When he pulled into the empty car park opposite the visitor center, he told himself it was just a quick ciggie break—not yet more delaying getting home. The green admission cabins were closed at this hour, and he easily bypassed them on foot to walk along the marked trails meant for tourists viewing the spectacular Cliffs.
Lighting a Lucky Strike, Shay kept a steady pace on the naturally undulating landscape. The shale and sandstone Cliffs of Moher rose high above the Atlantic Ocean, ranging from four hundred to seven hundred feet. It was mostly overcast but there were enough breaks in the cloud cover for the sun to shine through in patchy, dramatic fashion. The sound of the water below and the odd sighting of Atlantic puffin were Shay’s only company as he kept walking.
The cigarette in his hand went unsmoked. When he noticed he had more ash than cigarette, it stoked the memory of the night he met first met Jessica at a New York City sushi restaurant, and he welcomed getting lost in it.
Shay had stood outside the restaurant that night, leaning against the stucco wall as the summer heat abated. It was after midnight now and the staff had been departing in a slow trickle without sign of the one he waited for. He didn’t mind staying put. Patience was something he had always possessed.
Fishing in the pocket of his black flight jacket, he pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. He should quit. That’s what he told himself every single time he lit another cigarette. People quit all the time. It can be done. Isn’t that what he had told Danny Boy? This argument was as effective with himself as it was with his brother.
Laughing softly at himself, he pressed the cigarette between his lips and tilted his head toward the flame of the lighter cupped between his hands.
“A smoker? Strike one.”
He looked up quickly to find Jessica—the waitress he’d been waiting for—standing before him. Damn it. He didn’t like being caught unaware. But he saw that though her large dark eyes were trained on him, they shone with amusement.
“Make that strike two,” she said and adjusted the canvas carryall on her shoulder. She was slight of frame, though not frail. There was strength in the way she held herself. With both Asian and African American features, she was a captivating beauty.
Careful to blow a stream of smoke away from her, he then lowered the cigarette to his side. “What’s the other strike?”
She gestured to him, then the restaurant. “Stalker.”
He laughed but her face was impassive. Shite. Did she really fear for herself with him being there? He had her number from earlier, when he and Conor had dinner there. She’d been their waitress and Conor had taken it upon himself to play matchmaker. It only occurred to him now that waiting for her this way might have seemed too forward. If you had a phone number, that meant it was okay to call. Not okay to skulk around outside the woman’s workplace.
“I’m kidding!” she said.
Her smile was something to behold. It brought out dimples in her cheeks and made you want to smile right back. And so he did.
“You remember me from before, yeah?” he asked and she nodded. “Would it be all right if I saw you home?” he asked.
She watched him for a moment, assessing him. He waited her out.
“My roommates are expecting me,” she said cautiously.
“Listen, I’m sorry if this seems odd. I know you gave me your number and that I should’ve waited a few days and then called you or texted. But, I just, I—”
“You what? Thought you’d cut to the chase and try to get lucky?”
The amused smile wasn’t quite gone, but had definitely faded as her guard came up.
“Jesus, no. I was going to say that I don’t play games. I don’t even know how. I liked your smile when you waited on us. I liked that you looked at me, not just—” He cut himself off rather than finish the thought.
“Not just Conor Quinn, the gorgeous guitar player for Rogue?” she asked.
He met her eyes, silently affirming this information. As the epitome of a sexy guitar god, Conor was recognized nearly everywhere they went. More often than not, Shay would happily slide by undetected. He hadn’t thought she recognized either of them earlier, though.
Flicking the cigarette ash he knew without looking was growing, he prepared to apologize and move on. What a stupid move it had been to just show up and wait like this. Casanova, he was not.
But she spoke before he could. “Well, if you don’t mind me smelling like tempura . . . .”
“What now?” he asked.
“I always come away from the restaurant smelling like fried tempura. Hazard of the job,” she said with a shrug.
“Ah, no, I don’t mind. It’s grand, Jessica.”
“This way, then.”
She started walking and he was struck dumb for a moment, admiring the view of her long, lean legs through the slits in her dress. Her movements were fluid, easy. She stood straight, her head elegant and poised as she looked forward.
“Come on, Shay,” she said.
He dropped the cigarette, crushing it with the toe of his shoe and followed after her.
~
Walking Jessica home was a throwback to a kind of courtship from an earlier generation. They walked side by side with polite distance between them, talking but also unafraid of patches of silence.
Shay learned that Jessica was twenty-three, studying graphic design at NYU, and had three roommates. These roommates also had part-time jobs in restaurants or bars but rather than being students like Jessica, were aspiring dancers.
“That’s a funny coincidence, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s not really a coincidence. I was a dancer, too. We all met at a workshop at Broadway Dance Center,” she told him.
“But you’re not a dancer anymore? Why not?”
She shrugged but didn’t say anything.
“I’ve always been a drummer,” he said, sensing it was better to change the subject than to press her. “I used to find the rhythm in anything when I was a kid—knocking on pots and pans, buckets, empty tins, you name it.”
“I bet your parents loved that.” She smiled at him and he got lost in those dimples.
“It was no bother to them. Really, they paid it no mind.” In fact, they didn’t pay attention to much of anything, which was probably why he had been drawn to making such a din. He ended up choosing the most bombastic instrument one could, likely as a way to demand some kind of notice. But by the time he realized his parents had the uncanny ability to block out even the most absurd ruckus, he had fallen in love with drumming and kept it up.
“So, this—being a drummer with Rogue—that’s the only job you’ve ever had?”
“Yeah. Got lucky that way. Hooked up with Gavin and the others while in school and never looked back.” It was more than luck. The band was everything to him. As a teenager, he had completely bought into Gavin’s wide-eyed confidence that they would go somewhere as a band. He had needed to believe it because he feared what his life would become if he didn’t.
“That really is a lucky thing,” she said.
“I think it was lucky going to that restaurant tonight and meeting you.”
She stopped walking and looked at him. “Lucky? Or just how you hook up with girls?”
Shay felt the embarrassment spread across his cheeks. “Look, I know I’m no good at flirting, but am I not allowed to try?”
The smile and quiet laugh she graced him with was worth the admission of his shortcomings.
“Sure, you’re right to be put off by me waiting for you like some stalker,” he continued, “but I can honestly say I just want to get to know you.”
Her dark eyes were fixed on his and he waited her out. He saw intelligence and something more there. Some deeper conflict or pain. He couldn’t quite read it, but he knew he wanted the opportunity to figure it out.
“Do you live in New York these days?” she asked and slowly started walking again.
He fell into step with her. “I’m working on a project.
It’s the soundtrack for an independent film. Rogue’s on hiatus, and I like to keep busy. So, I’m living here for the time being, yes.”
They walked for half a block in silence.
“Have you always lived in New York?” he asked.
“No, I grew up in San Francisco. I came out here when I was twenty-one for dance. It’s the place to be if you really want a shot at it.”
“What sort of dance do you, em, specialize in?”
“I trained in ballet, but I love it all, including modern dance, hip hop and ballroom.”
He held his tongue from telling her he’d love to see her dance, thinking she had already made it clear several times that she wasn’t comfortable with him coming on to her. She took it as some sort of rock star swagger rather than just a guy trying to convey his interest.
“And did you start young?” he asked.
“Three years old. My Mom and Dad thought it was cute to put me in a little pink leotard and ballet slippers for classes. They didn’t think I’d take to it like I did.”
“They must be proud that you’ve pursued it this far, yeah?”
Her nod was noncommittal. “Anyway, I’m focused on school now. I’ll have my degree in another semester.”
“What then?”
“Corporate America,” she said with a laugh. “But I’ll still get my chance at some creativity, I suppose.”
“You’re too young to sound so resigned.”
“Well, you’re probably too old for me,” she shot back. “How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-nine.” He braced for her final brush off.
Instead, she smirked. “You’re not that old, I guess.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Before he could pivot in a new, friendlier, direction of conversation, she announced they were at her apartment. It was a five story brick walkup with the most prominent architectural feature being metal balconies and fire escape ladders.
“Well, Jessica, it’s been a pleasure. Truly it has.”
“It’s been interesting, that’s for sure.”
He couldn’t read her, which only intrigued him all the more. He was a natural observer, preferring to watch others rather than be the center of attention. It meant he was good at noticing details of body language and word choice, sensing moods. But now he couldn’t discern whether she fancied him at all. Her primary reaction seemed to be amused skepticism.
“I’d love to take you to dinner. Would you have any interest in that?”
“Like a real date?”
“Yes, like a real date.”
Her unrestrained smile almost knocked him over. It was sweet and oh so pretty. And he realized that this whole while she had expected for him to impose himself upon her once they got to her place. She probably thought the walking her home at midnight thing was just a preamble to trying to get into her place and into her panties. So his request for a date had charmed her. Finally, he had done something right.
“Then, yes, I would be interested in that.”
“I’m only delighted to hear it.”
~
“Shay, am I right? Shay Donnelly from Rogue?”
Shay looked toward the person who had interrupted his reverie, somehow feeling out of place out here on the Cliffs of Moher trail. It was a young man, maybe twenty years old. A wispy beard covered his face, his hair was knotted into a bun, and a red backpack hung on his shoulders.
“Sorry, you must hate people approaching you as if they know you,” the man said.
Shay recognized a Canadian accent in the man’s pronunciation of “sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Shay said, though he looked away from the man and at the cigarette he had been holding. The ash had crept all the way up to the filter and he flicked it loose before putting the dead butt in his jacket pocket.
“Sorry to disturb,” the backpacker said. He started to walk past and Shay stepped aside. But the kid suddenly wheeled around to face him again. “I’m just going to be obnoxious and ask for a photo if you wouldn’t mind too terribly. It’d mean the world.”
Still not quite feeling in the moment, Shay was slow to respond. He recognized embarrassment on the kid’s face and felt bad for him.
“Of course. No trouble at all.”
The selfie took all of fifteen seconds and the grateful fan was soon on his way. Shay was glad for the return to solitude, but before he could get lost in his own thoughts again, he saw a bus load’s worth of tourists headed his way. Twenty or more men and women, overdressed for the terrain in hiking boots and trekking poles, moved his way. It was time to retrace his steps—some forty minutes’ worth—back toward the visitors center where his car waited.
CHAPTER FOUR
Back on the road, Shay settled in for the three-hour drive home. The Porsche was an impressive machine, but he soon focused less on the way it handled in favor of thinking once more about Jessica.
Shay’s first date with Jessica took place the night after they had met, and the timing was both a blessing and a curse. It ended up being the last evening he was in New York before he would need to return to Dublin.
Per Jessica’s request, Shay waited for her out front of her Hell’s Kitchen apartment building rather than going to the front door. She was dressed casually in a sleeveless red silk top and faded skinny jeans folded at the cuffs with flat sandals. The chunky layered turquoise necklace she wore was a brilliant contrast to her top. Her hair was a long straight bob just grazing her collarbone. Shay liked everything about her. She was an especially welcome distraction after the day’s news.
“Am I dressed okay for where we’re going?” she asked.
“You’re grand.” He took a chance and reached for her hand.
When she didn’t resist, he led her in walking. They started down West 49th Street toward the Hudson River. The one-way street was busy with both auto traffic and pedestrians on the sidewalks. The tree-lined street near her apartment gave way to a grittier, sparer couple of blocks.
“How was your day?” Shay asked.
“Good. Fine,” she said carefully. “Nothing eventful.”
He nodded to himself. Her awkward reply meant she had seen the news. He had been in the editing bay working on the movie soundtrack when both his assistant and his cell phone interrupted to announce that his bandmate and friend, Gavin McManus, was in the middle of an impromptu televised press conference.
“Wish I could say the same,” he murmured. In response, Jessica squeezed his hand. It was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to feel her silent support. He felt the warmth of it spread throughout his chest.
A right turn onto 11th Avenue followed by another block and a half of walking led them to their dinner destination, a small Italian restaurant. It was casual with a long bar on one side and tables set close together on the other. Candles and low lighting made for an even cozier atmosphere. It wasn’t high-end or the type of place that was written up as a hotspot, but rather a simple place to enjoy handmade pastas and hearty red wine.
They were greeted warmly and shown to the last open table. Both confessed to not being big drinkers but took the recommendation of a Chianti to start them off.
“Shall we toast?” Jessica asked, holding her glass aloft.
Shay smiled but felt bad that he hadn’t suggested this first. He was off. This wasn’t how he wanted things to be for their first date. She deserved his full attention, to be wooed.
“Yes, to a lovely night. And a lovely girl.”
This time she didn’t challenge the flirt. Instead, she smiled and her eyes sparkled in the soft candlelight.
They each took a drink and lapsed into silence. The wine went down smoothly enough that Shay drained half his glass more quickly than he normally would. He studied his menu without really seeing it and took the waiter’s recommendation of a caprese salad to start followed by gnocchi with beef ragu.
“I really like this place,” Jessica said. She studied the restaurant th
oughtfully, examining the hand-written menu on chalkboards and bottles of wine displayed high on shelves.
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
She turned her eyes to him. “I mean, you could have gone big, being a rock star and all.”
“Have I disappointed you?”
“No, Shay, I’m saying this is not exactly what I expected but that’s a good thing. I’m not into that celebrity lifestyle stuff, so it’s nice to see that you’re a real person.”
He laughed. “That I am. I don’t go in for a big show. Well, except for sports cars. I do have a weakness there.”
“Glad to hear you’re not completely above it all.”
Her tone was teasing, and watching her, he felt the tension slowly ease from his shoulders.
“So, should we just get the topic of the day out there?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s the thing—I think—that’s had you distracted since you picked me up. The story about Gavin McManus and his mother?”
Shay sat back in his chair, the tension returning. “Oh, that.” He tried for lightness but failed. It came out terse.
“Or maybe not. If this is a bad time for you, we can cut this short.”
“Oh, Jesus.” He leaned on the table toward her to press his point. “No, Jessica, I don’t want you to bail on me. Can you give me a chance to start over?”
“Look, this is weird. You’re famous. I know things about you that I shouldn’t at this point. Including that the singer of your band just had a pretty crazy public revelation.”
This was exactly why Shay had always dated women from within the band’s circle—a circle that had expanded over the years as their organization had grown. It meant that the women he saw knew his life and the challenges that came with it, including the transitory nature of his commitment.
“It must seem wild to you,” he said.
“It seems like a cruel invasion of his privacy, actually.”
She was referring to the Vanity Fair article exposing the fact that Gavin’s mother had abandoned him and her family when he was just seven years old. The revelation was primarily focused on Gavin’s so-called hypocrisy for having all these years intimated that his mother was dead. He had written multiple songs about her on Rogue’s four albums and the article suggested he had manufactured her “death” as a songwriting device. It listed dozens of interviews in which he stated he’d “lost” his mother after a bad car accident. It was technically the truth, as she had checked herself out of the hospital and never contacted Gavin, her other son, or her husband again. Gavin had been forced earlier that day to hold an impromptu press conference outside of his Dublin home in order to address the dozens of journalists clamoring for answers.
Hitting That Sweet Spot Page 2
