Deirdre steered him toward the men’s room and entered with him despite the shocked looks and laughs from other guys. “Get out!” At her command,they went.
Quinn headed for the first stall, dropped to his knees, and retched with a groan. He spewed into the commode while she hovered, one hand on his shoulder for comfort or support. When he finished after multiple rounds of vomiting, she wet several paper towels. After offering a hand up, she provided him the towels so he could wipe his face. Then he rinsed his mouth and splashed more water over his head. As he moved, she caught a whiff of his rank stench and grimaced.
He leaned against the sink, eyes closed. “Thank you, acushla.”
“Don’t mention it,” Deidre said, dry as sand. “You need a shower—you stink.”
Forget romance, the Hollywood moment she’d dreamed about. She’d take this reality and keep it. Quinn stared at her, then began to laugh, a full-bodied belly laugh. “Then help me upstairs, woman, and I’ll take one. God knows, I’m glad you’re back, and I do love you.”
Disheveled, dirty, reeking of vomit and whiskey and body odor, her man gave her what she needed to hear. Deidre touched his bristly cheek and shook her head. She’d never loved him more.
Chapter Three
As he showered, Deidre wandered around his place, nosy as she poked into everything. The flat, as he preferred to call it, remained the same. The large living room opened off the back staircase leading up from the pub. To the right, the kitchen with the same old outdated appliances sat opposite the bathroom and at the end, the big bedroom took up the rest of the space. Quinn had the same furniture she remembered but before, it’d been neat. Oh, he’d cluttered it in typical male fashion with his shoes or cast off shirts, but there hadn’t been a coating of dust on every surface or a sour smell. As she waded through the litter on the floor to open a window to diffuse the odor, she tripped over empty whiskey bottles galore. As the brisk autumn air rushed in, Deirdre investigated the kitchen. The sink held an array of dirty glasses, nothing more, and the fridge yielded nothing but a block of moldy cheese and a jar of mayonnaise. Quinn’s cupboards were as bare as Mother Hubbard’s, and she doubted he’d eaten anything at home in months, if not years.
She found the bed in disarray, covers tangled and twisted. They reeked too, so she stripped the bed, tossing the dirty bedding into one corner. Deirdre found clean sheets on the top closet shelf and remade the bed, smoothing down the blankets and plumping up the pillows. The domestic chore kept her grounded and provided a focus. Nothing had turned out the way she’d expected, not yet, but she remained glad she came back.
Quinn emerged from the dinky bathroom nude, still drying off with a towel. He’d shaved, too. He dripped onto the kitchen floor as she gaped. Deirdre hadn’t seen him naked in three years, or anyone else for that matter. Although his ribs stood out in stark relief against his torso and he was skinnier than she’d ever known him, he was beautiful. His long, wide back attached to his legs via his very fine arse. He caught her gawking and a strange little half-smile flirted with his lips. Her heart twisted into a knot. Deirdre ached to run to him and put her arms around him. She wanted to cover his face with kisses and be wrapped in his embrace forever. Instead, in a casual voice, she said, “You definitely smell better now, but how do you feel?”
“My stomach’s empty, but I’m still the wee bit blootered or else the floor’s shifting beneath my feet. There’s not an earthquake is there?”
“No. The bed’s made if you want to finish toweling off and lie down a bit.”
He made a face. “I should go back downstairs. Drunk or sober, I’m still the proprietor here. There’s hours left till bar time are they not?”
“Probably but you should…”
The door burst open with force. “Quinn, ye arsewipe are ye up here or are ye passed out cold on the bloody floor?”
Desmond Sullivan stalked into the living room, fists balled like the boxer he’d once been.
“I’m in here, uncle.”
“If ye didn’t own the place, I’d chucker ye out and ye know it. You’re as useless as a back pocket on a shirt. Yer barman said ye’d puked all over the bog, and he’s telling tales ye were with a skank. I find it hard to believe, being you’ve near turned monk and all, but he swears by the Virgin ye were. Says she’s a bold piece of work, came right in there with the men and all, and never batted an eye. Did she come up here with ye? I’ll show her right out.”
As he spoke, the older man turned toward the kitchen, but he hadn’t seen Deirdre. Quinn tried to interrupt twice, but Des spoke over him. Intrigued by the information he’d yielded and to save the man some embarrassment, she stepped from the bedroom doorway into the middle of the kitchen floor. “Hello, Uncle Des.”
Desmond Sullivan stared and made the sign of the cross. His face flushed scarlet, then went white. His mouth dropped open, and he babbled something Deirdre couldn’t quite make out in Irish. “Jaysus,” he said, his brogue broader than any she’d ever heard. “’Tis yourself but weren’t you dead and buried?”
“Ye can see she’s not,” Quinn said. “I’ve not heard the story yet myself but ‘tis plain she’s alive.”
As he collapsed into a kitchen chair, the old man hooted with laughter. “Ah, sure, ‘tis grand yer woman’s back. I wish you well of her. Maybe she can pry the bottle from your hand and keep ye sober. ‘Tis the least she could do if she will since she’s the cause of ye becoming such a drunkard.”
“Don’t put that at my door,” Deirdre cried, riled by his tone. “It isn’t my fault.”
The old man glared at her with eyes much like Quinn’s, a pair of hard sapphires. “Oh, isn’t it? If ye hadn’t been dead, he wouldn’t have taken to drink. You weren’t here to see him with his heart broken and no fire left in his belly to go on. I’ve no idea why you did it, Deirdre King , but I saw what your leaving, your death did to him. And now you turn up, not dead at all. I’m glad if ye’re here to love him, but if you hurt him again, sure, I’ll be the one to…”
“Hush, Uncle Des,” Quinn said. “It’s up to me to work things out with her if they can be, and I’m still half drunk. My brain’s mush at the moment and I can’t think straight.”
“Ye’ll have a head tomorrow, lad and be sick as a dog.”
“Aye, I likely will but that’s mine, too, uncle.”
Desmond’s harsh expression softened a little. “Are ye comin’ back down, then, Quinn?”
Please don’t. Even if we don’t talk tonight, I need you here. Deirdre didn’t speak aloud but hoped he might read her the way he once had. He shook his head and winced. “No, I’m not up for it so I won’t. Ye can close up, can’t ye?”
“I’ve done it often enough. I’ll leave ye to it, then and see you tomorrow.”
Quinn almost sounded humble. “Thank you, Des.”
Neither Deirdre nor Quinn moved as he took his leave but listened as his feet pounded down the staircase. His uncle’s scolding provided additional details about Quinn’s condition during her absence. Des, as she remembered, had doted on his nephew like a son. He had supported Quinn in almost everything and valued his words as if they were gold nuggets. Now he made his disgust with Quinn and his drinking apparent, harsh from a man who loved his whiskey well. She’d hoped she had stumbled onto something out of the ordinary, Quinn drunk, but it wasn’t so. If I got him into this cycle, then I need to help him break it. It’s the only way we’ll ever be together, because I won’t be with a drunk. Despite her bravado to Des, guilt hit home hard. She did her best to protect Quinn and instead, she’d almost destroyed him.
A sharp draft from the open window blew into the kitchen and Quinn shivered. “Maybe I’m sick and not drunk at all,” he said. “I’m colder than a witch’s tit, and I’m seldom cold unless I’m ill.”
“I opened the window to let out the smell,” Deirdre said. “I’ll go close it. Put some clothes on, Quinn.”
If he didn’t, she might yield to temptation. Whatever he’d meant b
y saying he wasn’t so good in the bedroom these days, close proximity to his nude body lowered her defenses. Deirdre wanted him, needed his hands to roam over her, caressing and fondling. She ached to take him inside her. Until they worked out their emotions, though, it wasn’t a good idea. She knew it, but she could want and did. By the time she’d managed to shut the window and put the drapes in place, he’d donned a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. Clean-shaven and showered, his appearance had improved over how he’d looked downstairs, but he remained more than a little unsteady on his feet. “I think I’ll lie down before I fall down, Deirdre.”
Was he dismissing her? She didn’t know, but she kept her voice level. “I think that’s a good idea.”
“Come with me and keep me company?”
He hadn’t tried to kiss her and he hadn’t touched her any more than necessary. Or, he hadn’t unless she counted holding hands downstairs. Something in his voice moved her, although Deirdre could tell it wasn’t an invitation to get intimate. “Yeah, I will. I need to go grab my bag from the car first, though.”
Quinn’s eyes glistened, and Deirdre swore she spotted tears. “All yer things from before are still here,” he said. “If ye could wait till morning, I’d appreciate it. I know I probably haven’t welcomed ye home proper so it’s likely ye think I’m not glad but I am, Deirdre, so much I don’t know what to say with me piss-eyed drunk and shattered, too. I need to hear yer story, that goes without sayin’, but for now, won’t you just stay with me.”
She’d almost forgotten the way words tended to echo when he talked until he spoke something close to poetry. But she remembered well how much she loved Quinn, always had and still did. Deirdre couldn’t deny him. “I will, Quinn.”
Without thinking about it or considering any consequences, Deirdre walked to him. She lifted her hand and cupped it to his cheek, then stretched to kiss his mouth with tenderness, not passion. He tasted minty, having brushed his teeth, but she could also taste the remnants of the whiskey behind it. Quinn remained motionless for a long moment, then his arms locked around her. He cradled her close and tight as she clung to him, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It marked the first moment she’d felt as if she’d come home, and a warm rush of emotion poured over her. Until Quinn’s body trembled against hers, she hadn’t realized he wept. When she did, she glanced upward.
Tears trailed down in tandem, but he wore a smile. “Quinn?” she asked. “What is it?”
“Ah, mo ghra, ‘tis joy,” he said. “And it probably doesn’t help I’m still under the influence or I’d have better control of my emotions.”
Deirdre held him close as he wept, standing within the shelter of his arms. Neither said anything more. She lacked words and besides, there didn’t seem to be much to say, not now. When he calmed, they walked to the bedroom. He climbed into bed while she pulled out a nightgown from a dresser drawer. Deidre turned bashful and headed into the bathroom to change. She washed her face and brushed out her hair, then tamed it into a braid. Looking chaste as a nun and feeling horny, she crawled in beside Quinn.
“Is the room spinning or is it just me?” he asked, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“It’s you,” she said. “You’re gonna feel so bad in the morning, darlin’.”
He chuckled. “I fear ye’re right, woman. Come, lay your head and let me hold you some more.”
She scooted closer and put her head against his shoulder. Deirdre snuggled against him, and he tucked her tighter with one arm. His body radiated tension but as they cuddled, she could feel his tight muscles relax. “You smell just the same,” he whispered. “I slept with your pillow for months because it smelled of you, but the fragrance faded in time.”
Her perfume had been among the few things she’d refused to change to become Mallory. Goodbye, bitch. Deirdre unwound, too, but before she drifted off, Quinn fell asleep, although he swore he seldom did. His breathing shifted into a slower rhythm, and she matched it. I’m back where I belong, she thought, as she passed into sleep country. Although she felt safe, something niggled at her brain. She ignored it, too tired and content to pursue it.
****
In the morning, she awakened alone but aware of her location. Deirdre sat up and called his name. “Quinn.”
He answered from the kitchen with a groan. “I’m in here dying, acushla.”
Deirdre followed his voice and found him seated at the small kitchen table, his head in his hands. The anticipated hangover had struck. “How bad do you feel?” she asked, with some sympathy.
“I feel like shit beaten up in a bucket.” He moaned. “I’ve got a desperate headache fit to split my skull. Bright light sends a dagger through my eyes, and I ache all over.”
“It’s not like it’s never happened before,” she said, tone light. She sympathized more than she planned to show him. “Are you going to puke again?”
“So far, no,” he said with a shudder. “I don’t think there’s anything left to come up or I might.”
“I’ll get you water and some ibuprofen for your head.”
“God bless you, Deirdre, would you please?”
Last night, they were both strained, almost like two strangers, but the more time spent in his company, the more familiar she became. She dosed him, fussed over him a little but not enough to inflate his ego, and watched him crawl onto the couch. Quinn curled into a near fetal position, eyes squinched shut. He kept quiet and still as if noise or movement intensified his misery, but after more than an hour, Deirdre glanced over to see a smile on his lips. His eyes remained closed, but his relaxed posture indicated he’d improved.
“Better?” she asked.
“Oh, aye, some,” he said. “At least I’m fairly certain I’ll live this time. I might even consider eating in a bit.”
His cavalier attitude, so much a part of his personality, sobered Deirdre. His casual comment stirred her emotions into a dither. He joked about living while she’d allowed him to believe she died. She missed him for three years while he mourned her, his life crashing into chaos in his grief. In her zeal to protect him, she realized she’d been selfish. Unable to bear the possibility of his death and in fear for her life, she ran. And doing so sent Quinn to a terrible hell. I was so blind, so stupid. I thought I was saving him and instead, I was killing him through slow torture, one terrible day, one bottle at a time.
Mallory seldom wept. She had learned to lock the hurts deep within and hide them because somewhere, Deirdre knew if she began to cry, she might never stop. Tears rained down her face as she sat across from Quinn in a silent waterfall. When she didn’t respond, he asked, without any mirth in his voice, “Deirdre, ye’re here, are ye not?”
“I am, Quinn.” She forced the words up her throat and out before the first sob broke free. Deirdre buried her face in her hands and cried. Blinded by her tears, deafened by the loud noise she made, she had no idea Quinn moved until he knelt before her. He touched the back of her head with one hand. “Woman, I’m all right, I am. Don’t keen over me like a banshee just yet.”
She raised her head and cupped his face between her hands. “Oh, Quinn, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you the way I did. I didn’t think about how you’d feel. I wanted to protect you, to keep you safe and I was wrong. I should’ve told you what happened and not kept it from you, but I couldn’t bear to lose you, I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”
Deirdre blubbered like a toy-deprived toddler until Quinn pulled her into his arms. He held her, rocking her a bit and whispered soft words of comfort. He used all the old endearments and a few new ones. Sometimes he threw in some Irish, but he talked in a steady, calm tone until she eased. She clung to him, almost ill with the realization Quinn had no notion why she’d gone or let him think her dead. Her mind whirled dizzy. He doesn’t know about WITSEC or why I did it or anything. I never told him.
“I’ve no idea what you’re blethering about,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. “But you’ll tell it all to me soon enough, I�
��m sure. Whatever you’re so sorry about, I forgive ye, but I need to hear your story.”
“Oh, Quinn, I should’ve told you then.”
He put one finger over her lips. “Aye, ye should’ve done, but ye’ll tell me later. I’m not up to it just yet, and I’d rather we go somewhere where no one will come knocking at the door or ringing the phone.”
“Quinn…”
“Hush, woman. It’s near noon and I’ve got to go down to the pub. I’m surprised old Des hasn’t been up to rouse me. If ye weren’t here, he would’ve been. Come down when ye’re ready and we’ll make plans.”
Deirdre hated to leave his arms. In them, she felt safe but she nodded. “All right, Quinn, I’ll be down later.”
She watched him walk through the door and the thought struck her. Quinn said he’d forgiven her and he’d accepted her return rather well. He knew nothing more than her violent and terrible death had been a lie. She had strolled back into his life and dropped a bombshell, but he didn’t hate her. He still loved her and after he heard the details, Deirdre hoped he still would.
Despite the fact she’d found him drunk and dissolute, no matter how rocky their reunion might yet prove to be, coming back had been the right thing to do. She didn’t regret it and she hoped she never would.
Chapter Four
Dressed in a pair of her black jeans from Quinn’s closet and an emerald green blouse, Deirdre descended the back stairs into the pub. Delicious aromas wafted upward. Chatter and conversation sounds were audible along with the clink of china and rattle of silverware. She paused and listened for Quinn’s voice. She followed the sound of it and found him behind the bar, his uncle at his side.
“I tell you I don’t know yet, but she’s back and I’m glad of it,” Quinn said as he added fresh bottles to the shelves.
“And I’m glad for yer sake, lad, I am, but don’t ye find it strange? Ye thought her dead and buried. I watched ye grieve and mourned with ye. Ye’ve been like one of those terrible creatures, the walkin’ dead.”
Quinn's Deirdre Page 3
