by Dani Wyatt
THE PARTING GLASS
By
Dani Wyatt
Copyright © 2017
by Dani Wyatt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,
events, and incidents are either the products
of the author’s imagination
or used in a fictitious manner.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
www.daniwyatt.com
Cover Credit: PopKitty
Editing: Nicci Haydon
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I appreciate every one of you.
For everyone who gets back on the horse
when it’s the last thing you want to do.
Dedicated to DB.
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The Parting Glass
Oh all the money that e'er I spent
I spent it in good company
And all the harm that e'er I've done
Alas, it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Oh all the comrades that e'er I've had
Are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I've had
Would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all
Good night and joy be with you all
1
Brann
You will only understand when you understand.
My father’s words come back in a rush as I step into the war-torn Parting Glass pub and my eyes land on her.
She comes out from behind the bar and I forget how to breathe. The restraint it takes to hold back the rumble that wants to tear from my chest hurts.
It’s not simply the way her ass would fit perfectly in my hands. Or that her hair teases for me to clutch it at the roots and pull her lips to mine.
It’s the fact that—I swear to Christ—there’s a fucking halo over her head.
And bells are ringing in my ears.
I blink a few times adjusting to the dim light inside from the mid-March snow glare in the street. But even the lower light does nothing to minimize her impact on me.
And on my dick.
Peanut shells crunch under my steps, and the open space of the bar floor is set with a haphazard selection of empty mismatched wooden round tops and chairs. The few patrons seated along the massive carved wooden bar look as much as fixtures as the line of antique beer tap handles lining the back wall.
The uneasy buzz of the neon Guinness sign tells me it needs a new ballast. This place could use a few dollars in its maintenance budget but it’s warm and inviting and I feel like I’ve come home.
The dusty light filtering through the expansive cracked front window adorned with the name of the pub in chipped paint catches in silky waves of red fire that pop from the top of her head in a single ponytail. The length of that waterfall of red falls back and down to settle beneath her set jaw brushing skin that reminds me of the inside of an oyster shell.
An easy smile hinges on her lips as she speaks to someone sitting at the bar and I love the way it extends all the way to her emerald eyes. Bold, unapologetic eyes that contrast with her fragile, doll-like complexion. Her nose wrinkles a little as she smiles, the action puts cute at a whole new level, animating an arch of freckles decorating her nose as she circles a spot on the bar with a white towel.
Her eyes catch mine as she flips the towel up to rest over her shoulder and I stutter on an inhale, my chest tightening as I fight to release our glance wondering if she’s truly seeing me or just looking out the window.
But I’ve seen her.
God, I’ve seen her.
She moves away from the customer, but the smile stays perched on perfect pink lips that are moving even though she doesn’t appear to be addressing anyone in particular.
Five more steps inside and closer to her, my ears prick at the sound of her voice. She’s singing The Parting Glass, the song after which I can only assume the pub is named, and the sound is like crystal wind chimes from some long-forgotten dream.
My cock is high and tight as I fight for my next breath.
I’ve not gotten hard at the sight of a female since I was a freshman in high school back in Cork. My interests in girls, and later women, has always been complicated.
For me, there was always something missing. I wasn’t like most guys. Their main objective seemed to be getting into a girl’s pants, but not me. Made me the mockery of a lot of my friends back in the day. Inner-city schools in Ireland can be tough.
Hell, even more recently as an officer in the Garda my lack of interest in the more banal functions of most of my comrades raised their eyebrows, but fuck if I care.
Like an old clock or a dusty sideboard that’s been handed down from generation to generation we have a family legacy that is burned into our genes and twisted around our hearts.
As the legend goes, it is impossible for the first-born male in my family to lay with any other woman besides his one. And that one could take a lifetime to find, because she could be anyone, could be anywhere, but one look and everything will come clear.
When that happens, it will be as though the world before existed in tones of black and white and suddenly you see everything in brilliant color for the first time.
The family legend always did sound crazy to me. Truth is I wasn’t a believer until right fucking now. Those old stories told to me by my father and my grandfather suddenly reverberate inside of me as if we were sitting around the stone fireplace back home.
But even if I didn’t quite believe the legend, I’ve still always been my own man. And the hell if I’m sticking my dick in anything that isn’t right for me. My whole life, I couldn’t seem to find anyone that made me want to connect with them. Couldn’t find anyone that made me sit up and take notice.
Until this moment.
I take my seat at a table and admire her sashay as she makes her way to me still singing and smiling. She’s wearing faded green Doc Martens and I note the way she walks with her left toe slightly pointed inward.
“What can I get for ya?” She shoves her hands into the back pockets of her jeans and shifts her weight back and forth.
Her waist is the tightened center of an hour-glass form and it has my mouth watering and my head pounding with thoughts of how her ankles would look resting on my shoulders. Not to mention the view that would give me looking down.
The thought has my dick pushing up on the waist of my canvas work pants and I swear it’s about to unbuckle my belt trying to get to her.
A low growl precedes my question as she bobs her head back and forth on her neck like she needs me to rub her shoulders. “You serve your Guinness room, do you?”
There’s a little more Irish lilt in my voice than usual, responding to the undercurrent in hers. I grew up in Cork but spent a handful of years in America attending Stanford before returning home, so my accent is thicker sometimes than others.
Most Americans barely pick it up, but I can see in her eyes she’s not like most.
“Course we do. Is there any other way?” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, holding back a grin, but the action makes her nose crinkle and I nearly cum in my pants.
She’s almost too beautiful to be real and resisting my need to reach out and touch her has me pushing my limits of self-control.
I force myself to take a breath before ordering. “Pint.”
I want to say more but I’m overpowered by her. By her scent, like daybreak and honey. There’s an innocence about her that is contrasted with a sharp edge that I think is the mask she wears around here. Pithy Irish pub in down town Pittsburgh, a girl like her needs to develop survival skills.
As she nods and steps away, I scan the place for potential threats to her. I wouldn’t think she’s here alone, but whoever might be her back up isn’t out here in the bar, and that irrationally pisses me off.
What if she was in danger? What if some fuck grabbed her or smacked her on that incredible ass? That thought tightens my throat and a wave of anger rises in me.
Place like this can attract a diverse crowd if you know what I mean. I’ve seen my fair share of shady deals going down in the traditional pubs back home even as families sit with neighbors on a Sunday afternoon. Fights break out at the mention of the wrong football hero, or villain, as it may be.
And, this place, The Parting Glass, is as close to an authentic Irish pub as I’ve seen this side of the Atlantic right down to the cracked plaster and uneven floor boards.
Truth is, there is one other Irish pub in this city and from what I see in here, I wish it ran more toward this old school establishment style. That other pub…well, it is my reason for venturing back to the States.
My family lived on the poor side of poor growing up. By rights, I should have kept to my station, lived out my life scraping by working manual labor, or maybe even some low-grade criminal. I was voted most likely to serve a life sentence out of lower school, so I certainly can’t rule out the possibility I could have ended up busting heads on the wrong side of the law.
Life and luck sent me down a different path though. I never got arrested, thank God. And what had always been just an anomaly for me in school took a blossoming thug from the wrong side of Cork to Stanford of all places. Fucking California. Returned with an education unlike most where I come from and a best friend that is more like a brother.
Meeting Henry at Stanford, understanding his world and his background as well as in my Junior year when my father died working a loading dock back home, helped change the direction of my life yet again. Henry’s own tough upbringing drew us together, but where I had had the benefit of a family all my life, such as it was, a chance encounter with a lowlife crack addict had robbed Henry of his. Then losing my father shocked me into a new view of my life.
Made me realize I had to use my life to change the world or at least myself for the better. Make it count for something. And simply selling my brain to the highest bidder so they could whore out my talents for their own profit.
So, with a degree in Mathematics and Computational Science, I went back to Ireland, and I joined the Garda. At first, my mum was more than perplexed. Why go through the trouble of getting that degree just to serve and not use what I’d learned?
I don’t know, it was a calling I guess, and I did well, made it into the National Organized Crime Bureau and left as an Inspector after an injury in the line of duty. I lived simply, spending money on things didn’t interest me and I saved almost all my pay over those years.
Then, I started investing as a hobby more than anything, buying shares in small companies with potential that were going broke and took a hand in making sure they came back from the brink. Bought currency just before it went high every time.
Made enough money that if I didn’t want to work again I could get by quite comfortably. Invested the lot right back into more stocks and shares, and it just kept increasing. To look at my checking account, you’d think I was an average Joe with a bit saved for a rainy day, but my less liquid portfolio tells a different story.
So, when Henry asked me to invest in his Irish pub, I didn’t hesitate. I mean, I would have bought the place for him without a thought, but he wouldn’t ever have accepted a handout, he wanted an investor. He’d managed to scrape together some money to have some skin in the game as well. We shook on it and I let him run it however he wanted. Then two weeks ago, he called me up, told me I needed to come out here.
Something we needed to discuss. In person.
His call just came at the right time for me. After leaving the Garda, I’d lost focus, purpose. A trip to the US felt like an opportunity to break out of my funk.
Turns out, my funk is being broken, but it’s not by visiting Henry or my investment.
It’s her.
The sway of her hips hypnotizes me as she walks. Even her simple movements behind the bar as she reaches for a glass and pulls a pint are mesmerizing. I’m consumed by the thought of how she would taste, fuck the pint.
But, I mean, she’s too young, right? Far too innocent and perfect for an ugly fuck like me. What is she? Eighteen? Nineteen? There’s no doubt technically I am old enough to be her father. I’m pushing toward my forth decade fast. None of that realization manages to change the gnawing need that she’s ignited in me.
By the time she returns and sets the glass in front of me, I’m half-crazed. As the creamy froth spills over the rim and down the darkened glass, instinct darts my hand out to capture her wrist. The feel of her skin sends a chill from my neck to my toes and I draw a sharp breath, then look up to find her glaring at me.
“Don’t touch.” Her voice is a confident command, and it almost fools me. She looks down where my massive hand engulfs her tiny wrist and adds, “Or I’ll have to hurt you.”
Her tough exterior is an act and besides she doesn’t pull away. It only serves to thicken my cock, which before I stepped through the door here was in its usual lazy position down my pant leg but now is battling the fabric to rise and get at her.
As wrong as it feels, I release her. My need to touch her has been quenched for the moment.
Just for the moment.
“Sorry, darlin’. I didn’t want you to walk away without this.” From my back pocket I pull my worn leather wallet and take out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
She squints, but the way her cheeks and neck have turned from pearly white to cherry blossom pink tells me I may be affecting her as she is me. Maybe wishful thinking on my part considering I still can’t imagine such perfection giving me a second glance.
“You trying to impress me?” She takes the bill and holds it up between us, snapping it between her fingers giving the paper a visual inspection. “Takes a lot more than money.”
Her tits press out on a gray tank top, stretching the chunky black lettering that spells out The Parting Glass. The shirt is worn around the hems, the lettering a bit cracked and faded, but it does nothing to diminish the magnificence of the female flesh beneath.
She spins on her heel and her ponytail flies in a circle around her head, making me want to grab onto it and pull her face to mine.
Mine.
The word comes back in a pulse, pounding in my ears. She’s fucking mine.
“I’d be disappointed if it didn’t.” I mutter as I pick up the pint for another sip, hoping it will calm the fire that is engulfing me. A crazy thought is pulsing through my brain, one that I know doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t seem to shift it.
How long will it be before she agrees to marry me?
2
Riona
“What the hell is wrong with you?” My cousin Danny is struggling up the stairs from the cellar as I plaster myself against the outside brick wall once I’m out of sightline of the open bar. “Your face looks like it’s on fire. Are you sick…Jesus, are you sweating? It’s freezing in here.”
He squints at the b
uzzing florescent bulb in the back room and with a grunt he heaves the two cases of liquor and mixers onto the floor before climbing out of the hole.
He exhales a solid breath as he stands to his freakish height, kicking the trapdoor shut to cover the opening that leads to the steps downward.
“No, I’m not sick or sweating.” I snap with a shake of my head, trying to make sense of what the heck is happening with me.
There’s a tugging sensation deep in my gut, almost like a cord pulling me back toward where our newest patron is seated. My head feels floaty and like it’s not attached to my neck anymore.
Danny notches an eyebrow, scanning my face. I’m not fooling him. He always knows. He and his twin sister Ainsley came to live with us after their mum and dad died in a fire at their home in Cork.
They arrived the day I started first grade and by the next week, they were riding the bus with me entering third grade and a new life. Danny and I formed a bond and for all purposes, he’s my brother. He’s also my best friend.
Pretty much my only friend.
You’d think it would have been Ainsley and I that would have drawn together, being girls around the same age and all, but we’ve just never quite found our groove. Still haven’t.
Ainsley’s Posh and I’m part Ginger and Scary from the Spice Girls.. She would live at the mall given the chance. French tip manicures and hook-ups make her look more like a twenty-two-year-old born and bred American and I’m far from in that tribe.
I mean, if necessary I’m able to swipe on a few strokes of mascara. I have a tube of Burt’s Bees clear lip gloss—an upgrade from the original Chap-stik I’d used. But anything beyond that I guess I just don’t see the point. Take me as I am or don’t take me. I’m not changing for anyone, let alone a guy.
Everyone thinks she’s the sweet one too, but if you look behind the curtain, it’s not all lollipops and honey glaze with her. She sports a good cover but at least with me what you see and hear is what you get. I don’t hide anything and sometimes that gets me in trouble, I suppose.
