Killian
Fucking prick.
How dare he come in here and ruin a fucking perfect evening? Of all the inconsiderate, selfish things to do to a man.
And could his timing be any fucking worse?
I’m sure I’m turning shamrock green and rosewood fucking red.
My insides threaten to boil over. I swear, if the prick makes one more joke or pays Rebecca one more compliment, I’ll punch his fucking lights out.
And why is she looking at him like that? Her eyes are wide open, as if she’s admiring him.
Can’t she see what he’s doing? I mean it’s so fucking obvious.
All he wants is to get into her pants.
And here I thought Rebecca was a woman with judgment, a woman who was smart—street-savvy, even. But no, a bloke comes running along, pays her a few fucking compliments, and she’s all over him like a rash.
Okay, so I’m being a bit harsh by judging Rebecca like that. But she’s laughing at his jokes, she’s singing his praises, and she’s pretending to be interested in him.
Pretty close to being all over him at any fucking rate.
But why is this bothering me? I mean, there’s nothing going on between me and her. Besides our practical business arrangement, but that’s it.
The way he leans into her is outrageous. Hasn’t the man heard of personal space?
I mean, he can’t have because he’s invading Rebecca’s right now. If I had a piece of paper, I doubt I’d be able to slip it between the two of them.
“Don’t you agree, Killian?” Brian asks, turning toward me.
I just glare at him.
His fucking pathetic attempt at drawing me into the conversation is falling on deaf ears. I won’t be part of it. Instead of giving him a reply, I put my drink to my lips and take a sip.
Rebecca glances at me, all smiles, but then she diverts her attention back to Brian.
Fecking shite.
If he doesn’t leave us alone soon, I’ll either explode or smash something.
Instead of trying to listen in on their conversation, I try and focus on something else. But it’s too hard.
I try and think of a range of different adjectives to describe Brian, but it’s hard fucking work. Conceited, arrogant, self-assured, prick.
Pathetic list really. I mean, I’m a writer and should be able to sprout forth brilliant words like James fucking Joyce on a moment’s fucking notice, but alas, nothing is working for me tonight.
Rebecca’s entire face is lit up like a Christmas tree, and Brian leans casually against the bar next to her. An innocent bystander might think they’ve known each other for years. If they start kissing, I’m out of here.
They look so close they could be dating. I shake my head, close my eyes, and pinch myself. Man, is he really making a move on my woman?
Wait—what am I saying? She’s not my woman. Rebecca’s just someone who’s going to have my baby.
Of course, I can’t even explain my emotional turmoil to myself.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
One minute we were having a nice chat and the next, it’s ruined by the intrusion of Brian Flanagan. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s done this on purpose.
But then, he could have no idea what’s going on here.
Wait a minute. What the fuck is going on here?
Why am I overreacting? I’m carrying on like a spoilt five-year-old who doesn’t get his own way.
No. Fucking fuck this shit.
I’m not jealous. What’s there to be jealous about? We’re two friends in a pub having a drink, and we’ve entered into an arrangement about having a baby.
It’s all perfectly innocent, above board, and most importantly with no strings attached or emotional ties.
Then, why is Flanagan ruining it for me?
A little voice tries to be heard. It tells me what I don’t want to hear.
It whispers something like You’re obviously jealous Killian.
No, I’m not. Definitely not. I’m concerned for Rebecca.
I don’t want her to get hurt. Brian has a reputation.
He’s known to break women’s heart faster than a Ferrari can drive around a race track. I realize it’s a crap analogy, but heck, I’m struggling to string a fucking sentence together.
From what I can gather, she’s just left one failed relationship behind. She wouldn’t want to enter into another.
I down another gulp of whiskey.
Now, there’s something dependable right here. A whiskey won’t let you down.
It gets the job done, with the added benefit of tasting fucking good every single time.
Rebecca laughs, and Brian leans toward her. I’m ready to jump in and pull him off her, but then I realize he’s shaking her hand.
Obviously he’s said something amusing; otherwise, why would she be laughing?
“Farewell, my friend,” Brian says to me, but I only shoot daggers at him.
Either he doesn’t notice, or he chooses to ignore me. He gives me a wave and then he’s gone.
“He’s nice.” Rebecca’s eyes are shining as she stands up. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she says, then turns to leave.
“Where’re you going?” I don’t mean to sound so sharp.
She stops and turns toward me. She briefly furrows her brow. “To the toilet if you must know. Want to supervise?”
She sounds sarcastic, and I regret my question.
Holy fucking shit. What am I doing?
Instead of pacing up and down near our seat, I decide it’s time to fucking get out of here.
What’s the point of hanging around? I don’t want to be here and watch the speeding train crash.
And if Rebecca falls for the smooth-talking, two-timing sleazebag Brian Flannigan, she’s going to be sorry.
If I tell her, she won’t listen to me, I know that much. She’s one headstrong fucking lady.
Anyway, what’s it to me?
I sigh. And I hesitate.
And I fucking hover at the end of the bar close to the front door. It’s as if my feet are suddenly glued to the spot.
My mind’s screaming at me to get out of here, to leave and run as fast as I can, but my feet refuse to obey.
In total fucking frustration, I stomp my foot.
Someone bumps into me.
“Fuck man, watch where you’re going,” I bark and glower at the offender.
“Chill, Killian,” he says and leaves me to it.
Chill.
Easy for him to say; he isn’t in my shoes.
Again, I can’t understand myself. How am I supposed to shed any kind of light on universal fucking turmoil or whatever the critics say I fucking do again?
Those days are behind me, if nothing else. Might as well start writing horoscopes to pay the fucking bills.
For an interminable period, I just stay where I am, with one foot pointed toward a quick getaway and the other holding me back. It’s like I’m suspended in limbo, the place between heaven and hell.
Fucking hell.
This is what Dante must’ve been fucking writing about. I’m loitering somewhere around the Eighth Circle at the goddamn moment.
Fucking appropriate, because I had just watched a fucking fraudster in action, chatting up the woman who was supposed to be my business partner.
One bright spot is that I’m free to leave this hell at any time.
And if I leave, what’ll that achieve?
Absolutely fucking nothing, I remind myself.
In fact, if I leave, I’m practically handing Rebecca to Brian on a silver platter. I may as well draw up a fucking contract for the two of them to have their own relationship, cutting me out of the partnership completely.
No fucking way.
“A bottle of Jameson,” I shout to the bartender and prowl back to my seat.
I’m not a runner. I don’t fucking run away from life.
In fact, I glare it right in the eyes and ask it, What the fuck do you want?
There’s no point in running away anyway. I mean, what am I running from, exactly? I remind myself over and over and again that I’m fucking overreacting.
Killian, you’re overreacting.
It almost becomes a mantra.
Back in my seat, I stare at everything and nothing. People all around me are having a good time.
There’s jovial conversation, friendly banter, and lots of laughter.
A joyful vibe fills the air, and I take a deep breath, trying to inhale just a touch of it for myself.
I grab the bottle of Jameson and pour myself a glass. Then, I pick up the glass and down in with one large gulp.
Before I’ve finished fucking swallowing, I fill the glass the again.
By now, my eyes are glued to the door. I’m waiting for Rebecca to come back.
The second glass goes down as fast as the first, and I’m onto my third.
On my fourth glass, I remind myself I’m a worthy human being. My value doesn’t decrease because some other fuckhead can’t see it.
And what does it matter, anyway?
I mean, at the end of the day...it’s all bullshit, anyway.
And with that thought, I gulp down my fifth glass.
Fuck the lot of you. I don’t need you, any of you.