Killian
“So, Cara turns around and looks me straight in the eye. And she says, ‘But William, that’s not my horse.’ And so I look at the horse, and then I look at her and I’m all ‘Are you sure, lass?’”
I laugh—a deep one that rumbles from my stomach—at William and his story. His laugh is loud and drowns out that of his woman’s and my own.
William O’Connor has been one of my best friends since I was a small boy. He’s a good man with a big heart. He’s not overly bright, but it’s part of his charm.
He’s tall—nearly six and a half feet—and built like an old Irish castle. He’s got shaggy dark hair and a thick beard that he keeps trimmed for his lady.
His hands are rough and calloused from years of hard manual labor on his family’s farm. His skin is tan and almost leathery from those same years.
His lady, Cara, is the exact opposite. She’s, maybe, a hundred and sixty centimeters tall, around five foot two, at most.
Her hair—black as a raven’s—is almost as long as Rebecca’s. While William’s blue eyes always seem to be locked in this permanent squint, Cara’s eyes are as big as a doe’s and just as dark.
And unlike her man, Cara is as sharp as they come. She’s a school teacher in town and a favorite of all the children.
As different from each other as they are, the two of them are disgustingly fucking perfect together. It’s so nauseating at times that it feels like I’ve just inhaled a bucket of sulfur.
They’re also, perhaps, two of the only people I can genuinely call ‘friends’.
I would add Guinness and Bushmills to that list, but I’ve been told that they don’t count.
“Cara, how do you put up with it? I mean, the man is as dumb as a roasted lamb.”
Cara looks up at William—who looks at her with a beaming smile—then looks at me.
“You know, Killian, I don’t have a fucking clue,” she declares with a perfect deadpan tone.
The three of us share another laugh and knock back the shots of whiskey on the table before us.
It’s been a nice treat to get out and spend some time with the pair. Everything this week has just been utter shite.
I’d been hit by a car. I’ve got writer’s block that could work as a dam for the River Shannon.
And then there’s the person who hit me with the car...Rebecca.
I keep trying not to think about her. But it’s fucking difficult.
Especially when it feels like I can hear her voice.
Hold up a second.
Just over William’s large shoulder, I see a red-head. I can’t see the woman’s face, and there’s a sea of people between us.
No, that seriously cannot be her.
She raises a hand and yells for the bartender.
Oh, fuck me, it is her.
Suddenly, there’s a gap in the sea that opens as if Moses himself had created it.
That’s when I see Rebecca’s face.
She looks annoyed as she tries to get Charlie’s attention again.
Poor old bloke is likely up to his ears with orders.
The pub is absolutely filled to the brim tonight. Charlie’s brought in a couple live bands from Dublin to perform in the evening. And we, Irish, love our live pub music.
Then, Rebecca looks through the crowd…at me.
I’m positive she’s seen me sitting here. I’m looking right at her.
Fuck, I’m even leaning partly out of the booth to get a glimpse of her.
But I get nothing in return.
No smile.
No nod.
No acknowledgment of my existence at all.
I sit back up in my booth and look down at the half empty glass of Guinness before me.
Slowly, my fingers slide around the base of the glass, and I draw it up to my lips.
I can’t—or don’t—understand why Rebecca would look at me and just outright ignore me.
Well, actually I can perfectly understand why, but it seems rather cold for her to do.
But then again, she did leave me without a word back at that conference. She came into my life and sent my mind about like a ship at sea.
Then, she left without so much as a word...and then hits me with her truck years after.
Maybe this isn’t all that out of character for her after all.
“What’s wrong, boyo? You look like you’ve seen a banshee,” William says.
He turns the top half of his massive frame to look over at the bar.
I take another drink of my Guinness.
“Oh, boy. That’s her, isn’t it? I can see why you like her,” William continues when he turns back around.
“Killian, she probably didn’t even see you. This place is jammers tonight,” Cara says with softness and valid logic.
“Didn’t see him? Look at this man’s face.” William reaches across the table to pinch my cheek.
I smack his head away and give him a look as he smiles at me.
“He’s Ireland’s pretty boy. Fuck Colin Farrell and Cillian Murphy and that Fifty Shades wanker.”
“What about Pierce Brosnan?” Cara interjects with a raised eyebrow.
“As pretty as Killian is, he’s certainly no Pierce Brosnan. That man is a masterpiece.”
Leave it to William to make me chuckle when it’s the last thing in the world I want to do.
“Look, guys, can we just please talk about something else? I don’t want to sit here and get into it with you about Rebecca.”
No talk of Rebecca.
As much as Cara is probably right about Rebecca not seeing me, I think it may just be best to give her some space.
If she wants to see me, then she can come on by of her own accord.
“Alright, then. How’s your new book coming?” Cara asks with a smug grin on her face.
William snickers at Cara’s question and takes a drink of his Guinness to silence himself.
“It’s coming,” I lie. “I’ve nearly got my first draft done. It’s good. Might even outsell Midnight Son.”
“Bull,” William declares as he slams his empty glass down on the table. “Utter shite.”
“What is?”
I feign insult, but William sees through it.
The man may not be book smart, but he can read people like a preacher reads the Bible.
“You’ve not gotten a single fucking word, have you?”
He’s right, of course. I haven’t. I’ve been struggling day after day to get word to paper.
And no matter what I do, I can’t seem to break through this block in my brain.
“I have so,” I continue to lie anyway—I’m in too deep.
“If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to claim it could outsell Midnight Son, you dirty wanker.”
Well, fuck. He’s got me by the balls on this one.
“Alright, fine. I’ve got nothing. I try to get something down and nothing comes out that makes any fucking sense at all.”
“You’re probably just overthinking everything, Killian. Why don’t you just go grab Ida and take off for a couple days in the country?”
Cara might actually be on to something with that suggestion.
It would get me away from the cottage—where I feel as though my typewriter is taunting me with its presence—and get away from Rebecca.
Some good country air could really help.
“That’s a great idea. You could come on by the house tomorrow. I’ll give you my tent and stove to use while you’re gone. I’ve even got some fresh lamb and pork jerky you can take for snacks,” Williams says enthusiastically.
The man is a giant ball of happiness bouncing through life excited about everything.
It’s an admirable trait—also annoying as fucking shite—but admirable.
I down the rest of my Guinness in one go.
“You just might be Ireland’s biggest secret genius,” I tell her with a chuckle.
“My lass is pretty amazing,” William says with a nod.
“Well, thank you, my lover.”
Well, fuck. Here comes the nausea.
The two smile and kiss like horny teenagers spending their first night together.
“Enjoy your snog,” I said flatly. “I’m going the fuck home.”
I get up from my booth. Neither one of them bothers to wave or attempt to say goodbye.
I roll my eyes and grab my jacket that had been lying beside me.
I’m about halfway out the door when I see Rebecca. Even in this massive crowd of drunken Irish folk, she stands out like a diamond in the rough.
I look over my shoulder toward the booth that I just got up from. I know that William and Cara are still there, locked in their passionate kiss.
I look back over to Rebecca.
She’s alone, looking lost and confused.
I should just leave. Go home. Get some rest.
Maybe even start packing for tomorrow.
That’s what I should do.
But, obviously, it isn’t what I’m going to do.
I push through the people that stand between me and Rebecca.
She turns and sees me coming toward her.
She looks relieved.
“Killi—” she starts to say, but I stop her.
I take her face in the palms of my hands and pull her into me.
Without a word, my lips meet hers with passion and desire worthy of a Shakespearean sonnet.