She’d had enough of the game, if that was what this was. She had to pee like hell, and Christ, she needed a hit of nicotine. Yeah, yeah, she’d started smoking again. How could she help it? Despite the ban in Ireland, it seemed the whole country huddled outside pubs, smoking their fool heads off. Then, one night, she’d learned the reason why. Some girl told her it was the new way to hook up-flirting with a smoke. Slirting or some shite they called it. Well, she’d been slirting her ass off and what good did it do her? She was half-drunk, chained naked to a bed in some cabin on the outskirts of Dublin, waiting for a man who was possibly deranged to come free her.
The cigs were on the table, tantalizingly out of reach. If Slide had done that deliberately, she’d cut his balls off. See if she wouldn’t.
She roared, “C’mon yah bollix, enough with the screwing around, like hello, game over?” And she figured she must still be a bit drunk as she added in a screech, “What’s a gal gotta do to get a drink around here?”
Then she heard a car pulling into the drive. A few moments later, there he was, and she launched, “Yah prick, yah storming major asshole, yah…”
From the tent in his pants, her tirade was turning him on and, guess what, she was a little heated her own self.
Then he was on her and they were at it like mad things-sweaty, perverted, debauched, and delighted.
Jesus, she was on fire, hollered, “Kiss me yah bollix!” and Slide slipped his hand into his pocket and then seemed to rub something onto his lips. She thought, Chapstick now?
Then he was kissing her. Felt weird, kinda cold-was it some new kind of oral condom or something? And, fuck, she still had to mention the little item of her having, um, you know, herpes.
Before she could say anything, he whispered, “Lips to die for,”and he was between her legs again, giving it, as the Brits say, large.
God, she roared like a hyena. And, Jesus, those lips-it was like Angelina Jolie was going down on her.
When he’d finally surfaced, he tossed something into the litter bin, said, “Loose lips sink ships.”
The fuck was he on about? He got out of bed and she admired his bod. Then he was uncuffing her and she finally got to have that pee. When she returned, he had two cigs lighted and there was a glint in his eye. If she didn’t know better, she’d have suspected he wanted to burn her. Yeah, like she was going to let that happen. In New York, she’d dated a married Puerto Rican guy for a while. Not one of her better choices in men but, hey, he looked kind of like Ricky Martin. Okay, in the right light, from the right angle, with beer goggles, but she’d been in a slump with the guys. One night he whispered to her in a sexy Latino tone, “You wanna golden shower, baby.” Not as a question, but as if saying, You’re getting a golden shower and now. Christ, she was so innocent then. She thought they’d cover themselves in gold leaf or something, hop in the shower and, like, well, maybe lick it off each other. You know, something romantic. So imagine her shock when he’d started pissing on her. She went along with it-what the hell? — but when he broke the news about his family in San Juan she kicked him right in the nuts, shouted, “You won’t be pissing, golden or otherwise, for a Spanish month, yeh bastard!”
If Slide tried to burn her, God help him.
But, no, he let her take one of the cigs. As she took a long drag of it, he said, “Let’s go out, have a jar, I want to run something by you.”
She thought, The romantic fool, is it marriage? She knew she’d been good in bed, but was she that good? She’d only known him what, a few hours, but, hell, she wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this slip away. She didn’t want to be one of those single women in their forties who look back at their lives, regretting the one that got away. Though she had some, well, concerns about Slide, she had a gut feeling that he was a good man, and would make a wonderful father. Her gut feelings had rarely been right, but she figured, bad luck didn’t last forever, right?
The place was called the Touchdown Bar and Grill. As they got out of the car, Angela went, “Jeez, how Irish is that?”
A huge sign inside proclaimed, KARAOKE TONIGHT, and she wondered, Were they, like, trying to scare business away?
The place was hopping-three deep at the bar and all shouting for Bud Light, Corona, and Miller.
On the stage, a middle aged woman, looking like a very poor man’s Desperate Housewife, was massacring “I Will Survive.”
Angela shouted at the stage, “Not if you don’t stop that singing, you won’t!”
When the woman got to the part about how she was going to walk out the door, Angela said, “You and me both, lady,” and then she said to Slide, “I need some air. There’s a pub down the road, how about we go there instead?”
Slide wasn’t keen but she rubbed his crotch, purred, “If staying here is what you want, then, okay.”
She was wondering, Does he have a ring? If he did, it better be a fookin’ diamond-a big one. And if he was the typical Irishman and tried to propose to her with a Claddagh ring, Lord help him.
Slide led her through the crowd, going, “Lady coming through.”
They found a space at the bar, ordered large Bushmills with Guinness chasers.
She whined, “Don’t I get to choose my own drink?”
He shoved her glasses at her, said, “You have what I have.”
Mr. Taking Command, but she liked it.
A huge painting of-what else? — a baseball player hung on the wall and Slide sneered, “I see your point about this baseball shite, babe. What do we know about American sport?”
Without thinking, Angela corrected, “Sports. We say American sports.”
Slide gave her a look that shouted, Never correct my American again, ever.
Then he toasted, “Here’s looking at you, kiddo.”
She was going to correct him, go, It’s kid, but had a feeling she’d better keep her mouth shut.
They did a few more of The Bush and that sucker slid on down so easy, packed its own potent wallop. Next thing, Slide was on stage, doing “My Way,” the anthem of macho losers the world over. He wasn’t awful but, then again, anything was a relief after having to listen to that dame sing disco.
Angela felt eyes on hers and saw a well-dressed guy smiling at her. She noticed the gold Rolex and the deep tan. Yeah, he was a player. And he had great teeth. In Ireland, that translated as, Cash and lots of it.
In the back of her mind, she was already thinking, Slide? Slide who?
Then Slide was back, asking, “Did you like my singing?”
She gushed, “God, it was beautiful, you could make a career of it.”
Dumb fuck believed her too. Was there one man on the goddamn planet who if you told him he was the greatest, didn’t buy it?
He gave a Gee shucks almost shy grin, said, “Remind me to do ‘Stairway to Heaven’ for you, I improvise all the instruments too.”
She suppressed a shudder, went, “I can hardly wait.”
Slide got a six-pack to go and they were in the parking lot, his hands all over her.
Then they heard, “Hey, wait up,” and saw the Rolex guy swaggering over.
“Hey, where you dudes headed?”
Dudes, with a thick Irish accent.
Slide thumbed a bottle from the six, asked, “Like a brew, dude?” Then he smashed the bottle on the car, put the jagged shards into the guy’s face.
Grinding the bottle in, he went, “There you go, dude, it’s Miller time.”
Then he took the guy’s wallet and Rolex and shouted to Angela, “Get in the car, we’re so outa here. You drive, baby.”
Looking at the wailing guy trying to pull the bottle out of his face, she said, “But, Slide, why did you have to-”
“I said get in the fookin’ car and drive, woman.”
Angela got in. It took her a moment to figure out the gears, as she was accustomed to automatic. But by luck more than skill she got the thing in gear and got out of there, fast.