Page 6 of Tempting Irish

“Ye’re too fecking serious,” Shane says, shifting in his seat, and pulling out the chairs that Delaney and Emer had just been sitting in to allow the women to sit down. “Have a little bloody fun now andthen.”

The women continue to giggle as Shane leans back, arms resting on the backs of their chairs, a smirk plastered across his face before diverting his attention to one of the Barbieclones.

When it’s obvious that Aiden and Cillian aren’t interested, the other blonde locks her gaze on me, her eyes roaming down my chest then back up to my face, her tongue darting out across her lips. She’s speaking to me, but I don’t care about the words coming from her mouth, or the way her manicured hand drops to my leg when she leanscloser.

I feel nothing.Just the damn numbness that never seems to goaway.

Maybe I’m fucking depressed. Or maybe I’m just tired of the same shit day in and day out. All I know is that something needs to change, before I end up drowning my wretchedness in more than just booze andwomen.

I see the worried looks Aiden and Cillian give me. The same look they’ve been giving me since I had my head busted in last year by some drunk asshole who stuck his nose, or rather his fist, where it didn’tbelong.

I can hold my own in a fight. Hell, I’m Irish. I was born fighting. But the asshole clipped me with a dirty punch. One that landed me in intensive care with a brainbleed.

I’ve heard them muttering that I haven’t been the same since. Maybe I haven’t. But I know this emptiness inside me started way before that incident. I just finally stopped trying to hideit.

“Need to get some air,” I say, ignoring the blonde’s pout when I stand abruptly, causing her hand to drop from myleg.

“I’ll come with ye,” Aiden says, pushing his chairback.

“No. I’m good, man.” I don’t look back as I walk out of the hotel restaurant into the crowded Dublinstreets.

I love this city. Love the whole fucking country. But coming home is bittersweet. Because I have no clue what the hell I’m going to do with my life now that everything’schanged.

Money isn’t an issue. I can live off the royalties from our last two albums. But going home, back to the empty house I built a year ago, and watching Cillian and Aiden settle down and raise their kids isn’t an appealingoption.

Shane and I discussed opening a recording studio here in Dublin. It’s something I’ve been tossing around for a while now. There’s so much talent out there, so many voices that just need a chance to beheard.

The first couple drops of rain hit my face, but I barely notice when the clouds open up, causing the crowds to quickly disperse into the open pubs and restaurants that line the streets. I keep walking, pulling my hoodie over my head, stopping only when I reach theLiffey.

Forearms resting on the stone wall that lines the river, I take a deep breath of the cool, saltyair.

There’s no other city in the world like Dublin. The old and the new merging. The steady, unrelenting heartbeat of a country that, despite all the tragedies of the past, can’t be snuffedout.

Even through the splattering of rain, and the soft hum of vehicles, I can hear the sound of laughter and music coming from the differentpubs.

I think about going into the Brazen Head. Allow the folk music and a couple of pints of Guinness to fill some of the hollowness inside me. And I would if I thought I could sit in a back corner and drink myself intooblivion.

But my face is too recognizable now. And I’m not in the mood to deal with fans, so I keep walking until my hoodie is soaked through to my t-shirt beneath, and my feet ache with the blisters I’ll have tomorrow, and try to find the lyrics that have been just at the edge of my mind lately. But they stay in the haze, unattainable, just like my ownhappiness.

I’m too close to sober when I finally walk back through the hoteldoors.

The restaurant bar is closed, the guys gone, Cillian and Aiden probably up to their rooms with their wives, and Shane no doubt with either Barbie one or Barbie two, maybeboth.

Thank God for the stacked minibar in mysuite.

I curse under my breath when I remember that I emptied it earliertoday.

It’s late, well past midnight, and other than a woman checking in at the front counter, the lobby isempty.

Despite hotel policy, I know from experience that a hundred euros should get me more than a handful of those mini liquor bottles delivered ASAP to myroom.

Dripping wet, I shove my hands in my pocket and wait while the mousy-looking concierge looks down his pointed nose at the woman whose back is towardsme.

Long dark hair, damp from the rain, hangs in a simple ponytail down her slender back, resting just above a perfectly shapedass.

“I’m sorry, Miss, but there aren’t any roomsavailable.”

“I have my reservation number right here,” the woman says with an accent that I recognize as American. Most likely from one of the northern states as the words have a harder edge, rather than a slow southerndrawl.

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