Chapter Thirteen
@THEBryanLeech ABCDS
@SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech ABCDS?
@THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova Always Be Calmly Drinking Scotch #WordsToLiveBy
@SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech UYCBIAW… TDB
@THEBryanLeech to @SeanCassinova UYCBIAW TDB?
@SeanCassinova to @THEBryanLeech Unless You Can Be Inside A Woman… Then Do Both #WordsILiveBy
*Sean*
I didn’t know what I was doing.
Requests, things I wanted, words I would never speak or allow myself to think were now uncontainable.
It’s the sex, I reiterated. Again. I’d used this explanation, now on repeat, as a simple justification for the complex cacophony of my mind.
“Be with you?” Her long, dark lashes fluttered, beating like distressed butterfly wings against warming pink cheeks.
I licked my lips, tasting her there. “Yes.”
She stared at me, confused. I was also confused. And oddly frightened.
Because it wasn’t the sex.
Several seconds ticked on as we studied each other in breathless silence. She found her voice before I did. “What does that—”
“Lucy?” Annie’s voice was paired with a soft knock on the bathroom door. “Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to whisper a clarification to the question Lucy hadn’t quite posed, because I was compelled to tell her it wasn’t the sex. We didn’t have to have sex. We could just . . . talk. Or play cards. Or touch. Or look at each other from across the room.
We could merely be together.
But she covered my mouth with her hand. Her features arrested with unmistakable panic.
“Yes. I’m fine! I just . . . started my period is all. Made a mess in my jeans, like a crime scene.” Lucy hollered in response then grimaced. She immediately mouthed I’m sorry to me. Her cheeks flushed red.
I lifted an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes, ducking her head with obvious embarrassment. I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh.
Issuing me a quelling look, Lucy released me and skittered out of the stall, whispering, “Stay here and count to three hundred.”
“Oh! Do you need anything?” Annie’s voice was less muffled and I surmised she’d opened the bathroom door.
“Ah, no. Have it all sorted now. Thank God Tom has these nice absorbent napkins instead of those troublesome hand driers. Although I feel like I’m wearing a nappy. They’re bad for the environment, so I should talk to him about replacing the napkins. Maybe make a few available for emergencies . . .”
Lucy’s anxiety-riddled chatter faded as the bathroom door clicked shut.
I released an audible exhale. My heart was beating as though it might leap from my chest. I needed to catch my breath. Neither had anything to do with being caught.
What the fuck were you doing?
It was the sex. She’s phenomenal in bed. You’ve never had that before. It was just sex.
I nodded, reiterating the logic of my justification for the uncharacteristic behavior. If I repeated it enough, perhaps I would believe it.
I didn’t count to three hundred as instructed. I counted to one hundred and twenty-three, then realized what I was doing.
“You’re mad, Sean,” I muttered, shaking myself and promptly leaving the ladies’ room. I checked the cufflinks on my dress shirt—a nervous habit—and strolled back to the table, eyeing the assortment of eejits gathered.
Tom, as an example, was a complete eejit. I hated the way he looked at Lucy, like she might be delicious. I no more believed he saw her as a cousin than I did.
Of course, Ronan was an ape.
Bryan Leech, however, was something else. Unfortunately, he’d drunk the Ronan Fitzpatrick Kool-Aid, but he was far too subversive to be a total moron. He was the only man in union history to be suspended three times in a season and still retain his contract for the next year. He was a sneak, but not quite an eejit.
Annie, Ronan’s fiancée, must’ve been an eejit on some level. Why else would she sacrifice all that brilliance and lusciousness to an ape?
And then there was Lucy . . .
I reclaimed my seat next to her. She was in the middle of a conversation with fuckwit Tom. He was talking, likely about himself or his little restaurant.
“Sean.” Bryan tapped on the table, drawing my attention to him. “Are you headed back to Barcelona after this?”
I shook my head, but before I could answer, Ronan cut in, “Nah, he was in Dublin before this. He tried to take my seat out of Spain.”
I shifted in my chair, clenching my jaw to keep my acerbic remark to myself. I had to swallow a gulp of water before I could respond. “Was it a pleasant flight?”
Ronan narrowed his eyes on me, clearly distrustful of the benign direction of my comment.