by Cd Brennan
“You can’t live your life without impacting others. That’s not a choice we have. But you can choose what footprint you leave behind. Do you want to be remembered as a dickhead? That self-absorbed asshole that came over from Ireland?” She had grabbed his hand and was pressing up each finger, starting at the base and working up to the tip.
Jaysus, she wasn’t holding back, and the a-word sounded like the devil coming out of her mouth. “How did you become so wise in the ways?”
Her face turned serious. “You don’t think I’ve suffered any loss before? That pain is only reserved for Padraig O’Neale?”
He was a complete tosser, but it wasn’t her that made him feel that way. She’d never do something so immature and base. “Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“The one who played for the Blues?”
“The very same.”
The pieces started to fit. “So you’re trying to save me now. Is that it?”
She brushed his hand away and locked eyes with him so there would be no mistaking her next words. “No, I’m trying to save myself.”
“By helping me?”
“Something like that, but you have to help me, help you.”
“I’m trying, Gill, but you have no idea what I went through over there.”
“Then tell me. I’m all ears.” She switched to his other hand, repeating the pressure points along his fingers and palm. She worked a circle in his hand, starting from the outside and working her way into the center.
He opened his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“This is a calming technique used on children.” She stopped and stared out at the lake as if gathering her thoughts. “OTs use this to calm kids with special needs, ya know with autism or behavioral disorders, if they are worked up or even if they aren’t. The pressure has been proven to help them relax. They use it at the schools, training the kids to do it on their own hands when they feel they are going to melt down.”
“OTs?”
“Occupational Therapists.” Starting at one shoulder, she squeezed along his arm. She counted lightly under her breath until she reached ten at his wrist, then switched to his other shoulder and did the same.
“You’re amazing.” He stared hard until she brought her gaze back to him. “I am so turned on by your passion for what you do.”
She peeked at the towel that had tented at his crotch and laughed. “I can see that.” She grasped his hand and held. “I feel the same about you. Your passion for rugby.”
“You have no idea.”
“I’m still waiting for you to tell me.”
And so he did. From the day everything had turned to shit to landing in Michigan almost a month ago. He revealed how his one dream was to make it to the World Cup, that twenty years or more were spent in anticipation of playing for Ireland. He had watched Ireland at every previous Cup, living every moment as if he had been on the pitch with the team. He told her about when the teams lined up for their national anthems, how he craved to be one standing there in the Irish jersey, singing the rugby anthem for both the republic and northern Ireland. He had imagined that day so often that he could feel the wind across his face, the words belting from his lungs. The pride on his mum and dad’s faces when he announced it. Celebrating his selection. One of the chosen.
He didn’t want to end up middle-aged, watching matches on the telly, having regrets, knowing there could have been a different path for him. He had fucked things up badly but wasn’t sure how to make it right.
She listened to his story with no judgment, no advice, no pity or otherwise, only held his hand in hers.
“So that’s about it, like. All that time, energy, and work gone—just demolished—in one bad choice.” Emotion started building in his throat again and he swallowed hard.
“You still have the Blues. And me.”
He turned his head to face her. “I know.”
“You do?”
“Now, I do.”
“So you’re going to try harder? Put your heart into the game here?”
“I have been. Haven’t ye noticed?” He smiled to let her know he was kidding.
Gillian made monkey lips at him, which made him laugh.
He pulled at her neck so he could reach her lips. A soft kiss since he didn’t know what else to say.
Her lips lingered, but then she pulled away. “How does that saying go? ‘As I look back on my life, I realize that every time I thought I was being rejected from something good, I was actually being redirected to something better.’”
Gently pushing her aside, he got up and wrapped the towel around his waist. “Okay, so, let’s go eat.” He wasn’t hungry, not for food anyway, but enough had been said. When they came to the path into the trees back to the cabin, Padraig hoisted her up in his arms. She went willingly, hooking her hands behind his neck.
“This is awful chivalrous of you, Mr. O’Neale.”
He smiled down at her. “The least I can do.”
Chapter 25
The closer she came to climax, the harder Gillian sucked. It wasn’t a choice—it just happened naturally. She’d never done this before, but with a 1969 Mustang for their ride, Padraig must have had it on the brain. He’d suggested it, and she was glad he did. It was one of the most unselfish sexual acts she’d ever participated in, giving on both sides with the benefit of also taking.
When he stopped licking, she pulled away, too, waiting for his next move. It was difficult in a way, this oral sex, when really she only wanted him to be inside her. But then he suckled again, soft, gentle, lovely, and she pecked his length in return, small licks on the top like an ice cream cone.
It must have been his undoing as his attention to her clit became more aggressive, faster, harder. When she came, she groaned with his dick in her mouth, sucking as hard as she could until he yelled to her, “I’m going to come.” He yanked out and she milked his length until every drop was out.
“Holy shit, that was...”
Still exhausted from their performance, Gillian could barely move to shift around into his arms. “Awesome?”
He chuckled. “I was going to say fucking fantastic.”
“That, too.” She snuggled her butt into his groin to prompt spooning, and he complied, throwing his arm around her shoulder and linking his fingers with hers, aligning his legs to the bend of her own.
Within moments, Padraig’s soft snoring blew wisps of her hair across her cheek. It tickled, and she wanted to scratch, but didn’t want to disengage from their embrace and wake him. She couldn’t sleep, but waited until his breathing deepened, then gently slipped from their spoon.
Naked, she grabbed the quilt that was folded and lay over the top of the old white rocking chair in the corner of the room. She wrapped it around herself and quietly left, leaving the door open so she made no sound. Flinching at the click of the sliding door, she slipped out and closed it, leaving a tiny gap to get back in.
September and she could already see her breath in the air. She sat on the first step and tugged the quilt tighter around her. She lay down on her back, her feet still on the second step, her knees bent. It caused her feet to get cold, but the view was worth it. The stars were so much brighter here than in Traverse City, and she soaked the night up.
Having taken an astronomy class her first year in college, she used to be able to identify most of the constellations in the sky, but now she’d forgotten all but a few main ones like Orion and Cassiopeia. Neither was in the little slice of sky open above the trees. But it was still beautiful, and wondrous.
When they were little, they had always begged their dad to let them stay up late enough to see the stars. And this far north, that was as late as eleven at the height of summer. By the time Andrew was in his teens, he was no longer interested, and year after year, he’d grown in his own direction until he no longer wanted to come to the cabin with her and Dad. He’d stayed home to hang out with his friends instead.
Since Gillian couldn’t follow the wa
y he went—sports, girls, gaming, and partying later on, Gillian had veered her path in the opposite direction. Like Ha! I didn’t want to hang out with you anymore, anyway. And they had never reconnected as adults, and that was the hardest part for Gillian, her deepest regret. How she would have liked to know him as the man he had become. Not just an older brother that she adored, that she had worshiped in her own way.
When she allowed herself to think of Andrew, the emotion became too much and tears slipped from her eyes. The starry night blurred to white dots.
She inhaled deeply and shifted her focus to the man sleeping inside. Imagining him, all dark edges but soft lines, eased her breathing. Gillian had thought the more she got to know him, the more his air of mystery would fade and the intensity she felt every time she saw him would lessen. But it hadn’t. He was the last person she would have imagined herself with but couldn’t bear to think of the days after he left to return to Ireland.
An owl hooted, a long drawn out call for a mate. Or maybe a warning to the other critters that there was a bear nearby. Could be. They had plenty around here. But she was far too drained, emotionally and physically, to be afraid. Of course, any grunting noises, and she was out of there.
She hadn’t heard Padraig approach, so when he sat down next to her on the top step, she jerked up to sitting, her hand stilling a heart that wanted to make a break out of the gates.
He wore his tracksuit pants and a T-shirt with bare feet and rumpled hair. “Are you okay?”
She brushed her face with the corner of the quilt. “Ah yeah, just couldn’t sleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights, anyway.”
Their seclusion here in the woods, the surrounding darkness as black as ink, gave Gillian the courage to ask, “We’re probably not at the right time for each other, are we?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure, but you’ve done more for me in the time I’ve been here than anyone has in my life.”
“All that means is I’m a super-sap.”
He chuckled. “You’re one of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met.”
“Oh shit, this sounds like the beginning of the talk.”
“What talk is that?”
“Don’t. You know what I mean.”
“You told me once you don’t like head games and I’m telling you honestly. You are better than any other woman I’ve met, and there have been loads.”
“That makes me feel a heap better. So it’s not just sex?”
“Fantastic sex.”
“Yes, fantastic sex, but you’re, you’re…a testosterone turd.”
“Wait a tick, that sounds naff.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Sorry, it’s what I used to call my brother and his friends.”
“I don’t get that about Americans. You guys categorize everything, put everyone in little boxes with labels, compartmentalize. We don’t really do that in Ireland. And Jaysus, we’re adults. Too old for that shite.”
“You’re so right.”
“And you’re just you, Gill, sexy as fuck, funny, smart. All the Blues think you’re class. You could have picked any of ’em. Why me? It’s not like I was much of a gentleman a few weeks ago.”
“It was the accent.”
“Thanks for being honest.”
She laughed, but it died at her next thought. “When are you leaving?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from my agent, and I haven’t a clue what else to do.”
“You could stay here.”
He turned, and even though the darkness cloaked his eyes, she had penetrated where she’d wanted the thought to go.
“I could.”
She had nothing further to say so she laid her head on his shoulder. “Are you cold? I’d offer to share, but I’m naked as a jaybird underneath.”
He wrapped his right arm around her and drew her close, both of them shuffling together in an awkward moment. “Nah, this is just a summer day in Ireland.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Not right now.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Will you be here?”
She smiled, scuffing her foot across the worn step, pushing flecks of old paint over the edge. “I will.”
“Then I won’t miss it.”
His words warmed her through, and she bit her lip in happiness. She didn’t know what to say in return, so asked, “How are you feeling?”
He nodded, taking a small stone from the step and chucking it into the woods. “Anxious. Tense. I want the meds.”
“You will for a while, I hear. You might crave it for days, even months from now.”
“Will you be here?”
She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “I will.”
He kissed her on the head. “Hey, you’re not such a bad trumpet player.”
She laughed then. “Thanks.”
Chapter 26
When Gillian had dropped him off at the house late Monday night, he’d clung to the door handle, fighting the urge to ask if he could stay at her place. As if she sensed his distress, she’d laid a hand on his thigh and said, “It’ll be okay.”
That he doubted, but he’d removed himself from her car, anyway. Now he was on his own, and mornings were the worst. As promised, she’d kept his mind off his withdrawal the entire weekend. When he’d become agitated, she’d soothed him. When he didn’t want to eat, she’d made him. When he had been a complete shit, she’d ignored him, or redirected him like a parent would a child. In the moment, he couldn’t see what she did. Only after the drama had passed did he understand that she’d helped him through the dark patch.
Even when he’d roared at her to take him to a doctor, she’d simply slipped out the door without looking back, yelling over her shoulder for him to chop some wood. Hours later, she had returned from her nature hike and he had, in all his tension, cut and stacked fifty cords of firewood.
This morning all he wanted to do was crawl back into the safe arms that he knew. Gillian. His haven in the shit-storm of his life. His Guinness to a parched Irish throat. His paracetemol to a hangover. His…everything.
But it was time to try this on his own. And give back what he had taken. It had been a couple days since he’d seen her, and his addiction to her was stronger than the oxycodone. He couldn’t wait to see her tonight.
He rolled out of bed with little pain. Only a pop and some ligament creaks, but he could deal with that. First stop a music store, some shopping to do, and then cook his arse off. Padraig had never done anything like this before. Feck, he hoped she didn’t hate it.
The day flew by as Padraig rushed around town in Del’s clunker. He couldn’t remember when he had cooked anything more than bangers and mash at home, often eating on the road or with the boys. But Gillian was worth the effort.
As he crowded through the front door overloaded with bags, Del came down the stairs and grabbed some from him. “You ready for tonight?”
“I’d say so. What time is it?” Padraig led them both into the kitchen and set his shopping on the table.
Del set the rest on the counter. “Just after three.”
“Seriously? Feck.”
“You want some help?”
Padraig overturned bags, everything clunking onto the table. He caught a rolling can before it could tumble to the floor. “Nah, thanks. You and Rory have done enough. I can get this.”
“Okay, bro, make sure you keep the blinds closed to the sliding door, eh? Like we discussed.”
Padraig unloaded the bags on the counter and grabbed the lentils. “Definitely. I’ll tap on the window when we are ready.”
“About an hour and a half still?”
“Yeah, I’d say so, but if it goes badly, I might need rescuing sooner so have everyone ready about seven.”
Del clapped Padraig on the back as he set a pot on the stove. “It won’t go badly. Not unless you burn everything.”
“N
ice thought, thanks. Hand me that cutting board, will ya?”
“I thought you didn’t want my help?”
“That’s it, and then bugger off.”
Del laughed. “Look at you all nervous. It’s cute.”
Padraig banged a mallet against the peeled garlic clove. “Fuck off, would you?”
Laughing, Del slipped out of the kitchen, and Padraig got to work chopping onion. He considered the menu classy and cultural, and most importantly vegetarian, but now loomed too complicated. Argh! Okay, deep breath. He was starting all wrong. First, the soup, then the main, then the dessert.
He ran his finger down the soup recipe and started again.
When he looked at the clock next, it was after five. Feck, that was intense. After he slid the crumble into the oven, he scrambled to load the dishwasher while wiping down the counters. Another ten minutes gone. He set the table with dishes that matched and finally placed the opened bottle of red wine and candles on the table. Would he light them now? Another glance at the clock. Yep, he’d be pushing it to be out of the shower and to the door when she arrived.
He searched all the drawers for matches or a lighter. Nothing. He even checked the overhead cupboards, thinking the lads might keep things differently. Maybe stuck in some spare bowls or something. But no such luck. The loud clicking of the kitchen clock had him about to explode. And less than a week without the meds! He took a seat at a kitchen chair, closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing. In through the nose and out through the mouth, just like Gillian had taught them in yoga. The worst time in the world to be jonesing for a fix, but the urges had always come on with stress.
After a few more breaths, an idea came to him. Yes! They had a gas stove here unlike Ireland. He grabbed a piece of paper towel and twisted it into a taper. He lit the end on the stove burner and walked the flaming torch over to the candles. The paper burned faster than he thought, and he’d barely lit both candles when the flames were licking at his fingers. He took one step and tossed it into the sink, and then sprayed the shit out of the mess with the hand nozzle.
He waved a hand in front of his face. The air stunk from the burning, so he cracked a window and ran up the stairs. Padraig had barely stepped out of the shower and dressed when the doorbell rang.
