I think you will,” he said. He sat back in his chair. “As a matter of fact, I’m gonna insist on it.”

  She became the center of everyone’s attention.

  She swallowed. “I guess it depends on what it is,” she said.

  He was center court again.

  Head down, he looked at her from under the barrier of his long lashes. “Let’s just say it’s cream filled.” His eyebrow rose and fell.

  “You do realize talk like that makes the rest of us feel like a pork chop at a synagogue, don’t you?” Craigie groused.

  “The bugger is a vaginamite. He’d fuck a blind man’s dog if given the chance,” Jake said under his breath but the Kiwi heard him.

  “You get the fuck away from my table, Tonika,” he said, blue eyes blazing.

  Jake scowled. “What the hell did I do?”

  “You want a grocery list? Get the fuck up and leave. Now!”

  The two men glared at one another for a moment then Jake scooted his chair back, got up and threw his linen napkin on his plate.

  “Fine. Have it your way. You’re the trump of the dump, now, aren’t you?”

  “Fucking right I am! You forget it again and I’ll nail your hide to the dunny door!”

  Jake aimed a mean look at her then spun on his heel and slammed out of the dining room. She wondered what had set the two of them at loggerheads. They’d been uncivil to one another ever since the Kiwi had taken Jake into the kitchen after the lawyer had arrived for the meal. When they came out, Jake’s face was red and the Kiwi’s eyes were hard and glittering.

  Spike leaned over to ask her. “I know Jake’s date bailed on him and he wasn’t in a good mood when he got here but something else must have happened. What’s going on between him and Synnie?”

  “I’ve no idea,” she answered.

  The Kiwi had followed Jake’s exit with his lips thinned and eyes narrowed. It was obvious to the other seven people left that he was very angry and not just because of the crudeness of Jake’s words or his insult.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Craigie said quietly. “You don’t need another headache.”

  “I don’t wear knickers,” he told his old friend and shifted his gaze back to her. “You okay?”

  “Are you?” she replied.

  “Never better. Who’s for dessert?”

  After the pecan pie and excellent Colombian coffee, her lover came around the table to pull out her chair. “We’re going over to the nightclub now,” he told her. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  The eight of them walked out of the dining room and down the corridor to the nightclub. She hadn’t been in that part of the Club yet and was just as impressed with it as she was with the rest of the establishment. The Kiwi had spared no expense to make it a very cosmopolitan and comfortable area with deep, upholstered booths and intimate tables for two scattered around the room. The décor was the same as the dining room except there was a jewel-toned stained-glass ceiling above them and lots of polished chrome. Above the long bar was a beautiful mirror that reflected the myriad beer taps lining the bar itself. At one end of the room was a stage with three crisscrossed spotlights lighting a stand of five microphones. There were guitars, a banjo and several other instruments waiting for the performers.

  Directly in front of the stage the tables had been pushed back and in their place were ten very comfortable-looking chairs. He showed her to the center of the row of chairs and took a seat to her left, reaching for her hand as he did. He threaded their fingers and laid their combined hands on his right thigh.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, baby,” he said and the lights on the stage began to dim until all she could see was the shadows of five men filing out on the stage.

  The moment she heard the first skirl of the tin whistle, the opening chords of the banjo and the low thump of the bodhrán, she knew who the five men on stage were.

  “Oh, Kiwi, you didn’t,” she whispered.

  “I’d pluck the stars from the skies for you if you asked for them,” he said.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Spike asked excitedly. She was seated beside her.

  “The Coyne Brothers and Sean Cullen,” she said.

  His hand tightened around hers and he lifted it, brought it to his lips as Sean Cullen’s strong tenor voice filled the room as he began to sing The Prince’s Lost Lady.

  “Where are you going, my lady, my love? Where are you going this day?

  “Said she to him, ‘It shall not take long; For I go but a very short way.’

  “And how long will you be, my lady, my love, how long will you be gone this day?

  “Said she, ‘I’ll be gone a very long while; And will not be back this way.’;

  “Will she ever return, my lady, my love?” he begged of her mother one night;

  “Said she, ‘I fear my daughter is dead; And will never return to our sight.’

  He mourned for the lady, his lady, his love;

  He wept for her the night and the day;

  “Said he, ‘I will go to meet my one love; For I believe I have now found the way.’

  “He took to his bed in the cold fading light;

  Turned his eyes to the sky above;

  “Said he, ‘I seek what I know I shall find; I go to be with my love.’

  “They laid him down in the green, green grass.

  On the hills overlooking the town.

  “And on his grave they carved these lines:

  The Prince’s Lost Lady Is Found.

  The Prince’s Lost Lady Is Found.”

  Tears filled her eyes as the last of the refrain died away and the others began to clap in appreciation. She squeezed his hand and turned her head toward him. He leaned in to claim her lips in a slow, lingering kiss.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re very welcome, my love,” he replied as the singers struck up a very lively rendition of Marie’s Wedding.

  Throughout the evening, they sang and clapped and stomped their feet to the songs of the Irish troubadours. Near the end of the performance, Sean Cullen came on stage without his black guitar with Seamus Coyne carrying a bodhrán.

  “Ooh!” Spike said. “He’s going to stepdance! Jono, he’s going to step dance!”

  Sean winked at her and Seamus started playing the Irish frame drum with a tipper—a lathe-turned piece of hickory wood. Sean’s feet began stamping out a swift, complicated series of steps that had everyone’s eyes glued to the floor beneath his hard shoes—the soles of which had fiberglass molded to the heels and toes. When the Dance at the Crossroads was over, everyone was on his or her feet clapping enthusiastically. Jono gave a shrill whistle through his fingers.

  “I…I…” She couldn’t think of the words to tell her lover how much she had enjoyed the performance.

  “Just wait,” he said, kissed her hand again then released it. He stood then hopped up on the stage with Sean, shook the handsome Irishman’s hand then positioned himself at the center mic.

  “He’s going to sing?” Craigie asked. “Oh, God help us!”

  She knew. Even before Sean Cullen began the song a cappella she knew what the song would be. When Sean finished, the Coyne brothers and Synjyn joined in on the chorus of Red is the Rose. When the chorus was done, Synjyn McGregor’s clear, strong baritone voice rang out and everyone who had
never heard him sing was stunned into silence.

  ‘Twas down by Killarney’s green woods that we strayed

  When the moon and the stars they were shining

  The moon shone its rays on her locks of golden hair

  And she swore she’d be my love forever.

  “My God,” Spike whispered as the other men joined in on the chorus. “Lina, did you know he could sing like that?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring into his eyes, though she doubted he could see hers because of the spotlight on him.

  The song ended and everyone save her hooted with absolute astonishment. They shot to their feet and rushed up to the stage, insulting and complimenting the Kiwi at the same time.

  “Cor blimey,” Jonny said. “And here I thought all your voice was good for was yelling and cursing!” He stuck out his hand. “Put it there, bro!”

  He shook hands with Jonny and Craigie and Kit, exchanged hugs with Spike, Craigie’s and Kit’s wives, then stepped off the stage. He held out his hand.

  “Come meet the lads,” he said.

  She was awestruck at meeting the four men whose voices had inspired and entertained her, whose albums she had devoured time and time again. They were as wickedly funny and flirtatious as she thought they’d be—Black Irish rogues all four of them. But it was Sean Cullen who stole her heart. He kissed the underside of her wrist when he took her hand and slowly winked at her as he looked up at her during the kiss.

  “She’s taken,” the Kiwi said.

  “I’m heartbroken,” Sean said on a long sigh.

  The singers stayed for several rounds of drinks then said their goodbyes. They had a gig in Belfast the following day and had to leave earlier than they would have liked. It didn’t surprised her to learn that her lover had sent his corporate jet to pick them up from across the pond and was sending them back to Ireland the same way.

  “A part of me is very curious to know how much that cost you,” she said as they took the elevator up to his private suite.