CHAPTER 19

Seamus
 

Melinda leans in close, whispering all the naughty things she wants to do to me. Ordinarily, this is the time I grab her hand and we head for my truck to do said naughty things and probably more.

So then, why the hell am I staring at my beer, full to the neck and wondering how Allie is doing? Her meeting with Tweedle-bitch and Tweedle-dumbass was earlier. Then she was showing newlyweds a house in Doylestown and rounding up her assistants, who listed ten houses this week. I know she’s thorough and needed to go through a few contracts, but it’s been hours since she texted.

I called Valentina a bitch, she said.

Good, I wrote, even knowing what doing that must have taken. What did you call Andres?

I’ll talk to you about it later, she said.

She hasn’t, though. It doesn’t take a genius to know Allie was, and maybe still is, upset.

I take a pull of my beer. It’s warm. I hate warm beer. I secretly blame that shithead Andres for it. If Andres had been a douche to begin with, Allie would have realized she could do better sooner, and I wouldn’t be in the situation I’m in.

Damn, I’m worried sick over Allie and barely aware that Melinda has unbuttoned the top of her red blouse. The color would look great on Allie, and holy shit, doesn’t that revelation give me one hell of a pause.

“What’s the matter, Seamus?” Melinda asks. “You suddenly turned virgin or somethin’?”

“Huh?”

I better start paying better attention. Rumor has it, Melinda stabbed the last guy she was with in the stones. I think it was her ex-husband. In Melinda’s defense, her ex always was a prick.

“I asked if you were a virgin.”

She had to go there. Now I have to protect my manhood and reputation and all that. “Honey, you and me know that’s not true.”

“Then what is it?”

“Rough day,” I mumble. I reach into my back pocket and check my phone for what has to be the ninety-eighth time since I sat down to have my beer.

“Are you waiting on someone else?”

“What?” I say, scrolling through Allie’s last text and barely listening.

I’m not trying to insult Melinda. She’s a decent person and hasn’t missed one day of community service, from what I’ve heard. But I didn’t come into the bar looking for a date. I came looking for . . . I don’t know, something to do?

Ordinarily, I’d stop in to see one of my brothers or maybe even go to Wren’s if I was desperate enough. But they’re with their women and Wren is trying to get all the work done so she and Evan can have a decent honeymoon. Plus, had I stopped to see any one of my family members, I would’ve gotten, “What’s wrong? Where’s Allie? Did you fuck things up?”

I’m not prepared for questions, and I’m sure as shit not prepared to admit Allie is with her ex-lover. Alz needed to do this. Just like I needed to tell her what I did the other day. The way I threw my skeletons out there sucked pirate balls. Except there she was, giving my skeletons CPR or whatever, trying to make me feel better. I wanted to show her why you can’t take shit from anyone, no matter who they are. If it meant me reliving some bad stuff from my past, so be it.

I roll the long neck in my hand. I had two choices. Sit at home looking at my phone. Or sit at a bar and look at my phone.

The change in scenery doesn’t make me look any less pathetic and doesn’t do anything to pick up my mood. I think I was here maybe five minutes before Melinda sauntered up to me. She flirted with Benji at the bar. Batted her new eyelashes at Anthony in the corner. Even gave a cute little wave to Ernie the Drunk. Ernie isn’t really a drunk. He just pretends to be, so he doesn’t have to go home to his wife. But that’s another story.

Melinda remembered me from a barbecue Angus had last summer. She claims she was with someone else, and now they’re not together, blah, blah, blah, her probation officer has hairy knuckles, blah, blah, blah and I need toenail surgery I can’t afford.

I felt bad about her toenail and offered to buy her a beer. Next thing I know she’s stroking the swell of her breast like the winning lottery ticket is buried beneath the skin.

Melinda slaps me across the arm. “I asked, if you’re waiting on somebody?” Her scowl locks on my phone. “All you keep doing is checking your phone. You should be looking at these.” She points to her chest. “I just got ‘em done. A decent man would at least try to cop a feel.”

A few months ago, I would have given them a squeeze to make her feel better. Hey, they even look the same size, unlike last time. Now, I can’t psych myself up for it.

Jesus, what the hell is happening to me? When did I have to psych myself up to feel any woman’s rack? It’s like, one of my favorite things to do in the world, ever since Sabrina Guzman grabbed my hands in the back of her father’s Chevy and placed them on her double D’s.

My phone buzzes. I straighten when I see a text from Allie.

Hey. Are you there? She asks.

Yeah. You okay? I type.

No. It was awful. Strangely, cleansing. Ugly. Then ugly again.

Sounds about right, I type. You want me to kick his ass?

No.

Her ass? I offer. I could send Wren. She owes me for pastry duty.

I think she’s smiling, but wish I could be sure.

No. That’s okay. Just wondering what you’re up to, she replies.

At Tonelli’s having a drink. I don’t mention Melinda. Melinda is nice enough, like the rest of us maybe just trying to find someone for at the night.

I don’t quite finish what I’m thinking. Probably because one night is no longer what I want.

Do you want to come over? Maybe have some wine and watch terrible movies on NetFlix? Allie suggests.

I grin, realizing how good that sounds. I’ll be there in twenty.

I drop a few bills on the table. It’s more than enough to pay for my drinks and Melinda’s. It’s also enough for her to pay for another guy’s drink if that’s what she wants, except that’s not how she takes it.

She stands, adjusting her new rack before tugging on her jacket. “I have to pick up my kid at my ma’s by midnight.” She pulls her long hair out from where it’s tucked behind her jacket. Are you gonna be a gentleman and drive me back or are you going to be a prick like the last guy and make me fucking Uber it?”

“I’m headed out on my own,” I say, trying not to sound like an insensitive asshole. “But if you need a ride, I could drop you off at your ma’s.”

“It’s only nine,” she snaps. “Are you seriously not taking me back to your place?”

“No, but like I said, I can give you a ride, so you can be with your kid.”

She nails me in the chest. It’s a good hit. I wasn’t expecting it. It might even leave a bruise.

“I don’t want to be with my kid. I’m with my kid every night of the week, unless his father has him. This is my night. You hear me, Samuel? My night to have a little fun. So either have it with me, or I’ll have it with someone else.”

A couple months ago, I would have taken her up on her offer and not even bothered to correct her on my name. We would have left laughing and had a good time. Tonight, I’m not laughing. I feel sorry for her. Melinda is lonely and looking for something I can’t give. Probably because I’m lonely, too. But I’m not alone around Allie.

“Sorry, Melinda,” I say. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“My name is Nanette,” she says, ripping the cash off the table, her boots stomping against the floor as she heads back toward Benji. I drop another twenty down and head out straight to Allie’s, wishing Nanette well and hoping Allie is okay.

 

 

Allie’s smile lights up the entire doorway when she answers. Her teeth are gleaming and so are her eyes, no matter that it’s clear she was crying. That offer to kick Andres’s ass? She should’ve taken me up on it. I wrap my arms around her and lift her in a bear hug.

“You want to talk about it?” I ask, setting her down.

“Not really,” she says. She backs into the townhouse, letting me through and locking the door.

“Yeah, you do,” I say, kicking off my work boots and leaving them by the door.

Allie is in a pair of black sweatpants that hang low on her hips and a black tank. I watch how her hips sway as I follow her into the kitchen. “Maybe, but some people aren’t worth talking about.”

The T.V. is on and there’s some chick flick playing, an already opened bottle of red wine and two glasses placed on the table in front of the cream-colored coach. “You want a beer?” she asks, laughing when she sees I already pulled a Yuengling out of the fridge.

I crack it open and place it next to the wine glass. “Wine?” I offer.

“Yes, please.” She busies herself in the kitchen as I fill her glass halfway.

My feet slide a little across her wood floors. I reach for a few paper towels and utensils, falling into our routine, even though I can’t remember when exactly we established that routine.

Allie scurries around the gourmet kitchen, from stove, to counter, to oven, back to the stove again. She reminds me of a squirrel, going from spot to spot the way she does. But I’m not attracted to squirrels. What I am is head over heels for Allie.

The night when she kissed me in bed, I thought maybe it’d lead to something more. Not sex. Not by the way those lips met mine. But for something other than friendship. That kiss had a lot of heart to it, sealing her emotions and mine where they couldn’t hurt us.

I never planned to tell her anything that personal, this soon, especially something I’ve never told anyone. But now that I did, I feel like I can tell her anything, except maybe how I really feel.

Allie grins from where she’s arranging roasted vegetables around a bowl of ranch dressing. “Don’t panic. It’s not all healthy,” she assures me. “I also have boneless wings and potato skins in the oven. You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Like I’d ever tell the sweet thing no.

“There’s always room for wings.” I point to her. “That shit should be written on a bumper sticker, maybe some fortune cookies, too.”

She grins, but there’s a splinter of sadness shadowing her eyes. It does something to me and I don’t just mean wanting to pound Andres into scrapple. I want to hold her and kiss her, too. My problem is, if I cross the friend zone, there’s no going back. I’ll lose my best friend.

I reach for the hot tray she pulls out of the oven, leaving her to carry the lighter stuff and head to the living room. We arrange the food like we always do, hot food closest to us, cold just behind it, our drinks directly in front.

We fill our plates, Allie with the veggies and a boneless wing, me with everything so she doesn’t feel bad. “Tell me what happened,” I say as we settle down.

She does, and it’s worse than I thought. I’m pissed and proud. Pissed by the shit Valentina pulled, the pussy moves on Andres’s part (shocker), but damn proud of Allie for not just telling Trashy Tina she won’t be a bridesmaid, but for telling her off. But there’s something else I hang onto. Not so much what Valentina said about Allie not being enough of a woman for Andres, but how Allie took it.

“Why does this thing bother you so much?”

Allie looks at me. “Is this a serious question?”

I hold out a hand. “I get the obvious. Andres and Valentina screwed you when they screwed each other, ultimately giving you the shaft. I’m not saying it shouldn’t hurt. What I want to know, specifically, is why it bothers you. I’ve seen him, Allie. He’s nothing to brag about. And if it weren’t for the bills he made, your sister wouldn’t be bragging about him either.”

Allie grows quiet in way that breaks my heart. Those large brown eyes of hers filling up with sadness. “Did you love him?” I ask.

“Yes.” She pauses. “No.” She shakes her head. “I thought I did. Love is supposed to be forever, isn’t it? It’s supposed to border on obsession. The kind of emotion you feel even in the person’s absence, right?”

Well, damn. If that’s the case . . . I clear my throat. “Sure.”

She tilts her head slightly, causing those big curls to sweep along her cheeks. I don’t realize how hard I’m staring until I realize how hard she’s staring back. “Have you ever been in love before, Seamus?” She seems afraid to ask, even though she does. “In the way I just described?”

“Nope.” Until maybe now. Holy shit.

Whatever she catches on my face makes her laugh. Awesome. Still, it fills the void Andres and Valentina seemed to have created. “I used to think love was bull,” I admit. Something musicians filtered into their songs to romanticize the lyrics and make the song more than it was.”

“What about now?” She gathers her knees and tucks them against her, using them to rest her chin. It’s not a deliberate pose. But it sums up Allie. She’s guarded, protecting herself from harm, but showing enough of her face to prove she wants to let others in.

“I started to believe it with Killian and Sofia. We always joke he’s loved her since before he got pubes. They spent years apart, without talking or seeing each other. But it’s like you said. You never forget someone when it’s real. No matter how much time passes, they remain in here.” I give my temple a tap. “That was them. That was Kill and Sofe.”

I finish off my potato and a few wings, giving Allie time to take in what I tell her. “It wasn’t love” she finally admits.

I take a long pull of my beer and wipe my mouth. “So then, what’s really bugging you?”

“I can’t help thinking I did something wrong,” she says.

“How so?” She rubs her hands, keeping quiet. “Come on, Alz. It’s me. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“It’s because it is you that it’s hard to say,” she says, and like a light switch being flicked, her blush appears.

“Eh, so tell me anyway.

Allie scrunches her face and rubs her hands again. “I think if it hadn’t been Valentina, eventually it would’ve been somebody else.”

“But Andres looks like a cartoon character,” I remind her. “Not       the cool kind like Bugs. More like Porky Pig and Yosemite Sam had a baby. But it wasn’t a cute baby. It was like they got drunk and angry-fucked.”

I’m trying to get her to laugh so she’s not so nervous and just puts it all out there, but all she does is blush again. “I don’t think I was good enough in bed,” she blurts out.

“Sure, you were.” I swallow down another potato skin.

“How can you tell?” she asks.

“It’s easy.” I try the roasted zucchini. Hey. Not bad. “Show me your fuck face.”

Her jaw slowly falls open. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m not sure I know what it means,” she stammers.

Allie looks . . . scared. The hell? This can’t be the first time she’s hearing this. I take another look at her stunned face. Except that yeah, it is.

“S’all right. I’ll explain.” I take another pull of my beer and spill the facts of life. “Men don’t want the same face you make when you serve them milk and cookies, unless you plan to do something naughty with that cookie.”

“Naughty?” she asks.

I hold out a hand. “We’ll get back to the cookies. Men want their women to make them feel like they can’t get enough of them in the sack. That desire needs to be reflected in a woman’s face.”

“In the fuck face?” Allie clarifies.

It’s the first time she’s ever really cursed in front of me. I’ll admit, it’s a little distracting and kind of hot. But onward and upward. “Yup. The better the face, the more the man is going to feel like an Alpha King taking on the universe, and the more he’s going to make you beg for it. So go ahead, let ‘er rip.”

“Have you lost your mind? I can’t make that face, with you, here.” She looks around like someone else is watching or taking notes on this very important conversation.

“Why not?” I give her a wink. Women like that. She blushes. See, told you. “I thought we were friends?” I remind her.

“That’s not something a friend asks another friend to do,” she says, taking two very hard swallows of her wine.

“A real friend would,” I counter. I lean forward. “On the count of three, show me your best face. Ready?” I wait for her to take another sip of her wine and put it down. “One, two, three, go!”

I don’t think she’s going to do it or even try. She looks down on the floor and then back up, pretty much with the same expression she had when she first looked down minus reddening cheeks. “I’m trying to help you, Allie. You have to at least try.”

She points to her face. “That was it.”

I lower my empty beer. “It can’t be.”

“It is,” she insists. She hurries into her powder room and returns with a hand-held mirror, working hard to keep her features the same. “What’s wrong with this . . . look?”

I rub my jaw when she plops down next to me. “There’s no nice way to say this,” I begin.

Allie lets go of whatever the hell that face was. “There never is, Seamus.”

I ignore the dig. “The best way to describe what you showed me is the way I look when I’m trying to decide if I want fries or chips with my cheesesteak.” I lift up my hands in surrender. “No offense.”

She places her mirror on the table and folds her hands on her lap. “How am I not supposed to be offended? You basically just told me I’m terrible in bed and have no way of properly expressing my pleasure.”

“That’s the problem, you still think it’s about you.”

“It’s not?” she asks.

I scoff. “No. It’s like I told you. A man wants to feel like a sex god in bed, no matter how bad the sex is.”

Allie tilts her chin. Damn, she looks good. “Just to be clear, the women you’re with make you feel like you’re doing everything right, even though perhaps you’re doing it all wrong?”

I stare back at her, confused. “No, I’m doing it right. In fact, I’m probably the best these women will ever have.” My shoulders sag. “It makes me feel bad, you know? To ruin these women for all others. Those poor bastards that follow, it’s like they never stood a chance.”

Allie sighs, clearly torn between banging her head against the wall and putting my head through it. “Congratulations, I’m thrilled you’re so very awesome in bed. I’ll be sure to say the rosary on behalf of all those women you ruined and their poor, pitiful men.”

I place my hand on her knee. “It’ll mean a lot to them.”

It’s taking all I have not to crack up. I don’t quite stop my smirk and neither does Allie, making it all worth it.

“Let’s try this again,” I say. “You ready?”