Page 41 of Dirty Ink

Sighing, I let my hand fall from my face.

“Fellas,” I said before looking over my shoulder to Aurnia and adding, “And lady.”

All three sets of eyes were fixed on me. They might even be holding their breath. I had half a mind to drag it out. To make them sweat a little. Have some well-earned fun after the shite I had to put up with yesterday.

“Fellas and lady,” I went on, because they were, after all, my friends. My family, like Conor said. “Miss Last Night is so quiet because she’s jet lagged off her head and has a hangover from hell. Miss Last Night has not left because she is staying here for a little while. Ah, and, maybe this needs mentioning, Miss Last Night is my wife.”

Any relief my friends might have felt upon learning that I did not in fact accidentally kill a woman during some kinky BDSM role play in my bedroom the previous night and casually proceed to go about my day like it was nothing, was quickly eliminated by a more pressing emotion: shock.

It started slowly enough. Drawn eyebrows. Wary glances at those around them. A little nervous laughter. Because it must be a joke. Right? Right?

No, no. It surely has to be a joke. Mason, married? Mason, committing? Mason, finding someone he wants to give more than just his penis to (it is a very nice penis, by the way)?

It had to be a joke, said their nervous little laughs.

I didn’t join in.

All the pieces fell into place. There really was no other explanation for everything. The woman upstairs. The strange appearance of an American claiming the very same thing the day before. The straightness of my face. The casualness with which I shrugged. The ease with which I drummed my fingers on the drafting desk. All adding up to the truth: Mason Donovan, their friend and most beloved (and successful) playboy, was indeed a married man.

From there, the shock turned rather loud. Behind me there was Aurnia shouting with increasing pitchiness, “Wait, what? Wait, what, who? Wait, what, who, when? Oh my fucking God, when can I meet her?”

There was Conor who was just repeating in that low, guttural growl of his, “Are you having a laugh? Are you having a fucking laugh? Ah shite, did you knock her up?”

I smiled through it all, rather amused as my friends proceeded to absolutely lose their collective shit.

Well, all of them except Rian. Rian looked merely confused. A sort of bewilderment drew his eyebrows together as he looked about him. “Hold on, lads. Hold on…I thought you knew?”

Silence fell over the parlour of Dublin Ink. All attention was now not on me—the newlywed, the husband, the deprived-of-a-stag-party groom—but on Rian.

So rude.

But understandable. Because…

“What the actual fuck, Rian?” I said. “Why would anyone have known? I didn’t fucking know.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Wait, you didn’t know either?”

I gripped the corners of my drafting desk till I was certain the wood was going to splinter. Aurnia sank onto the couch, head swivelling between Rian and me. She just needed popcorn. Conor joined her. It was quite the accomplishment for my shite to prove to be more complicated than theirs. Yay fucking me.

“I learned yesterday,” I said slowly, eyes narrowed at Rian. “When the fuck did you learn of my nuptials, my dear, dear friend?”

The little bell above the front door rang. All four of us shouted at the poor sap who stuck his eager head in the door, “Not now!”

The sheepish head disappeared. The door closed. The attention returned to Rian. He shrugged, hands dug into his pockets.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I guess I learned about it when you put that candy ring on her finger in Vegas.”

“Vegas?!” Conor shouted.

“Candy ring?!” Aurnia shouted.

“You got married in Vegas?!”

“You didn’t even get her a proper ring?!”

I dismissed Conor and Aurnia with a wave of my hand and focused on Rian.

“Are you telling me that you were there?” I said to him.

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