Riding Irish (3 page)

I suddenly realized how surrounded I felt. I was at the end of the bar with only this man beside me, but the long line of Druids that led out to the door suddenly seemed like an impenetrable gauntlet. I attempted to catch the bartender’s eye again to silently ask him for some kind of advice, but he was busy at the other end of the bar, already refilling glasses for the thirstiest bikers.

The man next to me seemed to sense my apprehension. He turned to face me with his pint glass in hand. “Oh, now don’t be afraid, lass, we’re not going to bite
ye
.” Somehow, he managed to turn his sly and frightening grin into a warm and inviting smile. As comforting as it was, I was still on edge and couldn’t manage to turn my head to look him fully in the face, let alone speak a word. The isolation of my current situation was suddenly becoming clear to me. Not only was I alone here in this bar with all of these dangerous looking bikers, I was alone here in Ireland. Aside from a friendly bartender and an impish banker, nobody had given me a second thought.

The man didn’t turn his gaze from me as I hoped he might. He seemed intent on waiting as long as necessary for me to acknowledge his presence. I timidly reached across the bar and took my glass in hand. I silently willed myself to not shake as I brought it to my lips and took a long sip. I was terrified at the prospect of setting the glass down and knowing that I’d have to face him, and so I tilted my head back and finished my beer. I’d heard the term “liquid courage” before, but I’d never seen it put into action quite so dramatically.

I closed my eyes for just a moment and then opened them again. I turned to face the man to my right. He was still smiling that same warm smile. “There she is,” he said. I could feel myself blushing again and nearly turned away, but I managed a weak smile instead.

“Hello,” I said, almost too quiet to be heard.

His smile widened further. “What was that?” he asked.

I coughed slightly and then repeated myself more loudly. “Hello.”

He cocked his head slightly to the side. “If that’s the best I can get out of
ye
, I must be losing me touch,” he said. He wiped his palm against his pant leg and extended his hand towards me. “Let’s do this proper. Name’s Ronan.
And yourself?”

I tried again not to shake as I tenderly placed my hand into his. His fingers and palm felt warm and
powerful,
as though he could crush my hand in his if he wanted to. I tore my eyes away from our hands held together and looked up into his clear, blue eyes. “
Catrina,” I told him, “My name’s Catrina.”

“Ohhh
,” he said, pulling his hand back from mine, “Look here boys, we’ve got an American in the pub tonight!” There was a brief roar of laughter and cheering from the other end of the bar, but no eyes seemed to turn our way. It was clear that Ronan commanded a great deal of respect in this group. When he expected them to hang on his words, they did so. “And what’re ye
doin here in Dublin, then?”

I was momentarily unsure of how much I should tell this man. He seemed genuinely interested and kind enough, but these were bikers. They were outlaws. They were dangerous men, and I was alone here in Ireland with a new home to take care of. Still, in the face of his cool stare and roguish smile, my imagination failed me. I could barely recall the details of the true story for my visit to Dublin, let alone concoct something out of thin air. I decided that I wouldn’t give him too much information about myself, but that a vague story was fine. “My grandmother died. I’m taking care of her affairs,” I told him in a steady voice.

“I’m sorry, lass. If I’d have known ye were in mourning, I’d not have disturbed ye, honest,” he said. I couldn’t tell whether he was putting me on or not. He kept his solemn expression a moment longer before his grin broke through once again. “Let me buy you a pint to make it square,” he said.

“Oh, no, really,” I told him, covering my empty glass with my palm, “it’s alright. I… I should probably just be getting home.”

“I insist. You’re a visitor, and any good Irishman would never send of a visitor without a drink,” he said.

“Really, I should be going,” I kept myself on course, unwavering.

“Now, Catrina
,” he said. My blood simultaneously froze and boiled when I heard him speak my name. He was clearly dangerous, but he was also incredibly handsome. He was, without a doubt, the most exciting man I’d ever met. “I
canne
let ye walk away without one more pint.” He held up his hand and, without a word, the bartender appeared in front of us at the bar. “Bernard, pour the young lady another pint.” The bartender snatched my glass off the bar and began filling it from the tap without even glancing at me to see if I was a willing participant to this display. He set the beer down on the bar before me. My eyes were still fixed on Ronan’s. Maybe it was the drinks I’d already had, but something about this man was irresistible. In retrospect, I can’t believe I had managed to deny his charms – and the drink – for as long as I did.

I broke my gaze from his and set about drinking my fresh pint. I knew I was already in too deep. I couldn’t walk away now as perhaps I should have the moment I heard the bikes in the distance. Ronan finally turned away from me and faced the bar, sipping at his own beer. I was glad to finally not have his eyes on me, if only for a moment. When he looked at me, I felt penetrated by his stare. It was as though he could see through every word I spoke and divine the true meaning. Every irresponsible urge in my body was bare to him. When he looked at me, he could see desires that I couldn’t even consciously admit to myself.

He turned back to me suddenly with his pint in hand. “What was old gran’s name?” he asked. I was taken aback for a moment. I was so flustered by his presence that I could barely recall my own grandmother’s name. Finally I shook my head and looked at him.

“Her name was Brighid Flynn,” I told him.

He raised his glass towards me and said, “To Brighid, then.”

I clinked
my glass against his and took a long drink, never taking my eyes off of him. He pulled the glass away from his lips and set it on the bar. “May she be in a better place than
this.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I told him, “I actually like this pub quite a bit.”

He smiled, perhaps realizing that he’d finally found a way to drag me into a real conversation. The beer was having its effect on me and my tongue was looser than it had been before. “Th
’ Bleeding Hart is a fine enough place if ye want to sip swill and dine on last week’s roast, I suppose.” The bartender, whose back was to us as he polished glasses against the rear wall of the pub, made a hoarse sound. “Oh, I’m just
foolin’, Bernard,” he said in the bartender’s direction, “Ye know I love the old place.” Bernard dismissively waved over his shoulder.

“Truth is, Cat,” he said, sending another shiver through my body, “Me and my boys pass through here often enough, and we’re always glad for a little of ol’ Bernard’s hospitality – and the new acquaintances we make on every trip.”

I smiled without saying anything. Ronan knew how to lay it on thick, but I was buying everything he was selling. With every compliment dripping with Irish charm, I could feel myself warming to him. I didn’t know whether he was this way with all the girls he met in bars or if we shared a genuine connection that made me feel this way about him. The truth was that I didn’t care. I knew what kind of man he was and what kind of life he lived. I had little doubt that he’d put the same charming moves on hundreds of Irish girls and no shortage of visiting Americans as well. That didn’t make him any less magnetic.

“Where’re ye from then, Cat?” he asked, trying to draw me further into conversation. At this point my resistance was completely worn away.

“Baltimore, born and raised,” I said proudly. Baltimore wasn’t a place many people were happy to claim as their own, but it was the only home I ever had.

“Ye may’ve been born to Baltimore, but there’s no doubtin’ ye’ve
got a taste of Ireland in ye,” he said before reaching out and grasping a small lock of my long, fiery hair. I smiled back at him. His flirtations were becoming
more bold
and I felt like I was putty in his hands.

“Oh, yes,” I said, “I’m a Flynn just like my grandmother. Never been here before today, but I love it.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said, “This island’s
been known to enchant plenty o’er the years, but it’s got a dark side as well. It’s good that
ye’ve found it to yer
liking. Still, there’s more to this land than the pit of wankers that is our fair Dublin.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Oh really,” I said, taking another drink of my beer, “And what’s better than dear old Dublin?”

He smiled as if my question had set him back on his heels. I don’t think he was prepared for me to try to engage him quite as ardently as he had tried to engage me. “Well,” he said, “They don’t call it the Emerald Isle because all her sons and daughters are covered in jewels.” As he said the last he flashed him hands at me, front and back, showing off his lack of jewelry. “I noticed
ye’ve not got so much as a bauble on ye, either,” he said with a wink.

Ronan had an amazing gift for turning any inane banter back upon itself until it was a flirtation. How easily he moved from a discussion of the low points of Dublin into a commentary on my lack of a wedding ring.

“How is it that a fair lass like yourself hasn’t found herself a proper man, then?” he said.

Feeling bolder than ever before, I raised my glass towards him and said, “Maybe I had to come to Ireland to find a real man.” He grinned wider than ever before and touched his glass to mine before upending it and finishing his beer.

About this time, one of the other bikers came stepping over to Ronan and leaned close to him, whispering something in his ear. Ronan’s grin faded away as he listened. He turned to his fellow Druid and said in a low voice, “You three go on ahead. Tell the rest of them to head back home. I’ll catch up with
ye
.” The other biker clapped him on the shoulder and turned to go, pulling on his gloves. Ronan nodded in the direction of the rest of the gang and they all shambled off their stools, some of them struggling to quickly finish their beers.

“Get a move on, boys,” Ronan said loudly in their direction and they all turned to nod to him before heading out the door. After a loud minute of watching them go, the pub was quiet once again, and Ronan and I were left alone. I looked around the room and discovered that even the few tables of stragglers that had been present when the Druids had arrived had found their way out. Aside from Bernard the bartender, we had the room to ourselves.

“Shouldn’t you be riding off with your friends,” I asked him.

He turned back to me and smiled only slightly. “The boys will take care o’ themselves,” he said.

“Is this how you spend all your days – riding from pub to pub, meeting foreign girls who don’t know better?”

He laughed quietly at that. “Th’ Druids ride all over. We’re here in Dublin for a stretch on business.”

“Oh, yes,” I teased at him, feeling that he could take it, “You definitely look like a group of businessmen. I should call my boss back in Baltimore and tell him I’ve got a dozen new hires for him, straight away.”

“Riding the hills of Ireland is the best business a man can be in,” he said, “We live our lives the way we want ‘em, and we don’t let anybody tell us otherwise.”

I couldn’t help but admire his spirit in that. For years I’d been stuck in the same dreary office, endlessly filing reports for a series of bosses that couldn’t care less about what I wanted to do with my life. I considered it pure luck that I’d even managed to get away from work as I had. The life that Ronan led – riding around the beautiful Irish countryside wherever he pleased – seemed a far greater life than any I’d lived. Still, I wasn’t naïve about who I was talking to. There wasn’t a lot of money to be made in riding around enjoying the picturesque landscape. Bike gangs were criminals, more often than not. For all I knew, Ronan and his gang were notorious drug dealers or worse. He could be a thief or even a killer. With his charming smile and devastating good looks, he could be hiding anything.

“I’ll have to make sure I get out to see the countryside while I’m here,” I told him.

“Ye’ll be cheating yerself
if ye don’t, Cat. That’s the truth of it,” he responded, as though what he’d said was religious dogma of the highest degree. This was a man who valued his freedom, but he absolutely treasured the experiences that freedom brought him. For me, getting out
to do
a bit of sightseeing was a way to spend an afternoon. For Ronan, experiencing the majesty of Ireland was his daily bread.

“When was the last time ye rode across the hills o’ – where was it, Baltimore? Have ye felt the wind in
yer hair, Cat?”

I knew what he was getting at, but I couldn’t resist him. “Actually,” I said, “I’ve never been on a motorcycle before.”

He made a feigned expression of shock, as if he’d expected nothing less. I hardly looked like the sort of person who rode a motorcycle, to say the least. “Well, Cat,” he said, “How ‘bout it then? Would
ye like to see the countryside at long last?”

I leaned slightly off my stool and cocked an eyebrow towards the door of the pub. “Not much to see out there,” I told him, “It’s the middle of the night.” I checked the clock on my phone to confirm and saw that it was, indeed, nearly midnight.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he said with a smile, “The sun’ll be risin
’ in just a handful of hours. And there’s no better way to be
seein
’ it than riding East o’er a long stretch of country road.”

I couldn’t say at the time whether that really was the best way to see a sunrise, but it certainly sounded magical. Still, it was midnight. Even in the middle of summer as it was, sunrise was at least five hours off. Was he really asking me if I wanted to ride all night in the dark with a stranger, alone in a new country? I had to be out of my mind to even consider such a possibility.