Jordy army, p.44
Jordyn's Army, page 44
No thank you. Not for me. No way.
Love isn’t for the faint of heart and, well … I’m trying to overcome my aversion to my heart fainting like a myotonic goat whenever I feel like maybe “he could be the one,” that I should allow myself to feel heartbreak firsthand … again. So, I go to the source of all my best decisions—the random scroll—and I bow out gracefully.
Again? you ask.
It wasn’t José who caused my first heartache; it was the boy who picked a thorn from my finger when I was far too young to remember. But for some sadistic reason, that moment has been allowed to stay etched in my memory ever since.
“Don’t be afraid of picking roses; just be careful.” Then he kissed my finger, and I kissed his cheek.
My tiny little, pre-k heart had been sent into the biggest tizzy it had ever experienced and has never been the same.
“Ben Sawyer,” I sigh his name while looking at the ceiling. He was the one boy in a herd of many who hung out on the family farm from time to time. And he … well he made my little girl self — weak in the knees.
Until he and my sister dated briefly, and then that one-dimensional romantic bubble burst.
I stop scrolling and hit play.
When the sound of the keys begin then the tambourine, guitar, and drums all work together to create the epic interlude of the song by my favorite rock band, U2, that was featured in my all-time favorite movie, Runaway Bride, I smile to myself as I accept the fate of the random scroll.
“I have climbed the highest mountains, I have run through the fields, only to be with you, only to be with you.”
As faint a heart as I carry inside the walls of my chest, as many hearts I have seen break before my very eyes, and not only seen but felt, I still believe in love. I know that somewhere in this great, big world that I have traveled over the past four years that one day I will, in fact, find “what I’m looking for.”
At ten o’clock at night … alone in a strange city, I make possibly the bravest move in all my traveling journeys, maybe even my entire life, as I step outside the Skylon.
Pathetic, I know, but it is what it is.
And what it is, is being a normal, twenty-two-year-old college student in a foreign land, wanting to act the part for once.
My traveling companions for the last four summers, Jay, his wife Debbie, and Minister Maureen, wouldn’t be interested in going, and there was a great possibility that they would tell my parents. So, here I stand, free tickets in hand.
“Look at the state ‘o you,” I hear from behind me and turn to see our guide, a local woman about my age, Dana. “You looks to suffer from a double dose of original sin.”
“Oh. Is it bad?” I look down at my outfit. A baby blue, jersey, cotton tank dress that’s not overly revealing, especially since I have a denim jacket on, paired with white high-top Chucks, but it’s certainly much different than what she saw me wearing today.
“ ’Tis only a stepmother would blame you.”
I have no idea if that’s good or bad, but stepmothers are often referred to as a protagonist, so I’m guessing it’s okay.
“Ye on the tod?”
“Your accent, coupled with words that just don’t seem right together, have me a wee bit confused.”
She laughs as she says, “You going it alone?”
“It?”
“Out alone?”
I nod. “Just for a little while.”
“Unguided?”
I again nod.
“Ye looks to be twice cursed by Adam’s slipup.”
What in the hell? I ask myself.
“I’m worried about ’cha, lass.”
I hold up my U2 tickets. “I’m just going to a concert. Taking a cab from here to there.”
“Two tickets, I see.”
“Would you like to come?”
Her eyes light up. “Aye. Two people shorten the road. Where we headed?”
“Whelans.” I smile.
On our way, Dana, who is a beautiful, fair-skinned redhead, totally looks like what you would imagine an Irish person to look like tells me, if I’m going to be going out alone, I need to know everything not to do while in Ireland.
“Never look for leprechauns. They’re evil, like cats.”
Cats? I think.
She continues, “Never ask for directions in Kerry; you won’t get a proper answer. Never refer to Ireland as part of the British Isles. Never forget to buy a round.”
I mentally take in all the information as she continues.
“Don’t mention the civil war. Don’t argue with a cab driver. And do not talk politics.”
“Okay.” I nod.
The cab pulls up in front of the venue, and I’m struck funny by how small it is.
After paying the driver, I slide out behind Dana. “This looks so small compared to the images I saw on the internet. I can’t believe U2 is playing in such a small venue.”
She snatches the tickets and looks at them, grins, then barks out, “U2 covers, lass.”
I snatch them back and look closer. “Well, hell.”
When she swings the door open, I smile, not caring one bit when I hear the words of “One” by U2.
“It’s the Murphey Brothers.” Dana grins then repeats, “The Murphey Brothers!”
After showing our tickets to the giant man at the door, also with red hair, I follow Dana to the bar.
“First round’s on me,” I yell to her over the music.
“Four pints of Guinness,” she yells to the bartender.
So, Guinness, it is.
I hand cash over her shoulder to the bartender who winks. Good-looking man, with a thick head of hair, matching copper beard, and twinkling green eyes.
“Keep the change.” I smile as I take the two pints from Dana.
“Stay close, lass,” she yells as she leads the way through the crowd.
Standing on a balcony, overlooking the crowd, I watch people dance and sing along to a couple of U2’s lesser known songs in the US, but they seem to know every word.
Three songs in, I watch as the crowd below goes wild as bag pipes begin.
This isn’t U2. It’s clearly an original “Murphey Brothers.”
“Do you dance, lass?” Dana asks before slamming back one of the two pints in her hand.
“After a few drinks, I do.” I hold up my half-finished pint then follow suit.
“This is the song that got our boys signed with a label. Songwriter is from the US,” she yells before holding her full pint up. “Sláinte.”
I wipe my lips with the back of my hand then hold up my full pint. “Sláinte.”
Smiling eyes meet mine as we have a sort of chugging contest, which ends up being no contest at all, since Dana finishes first while I need a breather between halves.
Once I finish, Dana nods, and I follow.
As we pass another bar, she stops. “My round.”
“I’m good,” I yell over the crowd.
Apparently, she doesn’t hear me because, when she turns, she hands me two shot glasses.
Normally, while on an international vacation, I have a two-drink limit, but I’m immersed in music, feeling quite buzzed already, and I have a personal guide who looks to be having a great time.
“Sláinte,” I say before tossing one back.
Four songs and four drinks in, I’m feeling nothing but absorbed in a country that I already know, down deep, I’ll be returning to.
With my jean jacket tied around my waist, hands in the air, I find myself singing along to the chorus of a Murphey Brothers’ original in no time.
When the song ends, another doesn’t immediately begin like the last ones. Instead, the lead singer announces in a breathy verse of words, I can’t quite decipher, as the sexy guitarist moves to front and center stage.
I whip my head toward Dana who laughs out, “The songwriter’s taking over. Heard good things about him; never witnessed.”
As soon as I hear the very familiar mix of keys, tambourine, and guitar begin, I turn toward the stage, which my back has been to the entire time so that I could take in the locals who I immediately felt one with.
“He’s a looker, aye?”
Through fog, smoke, and lights, I see a messy mop of curls from under a black baseball cap and five days of stubble covering the square jaw of this tall, very well-built man holding a guitar, with full, sexy lips inches from the mic, delivering velvet in words that have always soothed my wanderlust soul.
“I have climbed the highest mountains …”
I sway with the crowd, hands above my head, eyes closed, and sing along at the top of my lungs, “But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
I open my eyes as he swings the guitar behind him, removes the mic from the stand, and sings as he shields his eyes, bends forward, and seemingly searches the crowd as he holds out the mic and we all sing, “And I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
Through the entire song, he plays the crowd like I’ve never experienced at a concert before. Possibly, it’s the more intimate arena that has my body, mind, and soul on high alert. Yet, all my surroundings seem to be in a haze, as my attention falls on the songwriter behind the blur of lights and smoke.
When he’s positioned in front of Dana and me, I see him smile briefly, and then he points toward me … us … oh hell, I have no idea which one of us, or if he’s even pointing in anyone’s general direction. And it matters not one bit, because damn, damn, damn.
2
Ben
Where the Streets Have No Name
Electric, that’s the word I would use to describe the connection felt through the smoke and music. No clue how I even played the rest of the set, all I know is that the hot blonde with the curves and perfectly plump ass can move, and my eyes haven’t left her.
The way she dances without inhibition is sexy as hell.
Grace and grind, I think as she pulls her hair up while lifting her arms, fists pumping in the air as she jumps with the rest of the crowd to the beat of our last song.
Fucking think, man, I tell myself, knowing I need to get to her before she gets lost in the crowd as we finish the song.
When the last note, the last chord has finished, I drop my guitar in its stand then jump off stage. My back getting patted, ass slapped … and groped, I push my way closer to her as I follow the blonde waves toward the exit. Then I see the redhead pull her toward the bar and smile to myself.
She’s standing against the bar, all sorts of eyes on her. Clearly, I’m not alone in thinking she’s stunning, but I will be alone when I’m the one to take her home.
I stand close behind her and slide my hand between her and the guy next to her, separating them.
When Alek, the bartender, sets two pints on the bar, I hand him some cash and tell him, “Make it three.”
She looks over her shoulder but barely and shakes her head no.
“We thank you,” the redhead smiles.
I step in closer. “Let me take you to breakfast.”
“This may work for you …” She stops when the redhead whispers in her ear. Then the blonde, who I now know is American, shakes her head and the redhead smiles then slides into the crowd, the blonde covers her face.
I lean in close enough to smell her scent but far enough away that I don’t completely freak her out. “We share a drink, get a closer look at one another because, from the stage, neither of us got what we were truly looking for, then we go to breakfast. After that, it’s your call. But, by the way you were still dancing at the last song, I know you’ve got plenty of steam left to burn off. And by the way, I can admit, I want you, sight unseen, it won’t be enough to keep up with everything I’ve been imagining while standing up there, doing what I love best, watching what I know I’m gonna love doing even more.”
“Holy shit,” she gasps.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I softly demand.
“This … this isn’t my style.”
“That’s not a no,” I tell her. Then, before she mindfucks this too much, I add, “No regrets, sweets.”
I start to turn her toward me. Her eyes are closed, and fuck if she doesn’t look familiar, but then she opens—
“Holy shit! Ben?” She covers her mouth.
I shake my head slowly back and forth. Surely, it can’t be … “Little Ross?”
She laughs hysterically, and I straighten as I look at her, still in shock that Kendall Ross is the girl I’ve been eye-banging for the past thirty minutes. More importantly, knowing it’s Kendall Ross I’ve been eye banging for the past thirty minutes, doesn’t make me want her any less.
“You look fucking gorgeous.” I wrap my arms around her and hug her. And you feel even better than you look. “You wanna get out of here?”
Stepping back, she wipes the tears caused by laughing and shrugs. “I just got left by my guide so”—she turns and grabs two of the three pints then hands one to me—“sláinte.”
“Sláinte,” I say, still looking at her porcelain, silky skin, her waist-length blonde ringlets, and now I’m able to see that I was right when I was on stage—she has the perkiest handfuls I’ve eyed in my life.
As much as I like her tits, it’s the sparkling eyes and the dimples so deep I may have found a new place I’d like to stick my tongue … or other things in that I’m drawn to.
I drain the draft. “Breakfast?”
She cocks her head to the side and looks at me. “Huh?”
“Come to breakfast with me.” I hold my hand out, and she sets the half full draft down on the bar.
“Sure.”
When she doesn’t take my hand, I take hers.
Walking through the crowded pub, I find the closest exit while avoiding anyone I know or anyone who seems to want to know me.
I need to chill the fuck out. This is Kendall Ross, a very grown-ass version of the little cherub. Unfortunately, as much as I’m out of sorts, her hysterical laughter at my … sexual advances and the fact that I briefly dated her sister deems this a no-fly zone.
Once outside, I look back as she looks around.
“Ben, we’re in an alley.” She looks from behind us to me and smiles. Albeit a lopsided smile, but it’s stunning.
Still holding her hand, I nod then ask, “Kendall, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” She looks at our hands.
I do the same, yet I don’t let go. “If we hurry, we can talk over a meal.”
The cab ride is short, but what I learn from the conversation between her and the very talkative driver’s conversation is that, one, he’s taken with her, and if not for the plexiglass divider between him and her, I’d probably want to give in to the fact that I want to throw his ass out of the moving cab; and two, she’s here with a tour group that she has traveled with from the summer after she graduated high school. They’ve been to Australia, China, Africa, and now Ireland.
It’s a group of about twenty, three of whom she is very close to. Debbie and her husband Jay, and Moe, who now is a person of interest because, right now, I’d like to throw Moe from the cab, too.
I also learn they have plans to continue this July vacation tradition for years to come.
Exiting the cab at 14/15 Parliament Street, I again take her hand and lead her inside.
She’s a bit unstable, which is nice in a way. Since I came at her so strongly, being who she is, I’m glad she’s not running in the opposite direction, and because, damn … just damn.
“What would you like?”
“Not all that hungry. Moe and I had a late dinner.”
Fucking Moe, I cuss inwardly. “Steak, pork, chicken, lamb—”
She cringes. “Definitely not lamb.”
I lead her to a table, and pull out the chair, “Have a seat.”
“Okay,” she sits.
“You gonna be okay?”
“I drank too much. I figured dancing would burn off the buzz, but now …” She shrugs. “I’m a bit … off.”
“Sit still. I’ll get you some water and food. It’ll soak up what you didn’t burn off.”
Standing at the counter, waiting for our order, while drunk and sexy Kendall Ross sits waiting at a corner table, my normal thoughts are bouncing between: I need to fuck her to who the hell is Moe to how am I gonna make this feeling go away?
I attempt to scold myself, She’s Kendall, for fuck’s sake!
But who the hell am I kidding? This is happening. I just need to figure out how to make it so.
I sit with purpose, facing her as I place her cup of water in front of her. She gives me a small, gracious smile.
“Drink up, little Ross.” I lift my glass. “To chance meetings in extraordinary places.”
She lifts her glass briefly and, after taking a swig of her water, she sets down the glass then wipes away the droplets that dripped down her chin.
I reach over the table and run a finger over the tiny spot she missed. “There.”
I pick up one of the two forks on the tray and hand it to her. “The kebobs are chicken and beef. The rice is pretty damn good, too. Dig in.”
Watching her eat isn’t helping me focus on the task at hand, and it’s not helping me not want her any less either.
When she’s had her fill, she sits back, covers her belly, and sighs. “That was so good.”
I tap my fork on the platter. “There’s plenty more.”
She closes her eyes and leans back. “If I eat anymore, I’ll be sleeping right here.”
“Tired?”
Exhaling, she nods. “First day; it’s always an adjustment.”
“Best to catch a red eye and sleep all the way on transatlantic flights. You land ready to go.”
“We went all day long.” She yawns as she says long.
“And you decided to go all night, too? Not gonna lie; I’m impressed.”
She shrugs. “Well, how could an American girl in Ireland pass up free tickets to see U2?”
I smile. “You thought—”
“I did.” She pulls her feet up on the seat and rests her chin on her knees as she continues, “So much so that at twenty-two years old, I snuck out of my hotel, away from my tour mates, and got busted by my tour guide while waiting for a cab.” She smirks, and those dimples deepen. “Luckily, she likes your band.”
