A Bad Bit Nice

by Josie Kerr

  Upon Mick’s non-response, Rory followed Mick’s eyes to the end of the bar. His face split into a wide grin.

  “If it’s the chippie in the orange shirt with the luscious rack that’s got your attention, my boy, you’re in luck, because I know her. Come on, you’re not getting out of this pub without an introduction.”

  Em turned to see Rory and Mister Ideal making their way across the pub. Rory was grinning and Mister Ideal no longer wore that heartbreaking smile, but instead looked vaguely nauseated.

  “Em, my lovely, fancy meeting you here,” Rory said, sidling up to them. “You don’t strike me as the karaoke type.”

  “I’m not,” Em laughed. She cut her eyes over to Mick and back to Rory.

  Mick moved his foot on top of Rory’s and stealthily applied his weight. Rory swiveled his head toward Mick, widening his eyes in “I’m getting there, man” look, and said, “Ermengarde Maude Davidson, I’d like you to meet Michael Ian Brennan.”

  “Call me Mick, please. The only person that calls me Michael is this idiot’s mother.” Mick hitched a thumb in Rory’s direction.

  Em beamed at Mick. “Call me Em. Pleased to meet you, Mick.” She turned to Rory. “Rory, Mick, this is Ashley.”

  Ashley did a little wave and looked appreciatively at Rory, who cocked an eyebrow back at her. The four of them stood in awkward silence until Rory clapped his hands together.

  “Do you duet?” Rory asked, looking at Ashley and cocking his head toward Mick and then Em.

  “Oh, I totally duet,” replied Ashley with a wink and complete understanding.

  “Shall we?” Rory asked, holding out his hand to Ashley, who immediately grasped it and pulled him toward the host stand.

  “What the hell just happened?” Mick wondered aloud.

  “I’m not really sure,” Em said, “but I think I might regret introducing those two.”

  “Why don’t we sit down while they cause trouble?” Mick motioned to a table a little way from the bar but still in view of the stage.

  “Sure,” Em smiled shyly as Mick guided her to the table, his hand hovering near her lower back. God, did it suddenly get really warm in here?

  “So, Ermengarde-Maude-call-me-Em, did you just happen to move into a converted Victorian earlier today?”

  Em was suddenly nervous. Had he caught her ogling at him out her window? “Yes, yes I did, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

  “I live downstairs,” Mick said with a smile. I knew it. He does have fantastic crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  “Wait, Ermengarde Maude? E. M,” he said. “Those are your initials!”

  “Yep, you figured it out!” she laughed.

  Her laugh was infectious and light, and Mick wanted to hear it some more. She smiled shyly and flashed those dimples and fidgeted with the sugar packets and squirmed in her seat. Mick tried to rectify the ball-busting business analyst that Rory described with the woman sitting across from him. Maybe she was shy in personal situations?

  She had such a sweet face. And, heaven help him, a sweet figure. Rory didn’t exaggerate about her curves. He supposed that some might call her plump or even fat, but Mick found her lush figure extremely appealing.

  Mick caught her looking at him expectantly and realized that she had asked him a question. “Sorry, this place got really loud all of a sudden. What was that again?”

  “How long have you lived in your place?”

  “Almost five years. I really love it. It’s close to a lot of stuff, near work and the airport. It really is ideal.”

  “Good deal.” Jesus Christ, Em. Good deal? You sound like a complete and utter nincompoop.

  Just then, the familiar strains of “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” came over the speakers and Em and Mick both exclaimed “God, I hate this song!” They looked at the stage and Rory and Ashley waved at them with huge grins plastered to their faces.

  “Yep, definitely regretting introducing those two,” Em lamented, while Mick roared with laughter.

  Chapter 8

  Em and Mick stood in the entrance of the converted Victorian after putting their friends in cabs and sending them to their respective homes. Em drove Ashley’s car to the house so she wouldn’t have to go back to the pub the next day.

  “You want to come in for a beer or something?” Mick asked. He didn’t really know if he knew what he was going to do if she said yes.

  “Sure, I’d like that,” she answered with a smile. Or something. Whew, this man is hot like fire.

  Mick got two beers from the refrigerator and poured them expertly into pint glasses while Em looked around his apartment with interest. Her apartment had the same basic layout but she could tell that Mick had extended some rooms. Her eyes back to where Mick stood behind the counter.

  Mick handed Em a glass. “Thank you for the cookies, by the way,” he said. “They were fantastic. Where’d you get them?”

  “I made them, and I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

  “You made those? Sweet Janey Mac, they were sublime.”

  “Sublime? Really? They’re just cookies.”

  Mick shook his head. “Those weren’t ‘just cookies,’ Em.”

  “’Weren’t?’ You’ve already finished them all?”

  Mick looked sheepish. “Maybe.”

  Em grinned and said, “I’ll make you cookies whenever you want, Mick.”

  Mick motioned to the living room and they went to sit on the large sectional.

  Mick’s apartment was decorated exactly as she had imagined it would be—leather couches, stainless steel appliances, dark wood. Very masculine and grown up. The one thing that she was surprised about was the smallish television, but her pulse sped up when she saw the rows and rows of books and music and the state-of-the-art sound system. Be still my beating heart.

  “Ashley said you were a musician?” Em looked around for the usual guy musician evidence of guitars.

  “Yes and no,” Mick answered. “I was a session musician for a while, and I still play around town when needed, but these days I spend most of my time building home studios and consulting. I have some studio space, though, so you don’t have to worry about hearing me banging around at all hours of the day and night.”

  “Oh, so you’re a drummer?” Em asked with some trepidation. She had dated drummers in the past and it was never really a great experience. Hold your horses, chickie; you’re not dating this guy. You just met him!

  Mick barked a laugh. “No, I’m a percussionist,” he huffed with mock offense. “Yeah, I’m a drummer. But I went to M.I.T. and Georgia Tech, so I’m not a typical drummer.”

  “Jesus, I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” laughed Em. “A drummer from Georgia Tech? What the hell am I thinking? Ashley would have a fit!”

  “I take it you went to that other school?”

  Em nodded and grinned and shrugged. “Don’t hold it against me.”

  Mick winked and grinned back at her. “So the first time you met Rory was at that networking thing?” At Em’s wide eyes, Mick quickly added, “He was very impressed with you. He told me about your meeting.”

  Oh, God, he already knows I’m a complete, babbling idiot. Em put on a brave grin and hoped to God that Rory hadn’t told Mick everything about that initial meeting.

  “I had encountered him at various conferences, but I don’t think he knew who I was. I didn’t study computing at all in college. I have a liberal arts degree, and actually a master’s degree in Irish studies, which is oh-so-useful when you don’t want to go into academics,” she said sarcastically.

  “So how in the world did you end up being a computer security consultant?”

  “I always liked messing around with computers, and I took enough classes that I could actually almost qualify for a second major. I kept taking coursework and attending conferences, and then I got a job at a law firm, and here I am.”

  “You’re well-rounded then. Not a bad thing, if you ask me,” Mick said. Not a bad thing at all. V
ery well rounded, especially that ass and rack, and those were very good things.

  “So how long have you known Rory?” Em asked.

  “A little over 30 years,” replied Mick, and laughed as Em boggled. “We met in junior high. My mother had just moved us from St. John’s to Boston, and he and his family had just emigrated, so we were both new.”

  Em played with a spare coaster and sneaked shy looks at Mick. “So that’s the accent, then. Newfoundland?”

  “Yeh, Newfoundland mostly. We lived in Texas for a year when I was in primary school, then back to St. John’s, and then Boston.”

  “I knew you weren’t from around here. You sound basically American, but not.” Em babbled. “So what brought you down here?”

  “I transferred to Georgia Tech after my wife died. I’d been at M.I.T., but it was just too hard living up there without her. Rory followed me down a year after. And here we are, almost 25 years later. What about you?”

  “Oh, I’m one of the few natives around here. I don’t think I’ll ever leave,” Em said. “I know you couldn’t tell that I was Southern by my accent at all.”

  “The accent is pretty cute,” Mick said with a shy grin.

  “I’m glad you think so, because I talk a lot. I mean, a lot a lot.”

  Mick chuckled. “Well, I guess it’s good that I’m not known for my loquaciousness, then.” He fidgeted with his glass of beer while Em continued to look around his home with interest.

  Mick set his glass down with a thud and grimaced when Em jumped a bit. “You know what? I think I’d like a cigar. Want to come out on the porch while I have a smoke? Will it bother you?” Mick offered Em a cigar from the humidor. “Do you want one?”

  “No, thank you. I’m not a smoker, but I do like the smell of a good cigar.”

  Mick opened the French doors that led to the wrap-around porch and motioned for Em to step outside. The patio was covered in huge ferns and other green plants, and featured a cushioned porch swing and wicker chairs. Dozens of café lights twinkled in the cozy space. “This is really nice, Mick.”

  “I like it a little bit,” Mick said. He took a deep draw on his cigar and closed his eyes as he exhaled. He decided to be a bit bold. “I don’t smoke cigars very often, but a good cigar seemed to pair well with conversation with a beautiful woman.”

  Did I just say that? B’y, you’re a cheesy bastard, Mick Brennan.

  Em blushed prettily at the compliment. They sat on the porch, drinking their beers, chatting about where they’d grown up and other things, until both became thoughtful and quiet.

  “So, a widower, huh.” Em blurted out.

  Real smooth, Em, real smooth. Ugh.

  “I take I’m not quite what you were expecting, Ermengarde?” Mick cocked an eyebrow at her.

  Em flushed.

  My God, he can’t be much older than I am. A widower for over 20 years? That simply can’t be right. He must have gotten married when he was eight.

  She took a deep breath.

  “No, you’re not what I was expecting. You’re...”

  “Taller than you expected a widower to be?”

  Em laughed and looked at Mick sitting across her, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Boy howdy, he was sexy. In the soft illumination of the café lights, she examined him more closely. His hair was mostly pepper with a bit of salt, his dark beard liberally sprinkled with silver. His silvery-blue eyes crinkled and twinkled when he laughed. His plump lower lip peeked out from his beard and just begged to be nibbled, and his teeth were straight and white.

  “So, what about you? Ever married? Kids?” Mick asked. He immediately regretted his question when Em stiffened.

  “No to both. Never married, no children. Em the Spinster, that’s me,” Em chuckled weakly.

  “How come?” blurted Mick. “God, that’s rude. Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, it’s fine. I’ve been answering that question for a long time to people that I know far less well. When I was in my twenties, I had no desire to get married and was busy trying to jump-start my career. Then in my thirties, I dated the same guy for a little over ten years. It was never the right time to get married, or so he said, and so now, here I am in my forties with no husband and no children.” She shrugged, but Mick wondered if it was really that straightforward.

  “Is this really something you get asked a lot?”

  “As a woman, yes. Men can get away with not being married. Women, not so much, at least in my experience. It was mostly my parents’ friends that asked. I’m an only child of late-life parents, so there was a lot of expectation to follow tradition. I never felt pressured by my parents, which was nice. It was everyone else, especially after they passed.”

  “So your parents are deceased?”

  “Yeah, a while ago. Daddy had a heart attack on the golf course, and then Mother had cancer. Like I said, late-life parents—Mother was 48 when I was born, and Daddy was 53. She thought she was going through menopause, and ta-da! It’s a baby! Needless to say, they were shocked.” Em laughed. “In a way, I’m lucky that I got to be with them as long as I did. Are your parents living, Mick?”

  “No, my family’s all gone. It’s just me.” Mick didn’t meet Em’s eyes. She noticed he touched his left pec, like he was stroking something attached to his heart.

  He had finished his cigar, and nodded his head toward the house, asking silently if Em was ready to go inside. Em dipped her head in agreement and uncrossed her legs to get up. In a flash, Mick was standing in front of her, his hand extended to help her up. Em took his hand, her legs wobbling a bit from the zing of electricity that passed between the two of them when their hands touched. How long had it been since she had felt this much anticipation? It was both exciting and unnerving.

  He guided her back to the kitchen, plucking her empty glass from her fingers and giving her a grin. He walked to the sink to rinse their glasses and put them in the dishwasher. He had his back to her, affording her a rear view of his body, his broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and tight backside. He turned around and Em found herself glancing at his crotch. Did she detect a certain fullness in the front of those finely fitting jeans? Dear lord, it was probably proportional. Holy crap!

  His fingers drummed on the countertop, the motion rippling up his heavily tattooed forearms. He smiled, but seemed sad at the same time. Em itched to touch his hand again. If she was completely honest with herself, she vacillated between wanting to comfort him and wipe the sadness from his eyes and grabbing him and climbing him like a tree. He was impossibly tall. And finely muscled, very finely.

  Em felt her face grow hot.

  “Um, I’m really beat all of a sudden. I’m going to take off,” she stammered. “Thanks for the beer. It was very nice meeting you. I’ll see you around, I’m sure.” And she flew out the door, leaving Mick standing in the kitchen, thoroughly confused.

  What the hell just happened?

  He blew out a breath. Hopefully Em hadn’t seen his semi-hard on. He hadn’t even really touched her. He thought about her laugh and the dimples in her cheeks, the way she cocked her head to the side when she was listening to him. Thinking about Em pushed him fully erect.

  “Okay, Willy,” Mick addressed his errant member, “you’re obviously ready for this.” But was he ready?

  Chapter 9

  Mick stood nervously in front of Em’s door the next morning. He was an early riser by nature and by habit. You can do this, Mickeyboy. It’s just pastries and coffee. Casual. He could hear what sounded like ska playing in the apartment. He took a deep breath and knocked.

  When Em opened the door, Mick was speechless for a moment. She had looked good last night, all dressed up for a night out. Today, she looked even better, wearing a beat-up t-shirt and rolled-up jeans, her hair in short pigtails. She seemed a lot taller today, but maybe it was just because she seemed relaxed.

  “I heard you rattling around up here and thought you might like some help unpacking, an
d if not, I thought you might like some breakfast.” Mick shook the bag of food and looked at Em hopefully.

  “Please come in. I can’t resist a handsome man who brings me breakfast.” Em grinned back at Mick. “I’m so sorry I flaked and ran off last night. I think all the travel and excitement of the move finally hit me.”

  Mick followed Em to the kitchen, glancing at her rear end as it swayed from side to side in the towering heels she wore. Ah, that’s why she seems taller. Wait, is that a tattoo peeking out from hem of those jeans? Em got more intriguing by the moment.

  “2 Tone Records t-shirt? The English Beat on the stereo? Seems someone likes ska.” Mick looked around Em’s apartment. “Wow! You work fast!” he said as he set the food and coffee on the counter. “You look like you’ve been here forever. I think I still have boxes from when I moved in five years ago.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. The second bedroom is still full. I just put a lot of the unpacked stuff in there so it wouldn’t look like I’m a crazy hoarder.”

  Em threw open the door to the guest room. There was just enough room for the door to open. Boxes were stacked almost to the ceiling and the floor was nearly covered.

  “This is supposed to be my home office. It’s going to take a little time to set up, I think.”

  “Ok, I’m not impressed anymore,” Mick laughed. “Yeah, there are a lot of boxes in here.”

  Em stuck out her tongue at him. Mick’s eyes were glued to the sight of that little pink tongue and he wondered what it would taste like. Em caught the heat in his look and immediately flushed. She cleared her throat and said brightly, “SO! Let’s see what you brought!”

  Em took out a cut-glass pedestal cake plate and artfully arranged the pastries on it. At Mick’s amused look she said, “Oh, hush. Just because I look like a slob doesn’t mean these fancy pastries have to look sloppy as well. Voilà! Breakfast is served!”

  “There’s no way you could look sloppy in those shoes.”

  “Oh God, is that how you knew I was up? Do I sound like a herd of tap-dancing elephants up here? My mother used to say that I walked like a Clydesdale.”