Page 19 of Irish Fire and Forbidden Love
“Cork? But that’s more than two hours away?—”
“Yeah, they like their little games.”
I let the words wash through me, dousing me more than water ever could. I had a sudden desperate desire to flee this man’s cottage and run back to the city. It didn’t matter if it took an hour or seven— so long as I could use my body then maybe I’d get some of the penance I deserved.
“I don’t have time to shower. I need to go?—”
“Trust me, you have time to shower. Now go on. I won’t drive you until you’ve cleaned off.”
It was only smelling myself that eventually got me into the shower. Besides, open mic would still be in full swing by the time I did get there. If anything, she’d be in the thick of it, and probably be too busy to shoo me away. That is, if my brother didn’t get to her first.
I walked into a bathroom, just big enough for the sink, toilet, and tub. I stripped from the clothes Maeve had given me and switched on the shower.
As I waited for the water to warm, I stared at my reflection. I had a black and red bruise on my temple, probably from where I’d been hit. My eyes were bloodshot, too, and despite my lengthy sleep, I wondered when the last time I’d have a decent night sleep.
I turned away from the mirror and slipped into the shower. The shower was a semi recent installation from the tub itself as it was still a nice clean white whereas the tub had taken on that hue of yellow. The shower head was too small for me when I stood, so I was forced to crouch in the tub basin and hold the water over my head, allowing the heat to work through my back muscles and untangle knots from my hair.
I’d always found a sort of solace in warm water. It did something to my brain that made me forget who I was or what I was doing, and so at first, even all cleaned, I didn’t want to comeout. I wanted to dissolve under the hot spray of liquid, but then I remembered Maeve, and I switched off the water and pulled a towel over my waist. Just outside the door, was a set of black trousers and a white shirt with suspenders. I put these on and made my way into the kitchen where the man sat with two cups of tea.
“The water’s done you some good. You look like a grand gentleman now that you're cleaned up.”
I snorted and sat in the chair opposite him. “There’s a lady who wouldn’t agree with you.”
“Ah sure, there’s nothing unfixable, now is there?”
“This is,” I said because in my gut I knew it could never be as simple as returning back to Maeve. She wouldn’t welcome me in open arms. I’d be lucky if she even welcomed me at all.
“Y’know, I thought the same way meself once, and so I never tried to get me woman back. Never made things right, I didn’t. Twenty-five years together we were, and I went and threw it all away over pride. And to be honest with you, a man like yourself, tossed out half-naked in me field, shouldn’t have much pride to be holding onto at all.” He leaned toward me and said, “Fight for her, lad. If she’s worth it, then fight for her.”
Chapter 7
Maeve
It shouldn’t have botheredme. Him not calling. After all, it wasn’t like I wanted him to call anyway. Right? I told him to leave. I should applaud the man for his respect. His sensitivity to my needs, but several beers in and sitting on a barstool, watching a guitarist struggle on the stage, I wished Rory was beside me. I wished he hadn’t respected me so much. And I hated how much I wished for these things.
“He’s not worth your time,” Eliza said in a sing-song voice, not looking up from her beer pour.
And he wasn’t. I needed to focus on the fundraiser. Get things up and moving. We’d decided that there was no time like the present. The fundraiser would happen tonight. I blasted it online and plastered the event all over the city. It was packed, and it wasn’t even seven.
Joe stumbled up to me and slid a hand over my shoulder. He sighed, smelling like last night’s choices and today’s mistakes. “Someone’s playing my guitar.”
“I told you… it’s the pub’s guitar. I’m giving you access to it, but everyone has the right to play it when they get up on stage. You’ll have to wait your turn.”
He grumbled something incoherent, then said, “What happened to that young lad you spent your time with? Shouldn’t he be here? Singing your sweet praises?”
“Don’t worry about him. Worry about yourself. You’re already drunk, and the night is still young. Careful, or I’ll have to cut you off.”
Another grumble rolled from his lips, this one harsher, and he teetered away. A few moments later, he had shooed the girl who’d been on stage off and started to sing, guitar held tightly in his hands.
“You’re too hard on him.”
“Me?” I said, incredulous. “You’re the one who keeps filling his cup. He’s drunk, Eliza.”
“Yeah, and it’s people like that who keep you in business.”
I was about to retort back, about the community, about the music, but just then the bar opened and in walked the very man who I hadn’t expected to see back here in a million years, or at least, at first glance, I thought it was Rory. He had the same eyes. Those eyes— green like the mossy undergrowth in a dense forest. Deep and all-encompassing and soon I’d be swallowed up. But it was the smile that told me it wasn’t Rory. It was a cold smile. One made without those eyes.
“Is this the Anchoring Pig?” he asked.
