Page 11 of Kissin Irish by Morgan
“Man, you’ve got to hand it to Cece,” Riff said to me. “Your dick. You’ve got to hand it to her. That’s it. That’s the joke. Because she’s blind.”
While he laughed, Cousin elbowed him. “Man, that’s not funny.”
I joined in the fun. “She won’t see me coming, literally. But she’ll feel it running down her face.”
Cousin changed the subject. “What are you doin’ up this early, Riff?”
Fuck. Cece appeared behind the bar. She’d come in through the kitchen. Evidently, Cousin had noticed first.
“There’s a run to Jackson,” Riff choked out. “Would take Irish if he wasn’t grounded thanks to Cece, here.” He raised his coffee to her.
“Do you know how I went blind?” Cece asked.
We all fell silent.
“Looking at Riff’s ugly mug every day when he dated Lisa.”
Lisa Green was Pagan’s cousin who left Riff and married Tori Getty, part of the Music City Syndicate. Basically, the mob around here. Which made her Cece’s cousin, too. Cousin wasn’t the only one in Tennessee related to everyone. It reminded me of Ireland, when I couldn’t throw a stone without hitting my kin.
“A face like that turns people blind and gay,” Cece said, cracking a smile.
Riff replied, “You mean you played your own fiddle too hard looking at this fine face. Mama always said too much jacking off would make ya go blind.” He howled.
“Riff, being a dick to me won’t make yours any bigger,” Cece retorted.
Sweet Tea cackled. “Ain’t that the truth.”
“Irish.” Cece reached across the bar and touched my hand even though I hadn’t said a word. She must’ve heard us before she made an appearance. Fuck. “We need to get to work.” She turned to go into the kitchen.
I went around the bar to follow her.
Riff went on, shouting after her, “I’m just sorry you won’t be able to see Irish’s bush. It’s like clown pubes down there.”
“How would you know, man?” I heard Cousin ask behind me as I pushed through the double doors.
“I can only imagine the carpet matches the drapes, with that red mop of his,” Riff countered.
Cece produced a long thin cane from thin air. She used it and her outreached hand to get around the kitchen.
“I thought you had a dog.”
“Well, good morning to you, too. Or is it top of the mornin’ to you?”
“We Irish don’t like that saying.”
“We blind folks don’t like to be made fun of either.” Cece had heard us.
“Just having a bit of craic.”
“Crack? You on crack?”
“No. Heavens to Betsy, no. Craic’s a good time. Fun. We were just having some fun.”
“At my expense?” She asked, staring straight at me, but not seeing the expression on my face. “Talking about jizzing on my face?”
Laughing, I said, “We were just slaggin’ you.”
“Slaggin’?”
