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  “Who are you, Shade?”

  “Tonight I’m yours.”

  He let go of her arms and that was his mistake. Shade grappled him and turned them until she held him down. Breathless from the effort they laughed. Her unbound hair fell in black columns that when stilled, looked as if they were holding up the ceiling of her face.

  You’re beautiful. He did not say it, it was a word incapable of imparting his full esteem for her. No words would ever do how he felt justice. None had to.

  “What?” Shade asked, feeling pinned by his stare – like nobody had ever made her feel before.

  “I’m speechless.”

  Shade leaned down, shattering beams of hair and bringing her lips to his. She held her body down against his and lay her head on his chest. Time can’t end this, I won’t let it. “Diarmuid, I meant what I said earlier. I don’t ever want us to become strangers again after tonight. Do you hear me?”

  “I don’t think we could.”

  He flinched when she took him in her hand. She guided him into her and sat back, his breath shuddering. She stopped any thought of his that lay beyond her.

  His expression was exquisite; eyelids fluttering, mouth gaping, letting out unchecked sounds. There are no masks in here.

  With almost no distance left between them his patience came to an end. He thrust his pelvis up taking her unawares. She gasped. He was right. There is no more need for talking.

  Each smile, frown and unconscious tick was a ruin upon the landscape of him. How naïve we are to play this game. She wanted to chart the topography of his past to better know what made him who he is. To explore the paths of his mind, those wildernesses overgrown from little use, his hidden places.

  She knew he was asleep when the gentle weaving of his fingers following the outline of her tattoos stopped. It was an enchanting spell of comfort. Shade turned on to her back, careful not to wake him. The sheets were cold so far away from him.

  He looked so serene at rest. “I’m not saying it,” she whispered.

  Shit. She stared into the darkness until it diffused into her troubled mind, blanketing her worries. Two more days. Shade curled back into Diarmuid and held him until she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 13: ONLY ROOM FOR ONE

  “Kiss me.”

  “No!” Diarmuid moved his head to the side and put a pillow between them to block Shades advances.

  “I said kiss me, now. You’re not getting out of this bed until you kiss me.”

  “Nope. Not happening.”

  Shade sat up making an exaggerated, exasperated effort of it. “You’re going to kiss me.”

  “I’ve horrible morning breath,” he covered his mouth while he spoke.

  “Oh you little dandy, do you think I was nibbling on mints before you woke up?” Shade made another attempt to pin him down and exhaled on him.

  Diarmuid went into mock convulsions. Still holding him down, she kissed his mouth, which he held in a tight line.

  “Fine!” She slumped down with a sigh and pinched his nipple, partly from frustration, but also to let out some of her desire – petty and effective. The bed sheets came off the corners and bunched up beneath them during the night. When they woke they came to each other in the dark of early morning. Shade woke first and lay watching him sleep. She put his hand under her cheek and lay there in stolen intimacy.

  “Tell me something about you I wouldn’t know had I not just asked?” She repeated the question that he had asked her earlier but in a mocking tone of voice. She lifted his hair away from his face revealing the dazzling blue of his eyes.

  Diarmuid rubbed his nipple then put his arm around her. He traced the tattoo along her shoulder, buying more time to think.

  “I write erotica for a living. Well I like to think that I write for a living but so far erotica is the only thing that has had any traction.”

  Horniness forgotten for a minute she scrutinised his expression, trying to find any hint of a lie there. “You do not.”

  “No I really do. Though it’s not something I broadcast obviously. Suppose it’s only fair you know how I earn a living considering I know what you do for yours.”

  “You go red in the face at the bar when ordering drinks and it’s too loud so you’re asked to repeat yourself. You’re telling me you write erotica? So how is the smut trade?”

  “It’s pretty decent. I sling my ink online, have my imagination working the back alleys of e-book retailers. The formula is simple; cock block until the end and then repeat.”

  “I reckon there is a little bit more to it than that.” Her voice was dripping with disbelief. “Alright then. Say you were to write a scene with characters, oh, let’s call them Shade and Diarmuid, for the fun of it. How would that scene go?” She propped herself up on her elbows. “I’m not going to end up in one of your stories am I?”

  “If you’re asking me if this is research then no, you’re safe. You won’t be. All messing aside, it’s about intimacy. Connections and desires. I write about stuff we all experience in our heads and things we look for in a partner; companionship, affection and acceptance. The physical stuff is secondary.”

  “Don’t people only use those as, you know - kindling?” She made a suggestive motion with her hand.

  “I never said I write erotic literary fiction. You won’t see it winning any prizes. It’s for money, not love. A service. People enjoy reading that stuff so I write to market. It’s generally shorter than other genres but still priced the same and the readers are voracious. It means I can produce a high quantity of work.”

  “Okay, so how do you square that with your anxiety? You have the potential for hundreds of people to read and judge your work.”

  “I use a pen name for the different kinks.” The longer they stayed on the subject the redder he went. “My profile pictures are all sourced from stock photography websites. None show faces. I got into it by accident. My anxiety became so severe that I had to find ways of making money outside of the conventional methods. I started doing editing jobs for people online and then I offered services as a ghostwriter. One of my clients asked me to write erotica for them.Eventually I had enough money coming in that I could stop the other stuff.”

  “You’re not fucking with me?”

  “I promise that I’m not, Shade.” Diarmuid was looking at the photographs of the two of them from the photo booth in the Róisín Dubh.

  “Why are you telling me this then?”

  “Last night you said you didn’t want us to be strangers any longer and nor do I. I hate the thought of leaving the island and never seeing you again, not knowing how you’re getting on. It’s like I’ve read the first few pages of one of the most interesting books I’ve ever come across but there’s no cover and I’m not sure I have the whole book in my hands. I fear I won’t get to read on.”

  He turned to her, she noticed that he kept the blankets above nipple level in case she tried to attack them again. “I was a prick last night in what I said and I know it was because I did not want you knowing me. I worried that if you knew me then this,” he waved his hand between the both of them. “This would never have happened.”

  Shade took his hand in hers. “At this point there is no need to worry about that. Whatever happens we are here right now. The game was good. There was none of the usual trying to impress the other person. Right now I feel like I know you well enough that I want to know everything. Also I don’t think you have anything more surprising to reveal than the fact that you write erotica.” When she looked at him his jaw stopped moving and rested at an awkward angle. Her eyes narrowed. “Where the hell did you get chewing gum from?”

  She never found out because the moment she asked he jumped on her, covering her face with kisses.

  “Tell me about your anxiety,” Shade said.

  He was quite for a moment while he thought about it. “Anxiety is a word inadequate for describing anxiety. The way I describe it is that you’re looking out of a window on a moving train. You’re al
one in a compartment. A lot of the time you can see everything go by clearly. Though sometimes it feels like you’re moving through a tunnel, all this dark weight bearing down on you. But you know it will never cause you harm. You know the world is passing you by, but in the window all you can see is your own reflection. That’s all you have to critique. Your world shrinks until the walls of the cabin become the only horizon you know.”

  There was a silence afterwards that she did not feel she had the emotional qualifications to interrupt.

  “Still unsure about the erotica thing.” She winced at her own lack of tactfulness. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to brush it aside. It sounds horrible. I can’t say I’ve experienced anything as bad as that.”

  “Don’t worry about it – I mean, how dare you? I think that’s earned me two tattoo flower stories from you. Don’t you? His fingers ranged across the petals on her back. Before she could think he kissed one, his lips pulling across her skin.

  “Don’t be cheeky, you get one flower story, for now. Have to keep some of them a secret so, you know, you will meet me again for story time at least.”

  “I don’t know how you could experience anxiety like myself. You travel the world. The furthest away I’ve been from home in the last few years is the island.”

  “If I know anything about anxiety it is that it’s not picky. Besides is it not all perspective? It doesn’t matter what you have, you can always feel down.”

  Without the confidence that came from having drink in her system, Shade found it almost impossible to tell him any of the stories printed on her back. She knew exactly which flower he had kissed. I could lie to him, say it commemorated a concert or something. Shade had no desire to tell him a lie, to do so would be more painful she felt than sharing the truth with him. Not even Hayley, her tattoo artist knew the story behind most. She turned on her side. “Rub my back please.”

  “Tell me the story of the flower that looks like it’s under water.”

  “That’s for Charlie. I still have dreams about him.”

  “Oh.” She felt the movements of Diarmuid’s gentle rubbing falter.

  “He was my dog.” His hands returned to rubbing. “Well he didn’t belong to me, he was my neighbour’s dog but he was my best friend. He kept me company …”

  “You know you don’t have to tell me right?” His hands were on her shoulders. Shade had not noticed how tense she had become. She shrugged and drew in a deep breath before continuing.

  “When I left Ireland I never thought to come back. So I don’t like thinking on these memories. Getting the tattoos helped at first – now I like them, before you go saying anything about it or there being better forms of therapy.

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Anyway. Yeah, so I used to spend my days with Charlie. We’d go adventuring. He ran away with me a few times but he always brought me back with him to his owner’s house. I used to think it was because he wanted to keep me safe but now that I’m older I’d say it was because he was hungry and it was past his dinner time. I even tried to keep him out longer by bringing kibble for him with me but that never helped. He’d always return home and I was too scared to go on without him.

  “He betrayed me only once, and that was when he brought his owner out to me, a little boy a bit younger than I was. Then I had two best friends. I didn’t have to run away after that.” The memories she did not give voice to were beginning to choke her, she knew she could not go on much longer. “The flower was inked to look like it’s beneath water because that’s how he died. It’s not how I like to remember him but of all the times we spent together, after so many memories, that is how he comes to me in my dreams.”

  “Must not make jokes to make it less awkward. Help me Shade, this must be how you felt after I told you about my anxiety. Sorry, I’m messing. That sounds horrible.”

  I’ve told him too much. “I know why the game appealed to you. It’s nice to hide behind the masks we create for ourselves to walk in the world.” When she turned to him her cheeks were wet with tears at the memory of Charlie. “It’s why I wear my tattoos on my back, to hide from some of them. I like not having to be anybody but myself with you. It’s been so long that it will take some time to get used to.”

  Shade still found it difficult to leave a hotel breakfast counter without stuffing her pockets with enough food to last her the day. Travelling while poor and trying to stay on the road for as long as possible had made her quite savvy when it came to saving. She did not consider it a good stay unless the hotel was out of pocket after having her. Diarmuid promised to bring her somewhere nice for breakfast though, so her large pockets and stomach remained empty.

  “When I first started travelling I found mad ways of saving money. Every day saw my savings diminish and the fear of having to return home grow. I could have pillaged a week of breakfasts from that muffin stand.”

  “Why did you not like going home?”

  I was the one that said I don’t want to play this game any longer. If I want him to stop then I have to stop hiding. “I was a server in a busy bar and restaurant. I worked between the counter and the floor. It got tiring after two years still getting sympathetic looks from people saying some version of, ‘Ah it’s your first day? Don’t worry you’ll do fine, you’ll get the hang of it eventually.’ Two years, Diarmuid, and they were still saying that. Granted that made the tips more sympathetic too, which helped. People would ask where I’d been on holidays in winter to get a tan, because my face always shone bright red at work. The staff room was a small cramped space with a slit of a window. The only colour came from three large photographs of exotic destinations. It always miffed me that they paid me as little as they could legally get away with and then hung up pictures of places I could not afford to visit. One day, thinking that I’d never see one of them, I decided to go to all three.

  “I still don’t like returning home, as it feels a bit like failure. Sounds stupid but it is how it is. I was born in Ireland, my biological parents were. I haven’t been back here since I left. First visit and it’s on my stepsister’s dime.”

  Diarmuid looked as if he did not know what to say.

  “You’re not the only one that can give hard-to-react-to information.” She smirked at him.

  “My mother’s sister moved out to New Zealand. She fell in love with a man from the Chanthams and so when she found out – she came to Ireland and brought me over to her.”

  “Is that something you want to talk about?”

  “Not now. It was cool growing up there. Isolated from the rest of the world. Swimming, fishing. My aunt ran a farm and hostel so I got to meet people from all around the world at a young age. We had a large map in the common room and I’d always ask people to show me where they were from on it, get them to show me their pictures of home, and I always remember wanting to go to all those places. I’ve a list I’m trying to tick off.”

  “Why are you so against going home then? It sounds like you had a class childhood there.”

  “It’s a long flight.” The first lie I’ve told him. “So, am I less interesting now? Has the mystery faded a little?” Shade asked.

  “Not at all, far from it. I want to get to know everything about you.

  “Well, after I dropped out of college I waited tables and tended bar, and then worked in an office in Auckland. Now I travel the world for a living.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve been back in Ireland?”

  “Coming on twenty years now.”

  “Is it something you feel comfortable talking about?”

  “Not in the slightest. Especially not when somebody takes me out on an empty stomach. That is a mistake you won’t make again. You’ll learn why if you don’t feed me soon.”

  Diarmuid took her to a restaurant beneath the Spanish Arch. They sat by a window looking out over the river. She left her camera and notebook behind in the room before checkout. She felt bare without the pad, it had become the means by which her mind though
t, at least it felt like that. It worked as a shield against talking with people and when she needed it to be it was a great way of introducing yourself. “High, I’m Shade, I wanted to ask you …”

  “Would you ever come back to Ireland?”

  “That’s not part of any plan that I have,” she said.

  “What’s the plan for today then so? Unless you want to go off on your own?”

  “We wander around Galway, explore together, and then get the evening plane back for dinner in the Inis Meáin Restaurant. I’ll have to let the owners of the Suites know it will be breakfast for two tomorrow morning.” She gave her best attempt at a seductive wink, closing both eyes at once and then swearing to herself never to try it again.

  “So long as you don’t mind. What do you fancy from the menu?”

  “If pancakes are even an option then I want them. There’s a dedicated page on my blog for reviews of pancakes around the world. I’d have been a pancake blogger if anybody else liked them as much as I do.”

  “Will I ever get to read your blog?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t right now.” If he never reads that blog I’d be happy. “I want you to get to know me before you start reading my blog. It sort of feels like a journal. Besides, I don’t want you learning more about me than I can learn about you. Unless you have a blog that I can read. Oh actually, I’ll trade you, let’s say three decent blog posts in return for you letting me read one of your erotica stories.”

  “Not a hope. Sure you could search a line of dialogue or put a few lines in the internet and find the whole back catalogue.”

  “Why are you blushing? I’ve not read any of it, yet.”

  In truth she did not want to share him with her blog or it with him.

  For dessert they shared a tub of ice-cream while sitting on the edge of the harbour across from the Spanish Arch. She took out her camera to capture the line of cute and colourful houses that ran along the river. Then she turned it on them both. It made her sad thinking that these captured moments could one day be all she might have left of him.