Total Rush

by Deirdre Martin

  He hustled around to the passenger side and opened the door for Gemma, who could feel her heart beginning to race as they started toward the Kennealy house.

  “Nervous?”

  “A little,” Gemma admitted, grateful for his concern.

  “It’ll be a cakewalk, I swear.” They walked up the front steps. “Just two things,” he added, pressing the doorbell.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t get Tom started on the Jets.”

  “And—?”

  There was the sound of a lock being clicked back.

  “Don’t say anything about being a witch.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sitting in the Kennealys’ crowded living room, Gemma struggled to keep Sean’s family straight. There were his parents, who insisted she call them Mary and Steve. There was Sean’s sister Christine and her husband—Joe? Joel? Gemma wasn’t sure she’d heard his name correctly, and was too embarrassed to ask him to repeat it.

  Christine and Joe/Joel seemed to be the parents of three little girls, the youngest an infant. Or did the baby belong to his sister Pat and her husband, Tom? No, wait: Tom made a crack over dinner about both his boys becoming firefighters. That meant Pat and Tom were the parents of the twins. That left Sean’s sister Megan and her new boyfriend, Jason. Luckily, Jason seemed as overwhelmed as Gemma, and she was glad he was there. It meant she wouldn’t be the only one put under the family microscope at day’s end.

  “More coffee, Gemma?” Like Stavros, Sean’s mom seemed to have the coffeepot permanently welded to her hand.

  Gemma held up her mug. “I would love some Mrs… Mary.”

  “Here you go.” She topped Gemma off, moving in a graceful arc around the room, providing refills. Gemma contrasted Mary’s easygoing nature with that of her own mother, who would go into full-blown cardiac arrest if anyone dared bring food or drink into her living room. In fact, she cordoned the room off with a velvet rope as if it were a museum.

  Don’t say anything about being a witch. He couldn’t have shocked her more if he’d turned to her and declared he had superpowers. What did he think she was going to do? Pull down her jeans and moon them all with her tattoo? She knew when it was appropriate to be open about it, and when it wasn’t! Meeting a boyfriend’s family for the first time fell into the latter category.

  “Gemma, would you mind helping me with the dishes in the kitchen?”

  Gemma smiled affably and rose, following Mrs. Kennealy and Megan. She was pleased to be included, though she knew part of the reason she was being spirited away was so they could quiz her about Sean. How many family secrets and stories had women swapped in the kitchen under the auspices of doing chores?

  A system was quickly established: Mrs. Kennealy scraped food off the plates into the garbage. Gemma rinsed them, and Megan loaded them in the dishwasher.

  “So,” Mrs. Kennealy began, and Gemma held her breath. Here it comes. “How long have you known Sean?”

  “A few months. We live in the same building.”

  “And you run your own store in the city, you said?” Sean’s mother was looking at Gemma with interest.

  Gemma nodded. “Yes. I sell books, candles, incense, that sort of thing.”

  “Cool,” chimed Megan, who at twenty was the baby of the family.

  “Sounds interesting,” Mrs. Kennealy agreed.

  Megan looked up from where she was bent over the lower rack of the dishwasher. “Has he dragged you to a stupid firehouse party yet?”

  “Megan.” Mrs. Kennealy flashed her a look of warning before smiling warmly at Gemma. “For some reason, my youngest daughter has a problem with firefighters, despite the fact half the men she knows do it for a living.”

  “Maybe that’s why,” Megan sniffed derisively. “It’s like a cult. Get out now while you can.”

  Gemma grabbed another plate and ran it under the tap. “What don’t you like about it?”

  “Megan.” Mrs. Kennealy’s voice was a warning.

  “Ma, she asked me!” Megan whined.

  “Fine,” said Mrs. Kennealy with a long-suffering sigh. “Give her your little speech.”

  Megan smirked triumphantly. “ ‘Why I Will Never Go Out with a Fireman,’ by Megan Kennealy. One: They drink too much.”

  Mrs. Kennealy glared with indignation. “That’s a stereotype and you know it!”

  Megan ignored her. “Two: They work fucked-up hours. Three: For what they do, the pay is absolute shit.”

  “Nice language,” said her mother.

  “Four: Over half of all firefighter marriages end in divorce. Why? Because five: Firefighters are about as open with their emotions as the Sphinx. And they drink. And the pay is shit so they have to work lots of overtime or second jobs to make money, so they don’t see their families.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Oh! Did I forget to mention the pay is shit?”

  Mrs. Kennealy’s frown returned. “They don’t do it for the pay.”

  “Oh, that’s right, they do it to serve, I forgot. Which brings me to six: I don’t want to hitch my wagon to any-one who might die on me when he goes to work.” She smiled at Gemma gaily. “That about covers it.”

  “Very nice,” Mrs. Kennealy said sourly. “I’m sure Sean will want to thank you for sharing your views with his new girlfriend—views which are immature, I might add.” She glanced up at Gemma apologetically from the plate she was scraping. “Megan prides herself on saying outrageous things just to get a reaction. Don’t pay any attention.”

  “It’s all right,” Gemma assured her. She winked at Megan covertly to let her know she wasn’t siding with Sean’s mother, but inside, Megan’s words had made her uneasy. “One thing Megan said did interest me,” she timidly admitted aloud.

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, how do you deal with the danger factor?”

  Mrs. Kennealy blinked. “You just do.”

  “But how?” She hoped Mrs. Kennealy didn’t think her too pushy, but this was preying heavily on her mind. If she and Sean were truly going to be a couple, she was going to have to deal with the harsh realities of his job.

  “Sean’s father and I had a rule: Never go to bed mad at one another. That advice holds whether you’re married to a firefighter or not. Beyond that, the only advice I can give is if he wants to talk, listen, and if he doesn’t, leave him be. The truth is, some women can’t deal with it. The uncertainty drives them crazy.”

  “So does the macho bullshit,” Megan added under her breath. “And the stress. And—”

  Mrs. Kennealy spun angrily to face her daughter. “One more word out of you and you can find someone else to pay your college tuition, got that?”

  “Fine.” Megan sulked.

  Their dynamic made Gemma uncomfortable, reminding her of her own relationship with her mother at that age, the two of them constantly locking horns. Yet on another level, it felt completely normal. Dante-esque. She wondered if they sparred like this in front of everyone. If not, then it had to mean they felt comfortable around her. She felt accepted.

  From out in the living room came the sound of roaring laughter. Megan rolled her eyes. “Some stupid firehouse story, I’m sure. They’ve got a million.”

  “For once she’s not exaggerating,” Mrs. Kennealy added with a rueful shake of the head. “They should write a book.” Her eyes strayed to the clock above the sink. “I hope Uncle Jack and Aunt Bridie get here soon. I’m dying for a piece of that chocolate cake.”

  “So, have a piece,” Megan urged. “You made it. You’ve earned the right to nibble.”

  Mrs. Kennealy frowned with disapproval. “That wouldn’t be polite. And we don’t want our guests thinking we’re shanty, do we?”

  Gemma blinked, confused. “Shanty?”

  “Shanty Irish, as opposed to lace curtain.”

  Gemma stared blankly.

  Mrs. Kennealy looked surprised. “You’ve never heard that expression?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an old, rude way o
f saying high-class Irish versus low-class Irish.”

  “We’re definitely low-class,” Megan joked.

  “Speak for yourself,” her mother said. She bit her lip, restive, unable to tear her gaze from the cake sitting on the counter. “Maybe I will have a piece. I’m sure the O’Sheas won’t mind.”

  ———

  “You were kind of quiet during dessert,” said Sean when they got back to the Long Beach apartment.

  “I was thinking about some things your sister said to me in the kitchen,” Gemma said, unbuttoning her shirt.

  Sean didn’t respond immediately, choosing instead to perch on the edge of the bed to remove his socks. When he spoke, his voice had an edge. “Let me guess: She gave you her ‘Why Firefighters Suck’ speech.”

  “Yup.” Gemma moved to the closet to hang up her blouse. “Why is she so vehement?” she asked over her shoulder.

  Sean’s eyes followed her. “Well, for one thing, she knows it’s going to get up my mother’s nose. And if there’s one thing Megan enjoys, it’s trying to raise Mom’s blood pressure.”

  “Ah, yes, parent baiting,” Gemma mused as she slipped out of her yoga pants. “One of the pleasures of being twenty.”

  Sean chuckled in agreement. “The other reason she’s so pissy is that she was dating a probie last year. They met at a St. Patrick’s Day Dance at the Knights of Columbus Hall in Mineola, I think it was.” Sean looked tired. “Anyway, they were going all hot and heavy and pfftt! One day he just pulls the plug, no explanation, nothing. She’s still not over it. Her way of dealing with it is to vil-lify all of us.”

  “Poor Megan.”

  “Yeah, it was a pretty raw deal.” Sean rose to unzip his jeans. “I think she’s pissed my dad wasn’t around a lot, too. By the time she came along, he was doing a lot of carpentry work on the side to keep our heads above water.”

  “I see.” So Megan wasn’t exaggerating. The uneasiness Gemma felt in the Kennealys’ kitchen returned.

  “You and my mom seemed to get along okay,” Sean observed as he slithered out of his pants, standing there in just his briefs.

  “She’s nice,” Gemma replied with a smile as she unfastened her bra and put it to rest on the dresser. “She made me feel very welcome.”

  Sean moved to the sliding glass doors looking out on the ocean. “When you were in the bathroom, she asked me what perfume you were wearing. Said it reminded her of the sixties.”

  Gemma slipped on the oversized T-shirt she intended to sleep in, then joined him at the doors. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good, I think.”

  “I hope.”

  Moving behind her, Sean wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “Did you have fun today?”

  Gemma’s eyes drifted shut. “Yes and no.”

  Sean lifted her hair, pressing his mouth against her right ear. “I’m listening.”

  “I was a little upset when you told me not to mention being a witch.” She turned around in his arms. Some things had to be said face-to-face, though God knows, she wished they could have this entire conversation looking out at the dark ocean.

  “Gemma—”

  “Let me finish.”

  Sean dipped his head, acquiescent.

  “You made me feel dumb, Sean. Of course I wasn’t going to mention it! Not the first time I met them! But it does make me wonder…” She hesitated.

  Sean pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “What?”

  “If it embarrasses you in some way.”

  “Of course it doesn’t,” he scoffed.

  “Because eventually they’re going to find out.”

  “I know that. But not yet.” There was mild panic in his voice.

  “When?” she asked softly, running a finger up and down his bare shoulder.

  “When it’s time.” He drew her into a more intimate embrace. “Enough talking.” He pressed his lips to hers.

  “Trying to hush me up with kisses, huh?” Gemma teased.

  “You object?”

  Gemma laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. She assumed Sean was strong, but she wasn’t prepared for him to lift her with one arm and throw her over his shoulder like some modern-day caveman.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, watching the sliding glass doors recede as he carried her to the bed. As swiftly as he’d picked her up, that’s how delicately he put her down, the nubby chenille of the bedspread a soft shock against her skin. Then he was on her, skin sliding against burning skin, lips demanding and hard as he greedily pressed his mouth to her throat. Gemma moaned as the twin torments of heat and desire coiled themselves around the two of them, binding them. She couldn’t tell where Sean left and she began. There was only this moment, this outpouring of need that seemed unstoppable.

  Sean lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes. “Kiss me,” he demanded.

  Breathless, Gemma did as she was told, powerless to do anything else. She lifted her head off the bed slightly and, gripping his head in her hands, pulled his face down to hers and held it there, one second, two seconds, three, then-lips almost touching but not quite, their heated breath mingling. Unable to take it any longer, Sean gave a guttural groan and pressed his mouth to hers, raw and desperate. The taste of him, Gemma thought dizzily, was like wine, like divinity. She clutched him close, afraid that if she loosened her grip, he would turn to an apparition and disappear into the night without a trace. She wanted every nerve in her body to register that this was a real, solid, flesh-and-blood man who was pressing into her with all his might. A real, solid man who wanted her.

  Two pulses were fluttering wildly within her now: the one at the base of her throat, throbbing like a trapped, quivering bird, and the one pounding between her legs. Squirming in desperation beneath him, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of his briefs and tugged. The motion seemed to inflame Sean: Without a sound he rose up and tore the briefs from his hips before crashing back down onto her, his hard-on burning against her. Gemma wondered if he could tell how badly she wanted him as she pressed herself urgently against him. She would not be complete until he had filled her. She would not rest until they spoke the same blazing language of the soul.

  Ravenous. That was the word that sprang to Gemma’s mind as Sean’s mouth raced over her upper torso, tongue pausing to tease at her nipples through the cotton of her T-shirt. Thought ceased, veering into pure sensation. Hot, wet, burning, yes—Gemma’s overloaded mind could barely form the words. Rough, hard, shocking, please. She knew she should be patient, knew how it all would end and that it would be good, so damn good, but she couldn’t help herself. The conflagration burning within her was out of control. She needed relief now.

  Sean knew. Gemma sensed he was just waiting for her to give him a signal. And so, too overcome to speak, she dragged her nails across his back. She lapped at him like a cat. Sean reared up and, in a move both unexpected and thrilling, roughly parted her legs, plunging his fingers deep within her. The room reverberated with the sound of Gemma’s shocked screams, so loud they drowned out the background music of the surf. His pacing perfect, the thumb of his free hand caressed her sex, coaxing her to delirium while his nimble fingers dipped and played. Trembling, eager, she let herself plunge into the shuddering abyss, knowing that Sean would be there to catch her when she broke free of the bounds of earth. She was tumbling, flying, eternal. She was perfectly, absolutely his.

  Weak, she opened her eyes, whispering her thanks. Smiling, Sean kissed her sweating forehead before gently withdrawing his hand. Gemma knew what was going to happen next; she craved it, body already retensing in an-ticipation. She swooned as his fingers grasped her hips tightly in preparation. And then he was inside her, burning, moving, demanding, each punch of his hips against hers an invitation. Come... with… me. Gemma’s heart danced madly in her chest. Come with him? Gladly. Tightening herself around him, she answered his invitation.

  He loved that. Loved it. Gemma could tell by the frenzy of his body, his dr
iving need pushing both of them farther and farther up the bed. Reaching up, she curled her fingers around the wooden spindles of the headboard, bracing herself. And then it came: the breaking of the dam as he poured himself into her, breathing her name. Gemma. Gemma. Gemma. Was it possible to get drunk on the sound of one’s own name? If so, then she was plastered, she was destroyed, she would never, never move again. Above her, Sean’s body still quivered in the aftermath of their fierce union. Gemma slowly lowered her hands from the headboard and wrapped them around Sean’s back. They were both limp, wrecked.

  And more satisfied than words could ever express.

  ———

  Afterward, lying in Sean’s arms, Gemma realized that bed was where they communicated best. It was just the two of them, reading each other perfectly. No crossed wires, no fears on her part about what she might be getting herself into, no fears on his about what she believed. They simply were.

  Lifting her head from Sean’s chest, she looked at him. “You awake?” she whispered.

  “Uh-huh.” The arm he had clasped around her tickled her shoulder. “What’s up?” he asked drowsily.

  “Nothing.” She put her head down to rest again on his chest. Except I’m falling in love with you.

  The realization scared her since she had no idea if he felt the same. He obviously felt something—he’d taken her to meet his family and had just made voracious love to her. But was it love? Were men and women speaking of the same emotion when they used that word? A shaft of moonlight dissected the bed with its diagonal glow. Outside, Gemma could hear the wind coming off the ocean, buffeting the sliding glass doors, which trembled slightly in their tracks.

  “I think there’s going to be a storm,” she murmured.

  “Mmm.” Sean drew her closer. “Go to sleep now.”

  Gemma snuggled close to him, enjoying every second as their legs twined together beneath the tangle of covers. She sighed, planting a series of tiny kisses on his chest before closing her eyes.

  Everything was going to be all right.