Part One

February 2, 2006


The soft lighting was minimal, in deference to the late hour.  A subtle amber glow gently illuminated the deep mahogany wood of the hotel bar, but still left plenty of surrounding shadows to hide from the world.   That seemed to suit Siobhan’s last patron just fine.

Last call had come and gone, taking with it the few still lingering at that hour – except for one lone man.  She slid a look toward the end of the bar while appearing to inventory her remaining liquor.  He was still firmly ensconced there; head hung low, oblivious to anything around him.  He’d been there most of the evening, not really drinking a lot, but drinking steadily. 

She knew who he was, of course.  You didn’t turn sweet sixteen in the eighties and not recognize this man.  Oh sure… the dark hair was significantly shorter, the lines in his face more pronounced, but there was no mistaking his identity.  He may not have been quite the same icon as the fluffy headed lead singer, but their tandem travels had earned him his own dedicated following.  A following that was still very much alive from what she’d read online.

A pang of sympathy had her surreptitiously checking on him again.  She’d seen something else online today.  Something that probably explained his presence here, as well as being the reason she hadn’t kicked him out yet.   

His wife had filed for divorce yesterday, apparently without bothering to tell him.  He’d been doing a routine interview before tonight’s concert, when a reporter asked him to verify the news, saying the wife’s publicist had released it to the press an hour earlier.    

No amount of money could protect you from that kind of pain and humiliation.

“Another Jameson’s, barkeep.” 

Although she’d been keeping a close eye on him, the gruff request startled her.  She managed to keep it hidden, and flipped the long, coppery French braid over her shoulder with an apologetic smile.  “Last call was almost an hour ago.  Bar’s closed.”

Squinting one eye, he lifted his finger to point at a spot over her shoulder.  “But it’s right there next to ya.  All ya hafta do is jus’ hand it to me and I’ll pour it muhself.”

The slurring wasn’t overly pronounced, but it was enough to tell Siobhan that he’d found someplace to escape the pain.  She hoped he was staying in the hotel tonight.

Shaking her head regretfully, she had no choice but to refuse.  “They tend to frown upon customers pouring their own drinks.”

“Ah yes, but if the bahr’s closed, I’m not a cust’mer.”  A dimple materialized in his left cheek.  “Problem solved.”

“Ah yes,” she countered, eyes sparkling like a fine glass of cognac.  “Then you’re a thief.  Whole new problem.”

His face collapsed tragically, reminding her of a cartoon character who’d been blown up like a balloon and then popped with a stick pin.  “C’mon pretty lady,” he implored, eyes traveling the length of her petite frame.  “I had a really shitty day.  What’s one more drink gonna hurt?”

He was right.  He’d had a majorly shitty day.  So what that it was two o’clock in the morning and that she had to be back here in nine hours to re-open?  It wouldn’t kill her to bend a little.  If she lost her job, there were a hundred other bars just like this one in Washington, DC.

Sighing, she hooked her foot around the step stool, dragging it across the floor to stop in front of the Jameson’s.   Of course he had to drink the good stuff that was kept on the top shelf.  Her five-foot-two stature had climbed up and down from this stool a hundred times already today, and her back was feeling every last one of them at the moment.  Stepping down, bottle in tow, she knew there would be at least one more trip to restock the liquor.

“You’re just a li’l thing, aren’t ya?”

Siobhan smiled politely, trying to decide which response from her arsenal to use.  In her thirty-eight years, that question had been posed to her more times than she cared to think of, and given her plenty of opportunities to develop some creative responses.

“Good things come in small packages.”  Snagging a fresh glass, she scooped some ice in and splashed the Irish whiskey over it – a small amount of Irish whiskey.

Now why did I say that, of all things?  He probably thinks I’m flirting with him, and that’s the last thing he needs.

Shaking her head, she covered the distance to the end of the bar, placing the fresh drink on a napkin before him.  She redirected her hand to the empty glass, intending to remove it, when his fingers curled around her wrist.

Startled, she snapped her head up to find cocoa brown eyes focused on her intently.  “Thank you… What’s your name?”

“Siobhan,” she replied, carefully articulating ‘shuh-VAHN’.  A lot of people had difficulty with the pronunciation of her rather unusual moniker.

He was evidently no different.  Shaking his head with a rueful smile, he asked, “What the hell kind of name is that?”

“It’s Irish – courtesy of my grandmother.”

“Irish is good,” he approved, indicating the glass before him.  “They make a helluva whiskey – which jus’ happens to be the color of your eyes.  How ‘bout I call you Whiskey instead?  Less of a mouthful.”

“Call me whatever you like,” she invited amiably.  It wasn’t like he’d remember either one come morning.

Siobhan looked pointedly at his hand still encircling her wrist, and then back into his eyes.  The emptiness there distracted her from his touch.  He looked so sad and alone – like an abandoned puppy.

“Sit with me?”

She shouldn’t.  It went against her better judgment – or anyone’s better judgment.  You didn’t just sit down with a man, all alone in a deserted bar in the middle of the night.  Not without that protective barrier between the two of you.

Blushing, she realized the Freudian slip that had just taken place in her mind.  So maybe she more than recognized him.  Maybe she’d had a fantasy or two about him once upon a time.  That didn’t make it any more appropriate.

He must’ve guessed the direction her answer was leaning, because he stroked his thumb across the back of her hand and mumbled, “Please?  I jus’ don’t wanna be alone right now.”

Well, hell.  How can I refuse that, knowing what I know?

“Well…  I don’t sit with strangers.  My mother didn’t raise a silly girl.  BUT, if you tell me your name, I guess we won’t be strangers anymore.”

Sure, she already knew the answer, but he didn’t know that, and a sense of anonymity might make him feel better.  At the very least, he wouldn’t have to worry about whether she’d seen the interview.

“Exc’lent point,” he agreed with a lopsided smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “I’m Richie.”

“Nice to meet you, Richie.”

“You too, Whiskey.”

She gave a gentle tug on her hand, softly reminding him that he still held her captive.  “If you want me to sit with you, you’re gonna have to let go so I can come around.”

“So I am,” he agreed releasing his grasp, but not relinquishing his hold on her eyes.  “A damn shame, too.”

Choosing not to respond, Siobhan kept true to her word and made her way around to the paying side of the bar.  The seats were positioned closely together, and she created some space between them before climbing on the stool next to Richie’s.

“Damn.  You really are a li’l thing.”

Even seated on a high stool, the top of her head hit somewhere in the middle of his ear and her feet stretched to reach the rung so that they didn’t dangle.

“Did you ever consider that you’re just a big thing?” she countered with a quirk of her brow.

 “Darlin’, been told on more than one occasion that I AM a big thing.” 

Her pulse raced at the unexpected innuendo.  Of course, he WAS a musician.  Maybe this kind of thing was why his wife had filed in the first place.  Regardless, she thought it in her best interest to change the subject. 

“Are you a guest in the hotel?  I mean, you’re here from out of town?”

He nodded, lifting the Jameson’s to his lips and inhaling half the contents of the glass.  The ice settled back into the bottom and he rattled it around with a shake of his wrist, the sound echoing in the quiet.  It fascinated him for a moment, watching the liquor melt the ice and causing the configuration of cubes to shift again.

“Ya ev’r been married, Whiskey?”

In tidying up the area, she had left the small bowl of pretzels situated near his left elbow since he was still drinking.  She reached out, sliding it closer and feigning nonchalance.

“No.”

He swiveled himself part-way round to assess her features.  She had looked in the mirror often enough to guess what he saw.  Mother Nature had yet to mar her porcelain skin with something as unsightly as a wrinkle.  The only detraction from its lucidity was the random dusting of freckles across her cheekbones.   Her lips formed a dusky pink bow just above the tiny cleft in her chin, and her neck was just as smooth as her face.

“’Course not.  You’re too young for that.” 

Siobhan didn’t bother correcting the misconception.  Her complexion and small stature always led people to believe she was much younger than she actually was.

“Well, lemme tell ya – don’t.  Love often ‘n well, but don’t give your heart to anybody.  They get tired of holdin’ it after a while, so they drop it on the ground ‘n stomp on it.  Makes a big ole fuckin’ mess.”

“I’ve heard that.”

Honestly, it was part of the reason she was still single.  Every time she’d gotten close enough with a man to consider that next step, he’d lost interest because of…   Well, she had no idea why.   The most common excuse had been the infamous ‘it’s not you, it’s me’,  followed up by ‘you’re too intense’, ‘you’re smothering me’. 

Funny that.  She’d always imagined that a love worth having WAS intense.  But after having – as Richie had said – her heart stomped on a few times, the scar tissue had become thick enough to form some heavy duty calluses.  Siobhan had lost confidence in that theory along with the inclination to develop a new one.  Alone was easier.  At the very least, it was less traumatic.

So, yeah, she had an inkling of how the man swallowing the last of his drink and leaning heavily on the bar was feeling.  It made that callused heart of hers ache with a sympathy that was likely unwanted. 

“Tell me ‘bout you, Whiskey.  Is there a boyfriend?"

“No, no boyfriend at the moment.”

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

His bluntness stunned her, and she cursed the fair complexion that, according to the heat filling her cheeks, was pinkening in embarrassment.  After the years she’d spent behind a bar, she should be used to the unpredictable things that would tumble out of a person’s mouth once a few drinks had tumbled in.  But they weren’t usually so personal, or pointed directly at her. 

The question must have been rhetorical, because he continued without waiting for an answer, making her embarrassment unnecessary.

“I’ve had sex with the SAME woman – faithf’ly – for more than eleven years.  Never ONCE did I indulge in the op’rtunities that paraded themselves in front of me.” 

Melted chocolate irises heated her insides like a marshmallow over an open campfire.

There went that damn burning in her cheeks again.

“I think th’ time has come to indulge,” he murmured, lifting a superbly masculine hand to brush his knuckles against the pink tinge.  “In a li’l Irish Whiskey.”

She couldn’t do this.  He was married.  He was drunk. 

“I think you’ve had enough Irish whiskey tonight.”

His fingers curled under her chin, thumb outlining the bottom of her lip.  “I beg to differ.  I haven’t had nearly enough.”  His decibel level had all but diminished, and rather than hearing them, she felt the words breathe across her lips before he touched them with his own.

She inhaled sharply through her nose and instantly brought startled hands to shoulders that felt every bit as broad and muscular as they professed to be under his dark shirt.  It had been her intention to push him away, but his kiss had been so soft and fleeting, she didn’t have the chance. 

His face hovered close enough for Siobhan to smell the alcohol and feel the warm rush of air when he exhaled.  She still felt the heat of his touch under her chin and saw his eyes roam over her face, studying each feature intently.  Waiting.

“You’re married,” she murmured, stating the obvious.

The hand fell away, but he didn’t retreat.  There was a rustling beneath her line of vision and then a ‘clink’ off to her left.  Sliding her eyes to the surface of the bar, she saw his wedding ring in his glass, nestled among the melting ice.

“Not anymore.”

Every fiber of her moral fabric stretched taut with the temptation.  She wasn’t one to indulge in casual sex.  It had been almost a year since her last relationship, and her hormones seemed to believe this was a much better idea than her conscience did.

No.  I’m not going to be that woman.

Her voice was barely audible, and she saw him look at her mouth to reinforce the faint sound when she said, “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

The weight of her braid bounced between her shoulder blades when she shook her head in denial.  There was nothing here to fear.  She wouldn’t have allowed him to remain here after closing if she’d felt the least bit of apprehension. “You’ve obviously got some stuff going on in your life.  Do you think it’s good to complicate that?”

He straightened, moving away from her touch and glancing at the band of gold sinking slowly into the dregs of melted ice and alcohol. 

Siobhan’s hands dropped to her lap and she watched him closely, hoping he didn’t morph into an angry drunk.

She needn’t have worried.  His eyes dulled, and his laugh lines became deep valleys as any pretense of happiness that may have existed, fell away.  There wasn’t even a trace of his previous slurring when he intoned, “Darlin’, you don’t know me, but I’m one of those people who gives and gives and gives until there’s nothing left of me, never asking for a thing in return.  I don’t ask for anything from anyone, even when I need it.” 

Beseeching eyes allowed Siobhan to view the depths of his soul with crystal clarity.  There was a sweetness there that lent truth to his words, but it was a sinking ship in a sea of fear, uncertainty, and rejection.  The sails of his pride were tattered and torn, and he was frantically rowing trying to keep himself afloat, desperately trying to preserve himself.

“But my ego has taken a hell of a beating, and tonight I’m breaking my own rule.  I’m gonna ask you to come to my room and help me feel like I deserve the attention of a sweet, beautiful woman.”

Her eyes welled with emotion at the heart breaking request.  How could this handsome, sincere man not think he was worthy of the attention he was asking?  He was a rock star for God’s sake.  Siobhan silently cursed the woman who’d pulled the rug out from under him, making him question his own merit and self-worth.

She’d never had a one-night stand in her life, but the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.  “Give me your room number.  I’ll finish closing the bar and be up in a few minutes.”

A wave of dejection swept across the bow of the sinking ship.  “Don’t pump sunshine up my ass, Whiskey.  If you’re blowing me off, then just say so.  I already told you it’s been a shitty day; I don’t wanna end it as a sucker, waiting for a woman who’s not gonna show.”

She offered up a soft smile, his five o’clock shadow scraping the pads of her fingers when she touched them to his face.  With a twinkle in her eye, she mimicked his earlier words.  “Darlin’ you don’t know me, but I’m one of those people who always live up to their promises.   I’ll be ten minutes behind you.  I promise.”