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Because marrying her would’ve made you useful, and you have nothing else to offer.
And I didn’t realize until the very moment of telling Iris I love you that I only loved the idea of a happy ending, not her.
I’m not too proud to admit that I can be bought with office supplies.
There’s a moment. Where I’m staring at the door. And I think to myself, This is my rock bottom. But I might as well find out what the full depth of my rock bottom looks like. Maybe there’s something interesting down here, like my dignity.
“Fuck me running. Someone’s stealing Christmas’s magic. Isn’t that just karma?”
“I was already thinking of names.” Hex massages his temple with a long-suffering sigh. “Again, it was not a real cat.” “You killed our child. So heartlessly. I’m not sure I like this side of you.” “I have no idea what I’ve walked in on,” Iris starts, “but this feels about right. Random magic. Coal being dramatic. What else have I missed?”
“You tinsel-bombed the St. Patrick’s Day Prince,” he says. “I have never been more proud of you in my life.”
“You don’t need to breathe,” Wren says. “It isn’t on the itinerary.” My stare is flat. “Fantastic.”
But if I’m going to spend almost a full week trapped in Irish hell, I want to be comfortable. And passively witty.
He’s in a corded ivory wool sweater, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and I know its intent is to represent his home, but all I can think is that he’s trying to look like a ginger Chris Evans from Knives Out. He does look like a ginger Chris Evans from Knives Out. Motherfucker.
“You’re lucky I do na make you get down on your knees and beg. Though you did call me hot, so would you enjoy that, hm?”
“Was that the apology you had in mind?” I whisper up at him. “Or should I go on about how all the rainbows in Ireland point to the pot of gold in your asshole?”
“Fuck me,” I groan to my plate. Loch doesn’t hesitate. “Only if you say please.”
“Woah! Wait a hot second—tell me how it went. Even in those press shots, you and Lochlann looked like you wanted to give each other Colombian neckties.” Hex writhes in the chair. “Coal.” “Colombian what now?” I ask. Coal grins, cheeky. “We’re watching Hannibal. Colombian necktie. Throat sliced, tongue pulled through. Necktie.”
I mute my phone and dig a T-shirt out of my bag, a bright green one that says 100% That Grinch in swirling red script. When I change, I immediately feel better.
“Are you sure your magic isn’t narcissism instead of luck?”
“Anyway. I got drunk. Confessed my feelings. Realized halfway through that I was in love with the idea of a fairy tale ending, but I wasn’t in love with her. So that’s my type, I guess. Fantasies.”
“And what’s Prince Lochlann’s type? Snobbish and endless credit cards?”
“I’m Irish, boyo. Talking shite is how we flirt.”
“You’re all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. The only thought in my head is what your face will look like when I take you apart—like this, like this right now, you’re perfect.”
I know that his kiss tasted like all the dreams I waxed on about in the writing I don’t do anymore, the words I wove while trying to imagine Iris but all I imagined was a fantasy, an ending. He tasted like those fantasies. He felt like those endings. It’s him.
Maybe there’s an agenda on the desk that says Malachy’s Calendar: 1 o’clock, be an ass; 2 o’clock, steal Christmas’s joy.
tell me what happened or all i’ll be able to focus on is flipping his face inside out and wearing it like a halloween mask Hex is right. No more Hannibal for you.
“Battlefield?” I blink innocently. “What? No. All I do is lay around and drink whiskey and regret it immediately. It’s been smooth sailing—”
Finn’s right. We’ll be photographed; I’m here as a guest of St. Patrick’s Day. And I’m wearing a shirt with a blowjob joke on it. Finn catches the horror my face must show and bursts out laughing. My jaw drops. I don’t think I’ve made her laugh yet. At least, not without an underlying air of murder. Even Siobhán gapes at her.
Goddamn those sweaters. Like he’s a sexy, mysterious lighthouse fisherman.
“You aren’t an awakening,” I whisper. “You’re the whole dawn. And I can’t believe I ever thought I’d seen the sun before you.”
“I don’t want a fantasy. I don’t want sweetness. For once in my life, I want to be ruined.” I see in real time the way he processes what I say. Wide open shock.
“Boyo, what makes you think I’d be satisfied to only see you come once?” I stop. And let those words sink in. Those voracious, beating words.
“For all you put me through,” he purrs, hand shuttling over my dick, twisting at the head, lubed by his saliva and my own precum as the edge barrels closer and closer, “you can bet that hot ass of yours that I’ll make you pay. I’m gonna turn you into a sated, sweaty heap on my studio floor.” My brain splits in half. Half again. I’m shredding into pieces.
