by Cd Brennan
“See you like your number fives,” Padraig said as he stooped to collect the paper.
What did he mean by that? When he handed her the mail, she must have looked confused because he continued, “You know, I play number five and your address is number five…”
“Oh.” Her voice came out a breathy chuckle. “Right.”
She swung the door wide and stepped back to let him through, as much to see the look on his face as for courtesy. Did he still want this? Or did he want to run? Supposedly, he was a celebrity in Ireland, and her place was humble, to say the least.
Too late now. With a deep breath, she flicked on the lights, the strong halogens above causing her to squint. With a sweep of her hand, she introduced him to her small client space. “This is where all the magic happens.” She tried to joke, but he said nothing. The magic of a small desk and chairs, therapy table, and second-hand treadmill must not have been magic enough. “Through the back door is my place.”
After unlocking and leading him through to the apartment, she said, “Make yourself at home.”
He kicked off his flip-flops at the door. She had left the lights off so most of the kitchen and living room was in shadow. She wouldn’t make the mistake of turning them on. She was botching the romantic interlude badly enough as it was.
Gillian dropped her bag on one of the stools at the island that divided the kitchen and living room. She stood waiting as he scanned her personal space. The living area was divided by a couch and end tables. On the other side, she had converted a small dining area into an exercise room, small free weights were lined in order on the floor, her yoga mat rolled in the corner, her trumpet case off to the side. Thank God, she hadn’t left it out. Nothing like a brass instrument to scare Sex Jock away.
He nodded in clipped shakes of his head at her music posters on the walls, as though he was about ready to go nuts. Uh-oh. Time for intervention. She bit her lower lip. “Yeah, I meant to take those down last week. All except the one in the middle. She can stay. In fact, I might take them down now…”
As she was scooting by him, he reached out his arm to stop her. “Don’t.”
“All right, yep. You’re right.” His lingering hand on her arm drew her gaze to his. Her knees went weak with the intensity. “Probably not the time for it…”
“It’s a nice place, Gillian.” He picked up her Rubik’s cube. Andrew and she had fought over that damn thing for years. It had originally been her dad’s, but at some point when they were young, they both wanted it, and it had become a type of game. One would take the cube from the other and hide it like treasure. The other would find it and do the same. Back and forth until one day, Andrew no longer cared and it stayed in her possession, hidden in a drawer of feminine hygiene, her best hiding place yet. Gillian could have played the game forever. She had imagined them taking it into their adult years when they had kids of their own, searching each other’s homes when they visited for barbecues and birthdays. But that was never going to happen.
Padraig set the toy back down again. “Lots of throw pillows and candles, which I hear from my sisters is the epitome of comfort for a woman.”
Phew. “I’ll just light a few for us then.” She slipped from their slight connection to the kitchen where she rummaged in her top spare-everything drawer. No matches. As much as she had envisioned herself floating about like an ethereal spirit to light the candles, she only had a very unromantic child-proof plastic lighter thingy. It would have to do.
Barely. With each candle, she had to use one hand to press down the child safety mechanism, the other to click the lighter. Click-click-click. If he hadn’t lost his hard-on by the posters, Gillian was sure he was now as flaccid as a monk.
When she’d finished, Padraig was standing in front of the print of Music, Pink and Blue No 2, one of the few she’d had professionally mounted, and a stark contrast to the U2 and Duran Duran posters flanking each side. His hands in his pockets, he seemed to be studying the framed picture.
“Who painted this?” he asked finally.
“Georgia O’Keeffe.” She stepped up behind him. “She’s an artist that believed music could be translated into something for the eye.” Looking at the print over Padraig’s shoulder, Gillian noted how much the picture looked like a vagina. The folds pink and purple, but yep, very much a woman’s coochie. She’d never had a man in her apartment, so how could she have known how cringe-worthy it all was until now? She should have listened to Junette. He was going to think her a fruitcake. Which she was…
Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on the middle of his back. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for an answer.
When none came, not even the removal of his hands from his pockets, she tugged gently on the bottom of his shirt. She’d come this far, and even if he was uncertain, even if she was confused, she would see it through. To do any less would have been worse. Would have been ridiculous. When she lifted his shirt over his abdomen, it got stuck at his shoulders, but he helped by pulling the jersey over his head. He turned, his shirt in hand, which she then took and let drop to the floor.
She traced her fingertips along his belly up to his chest and then over his shoulders to his arms. But she couldn’t look at him, concentrating instead on the movements her hands made along his skin.
When she finally worked up the nerve to meet his gaze, his face was serene, the flickering of the candles shifting dark spots to light and back again. A small faded scar ran the length of his chin.
Gillian trailed down his arm to his hand, tugged gently, and led him over to the large, patterned rug. She shifted the wood coffee table aside, then knelt and patted the floor. Now what? He’d barely said a handful of words since they’d arrived, and she was flying blind. All the heat and passion at the car was long gone, and she questioned again what the hell she was doing. If only he’d make a move or give a sign if he didn’t want to.
He grabbed a pillow off the couch, threw it on the floor, and lay down, the pillow scrunched under his head, his legs crossed at the ankle. He folded his arms behind him and closed his eyes as if tired.
She rose and removed her hoodie and beach wrap, then stood there, unsure what to do next. He lay motionless on the floor. Music to entice him? All she had available was the 80s Greatest Hits or her meditation music that he hated. He was sure to run for the hills.
Right. It was time to spice things up a bit. Gillian wanted desperately to get back to the intensity at the car. The craving. Her body demanded it. Beyond that, she didn’t want to think. How often did a girl have an Irish hunk in her living room? Jock or not.
She dropped down and crept up on her hands and knees. She kissed him along his chest to his waistband then tugged his swim trunks down his legs. He stirred, and she was glad to see she’d affected him, that he still desired her.
As she crawled back to Padraig, she locked gazes with him until he dropped his to her breasts. She hovered above him, her hair falling to both sides of his face so a tunnel formed, each at an end. For a moment, he didn’t move. So she didn’t either.
When he finally returned his gaze to hers, she wet her lips, inviting him to make a move, do something. How much more did a girl have to do?
It must have been enough. He grabbed both of her breasts, rubbing his thumbs over her nipples. At her gasp, he tugged down the bikini to expose them. Lifting his head, he took one nipple into his mouth and sucked. When he circled his tongue and nipped, she bit her lip to hold in a groan. He moved to her other breast, doing the same, biting gently on the nipple, then blowing air.
Her throat tightened from the emotion. So long. It had been so long since she’d allowed someone into her physical space. She swallowed the tears that brewed behind her eyes.
She kissed him, soft at first, then stronger, her tongue digging in and out. She sat up, straddled his erection, and removed her top. His hardness was overwhelming. She’d needed this. To feel so strongly again. For anything.
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sp; He moved his hands to her butt where he began to rock her gently over his length. Candlelight flickered over his face. He was beautiful. Such dark eyelashes around bright blue eyes. With each pressure against his erection, Gillian felt herself slipping further into that surreal world of pleasure—comfortably numb, the sharp edges of life blurred to soft borders like smudged charcoal.
Her mouth dry, she went to suck his ear to create moisture, her dangly earring feathering over his face. She sucked his lobe and wet her tongue in his ear. If they didn’t break soon, she would come from humping his cock through her suit bottoms. And that wasn’t enough. She wanted it all. For the last five years, her sole purpose had been to ease the pain of others. Now, she would take from him.
Padraig grunted. She could tell he was close, too. In a flurry of movement, he pulled her down and grabbed her bikini strings. He yanked them off in the midst of a tangle of legs.
Completely bared, she sat upon his thighs and took his dick into her hand.
The pillow had shifted away, and his head thumped back onto the floor as he groaned.
Loathe to break the connection, she had to ask. She hadn’t been down the condom aisle for so long. “Do you…have anything?”
“My wallet,” he grunted.
She squeezed his length once more, then lunged for his jeans where she found a brown wallet. In a hurry, she flailed with the tiny pockets, then commanded herself to slow down. When she found it, she ripped the foil open with her teeth and rolled the rubber over his dick slowly.
When she lowered herself onto him, the room fell away, phosphenes dancing behind her closed eyes. So good to be whole again. When the lights fizzled, she opened her eyes to see Padraig staring at her. His hands grasped her hips, then led her up and down. She rolled her own nipples, wanting that, too. He joined her with one hand, squeezing one breast, then the other as they moved together, first slowly, then building faster until he pounded out his release. And when she licked two fingers and rubbed her clit, she came full and fast, the image of his ecstasy pushing her over the edge.
Chapter 13
Gillian had dropped him off at the end of the block, and he had walked the rest of the way to the house. Both wanted to avoid the other boys and their questions. And although neither had said much on the ride over, didn’t even broach the subject of what was next, Gillian had kissed him goodbye, a long and lingering taste of her lips.
Two mornings later, and he still woke up to that kiss. Sometimes, when he was in the heat of a moment, right in the midst of amazing, he didn’t understand the impact until the whirlwind had passed. That’s where he was now.
She was an enigma. Underneath her façade, there was an ocean of perplexity. But also beauty, grace, intelligence.
He scratched his scalp furiously. Fuck, he shouldn’t be getting involved. If he’d wanted a shag, he should have just gone out with Del to the bar and found a one-nighter. But it was like he couldn’t resist. Now, what the feck was he going to do?
Most incredibly, he had forgotten to take his pill last night.
He opened the bottle and shook the pills out into his hand, then counted. Twenty-four. And since he hadn’t taken one last night, then all of them were there. If he could cut it down to only two pills a day, he’d be able to last two more weeks. Almost. By next Friday morning, he’d have to organize a doctor’s visit. Maybe he could borrow Del’s junker to get there.
There was no pain in his back this morning, but he popped one anyway. In the morning before training and one at the end of the day, he promised himself. That was it. That was all he would take.
Only Rory had been up when Padraig had returned, watching late-night television, some comic talk show host, Tosh-O, a sarcastic and edgy fecker. Rory hadn’t said a word even though he must have heard him come in. But the Scot was good like that, kept to himself, didn’t get involved.
Unfortunately Del wasn’t going to be so easy. When Padraig made his way into the kitchen, he immediately asked, “Where were you Sunday night?”
“Here.”
“You didn’t show up at the pub, and you weren’t here when I went to bed.”
“What? Are you my captain and mother now?”
Del’s chair scraped back, and he rose to his full height and girth. At first Padraig thought Del was going to have a go at him, but instead he picked up his bowl and placed it into the sink, turning on the tap to rinse. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just making sure you’re all right, bro.”
“I’m grand.” Padraig moved to the cupboard to grab out a bowl for breakfast.
“So where did you go after your therapy with Gill? I thought you were going to meet up with a few of us at the yacht club.” What the boys affectionately called the Sail Inn.
Padraig wanted to tell him to shove it up his arse and it wasn’t any of his business, especially where Gillian was concerned, but he liked Del for the most part, as much as he knew of him. “I went for something to eat, then walked home.”
Which wasn’t an out and out lie. He did get something to eat in the way of Gillian, and he did walk home, from the corner at least. He couldn’t pull off a full fib if he tried, as he wasn’t practiced in the art. Had rarely been dishonest in his life. That’s partly what had gotten him into this mess. When he was younger, his mum wouldn’t smack him with the spoon when she caught him out, but the look of disappointment she’d give him was far worse that the sting of the wood on the back of his leg.
“Yeah, I s’pose after what happened Thursday in the locker room, you weren’t too keen on having a drink with the rest of us.”
Padraig sat at the table and grabbed the box of Weetabix. “I’m not too bothered.”
“You should be.”
“Why’s that?”
“What I said before. We are visitors to this country and paid employees of the club. At least show some respect, mate.” He paused until Padraig met his eye. “Or I’ll personally ask that your arse, as you put it, is booted back to Ireland.”
That wouldn’t do. Not until he had secured another place to play. And Gillian complicated things. He didn’t want to get her involved with his mess. He conceded. “All right, I’ll make amends.”
“Awesome.” Del stepped away from the sink and clapped Padraig on the back. “There’s the proud Irish I’ve heard about. Now, check this out.” He turned his laptop on the table so Padraig could see the page. There were pictures of three men with their biographies to their right.
“Yeah, so?”
“Those are three of the scouts who travel for the Eagles looking for players for the Cup.”
“How the hell did you find that?”
Del winked. This morning he was chewing a piece of gum, so his face seemed to spasm with delight in himself. “I’m a master when it comes to finding information.”
“Have you shown anyone else?”
“Nope, maybe Coach knows, but he hasn’t said. Probably doesn’t want the lads to know what they look like. Might make them nervous if they saw one of them watching a game. You know what I mean?”
Padraig nodded, then shoveled in the rest of his cereal.
“Not interested?”
Padraig shrugged. “Not really.”
Del rolled his eyes to the ceiling, thumping his hand hard on the table. “You can’t even see what you got right in front of you. An American passport, man, and a chance to make the Eagles.”
“You’re a New Zealander. Would you play against your country?”
“Irrelevant, I don’t have a US passport, so it’s not even a question.”
“But if you did, would you?”
“I don’t know.” Del pushed away from the table and chucked his gum in the rubbish bin. “Maybe.”
“I doubt it.”
“Fuck, mate, I’m starting to like it here. Maybe I’ll find a nice American woman to settle down with and stay.”
Padraig jerked out of his chair and threw his bowl and spoon into the sink. “I’m o
ut of here.”
When he entered the club that afternoon, Gillian had Dick’s leg up in her lap as she taped his ankle. Feck. Anyone but him. Padraig glared at them both until Dick noticed him there and flipped him off.
He turned away toward his locker, trying to ignore the envy that burned in his chest. He never wanted to be, but jealousy ran strong in his blood. Before, he had controlled his urges by joking around. But the drama over the last year had stiffened everything that Padraig was about. Loose had become rigid and light-hearted had become stone.
It wasn’t like she was his type. It wasn’t like they were dating. It wasn’t like he planned to stay.
A minute later he smelled her soft lavender scent and knew she leaned against the lockers on the other side of the door. He closed it gently, then stretched an arm over the top of her. “Do you have to do that? Dick’s such a dick. And Del wants me to patch things up with the wanker.”
She laughed, a chuckle and a smile that made her eyes go squinty. “It’s my job, Irish.”
He nodded. Fair enough. “So…” He couldn’t help himself and tugged on a braid she wore over her right shoulder. “You want to do something again tonight?”
She tilted her head. “I’m sorry, but I have other stuff to do tonight.”
“What other stuff that’s so important?”
Pinching her eyebrows together, she made a small movement away from him. Not noticeable to the human eye, but discernible to a sensitive heart.
“Well first, I have plenty of other important stuffs in my life, O’Neale.” Ouch, on last name basis again.
She softened and laid a hand on his forearm, but then removed it quickly, darting a look around for any notice of her gesture. “Second, I have physio appointments tonight.”
“At night?”
“Any time I can fit them around the Blues schedule.”
“Wow, one of those overachiever types, eh?”
“No, just realistic. I have bills to pay, including my student loan for my degree and rent for my office and apartment.”
