Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115885 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
I watch as he scoops the money from his guitar case, stuffing it into his pocket. The circle of people around him thins and dies away. Two college-aged girls approach him, tucking their hair behind their ears. He flirts with them shamelessly, shooting me a look every now and again, making sure I’m still standing here.
I’m only here because of my father, I want to clarify. I’ll tell him that as soon as he’s done.
Since Malachy feels comfortable keeping me waiting, I don’t feel guilty taking out my camera again and snapping a picture of him just as he hoists the guitar case over his shoulder, awarding one of the girls with a kiss to the knuckles.
“Flattered, but see, I promised this generous, albeit clingy lass, I’d let her buy me a pint.”
I lower my camera and arch an eyebrow at him. He beams at me as both girls scatter along to a bus stop, giggling breathlessly and swatting one another.
“I think you can afford to buy the generous, albeit clingy lass, a drink, everything considered.” I tuck my camera back into my backpack, throwing the hood of my jacket over my head.
“Only if she sends me a copy of that picture.” He juts his chin to my backpack, flashing me a lazy grin.
“Whatever for?”
He thumbs the strap of his guitar case as he saunters over. Stops when we can breathe each other in. “So I’ll have her address.”
“Who’s being clingy now?” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Me.” He grins, the world likely tinted a dramatic shade of mauve through his mesmerizing eyes. “Definitely me. You American?”
I nod. He scans me.
Purple eyes, like his grandfather’s. But different somehow. Clearer, with depths that suck you in if you’re not careful.
I turn around and start walking, knowing he’ll follow me. He does.
“What’s the story?” He shoves his hands into his front pockets.
“Can we sit somewhere?” I ignore his question, looking around us.
I could use a drink and something to eat. I’m guessing any normal guy would have a hundred and three questions about what I want from him, but Mal seems nowhere near the normalcy spectrum. He motions with his head in the opposite direction, and we turn around. Now I’m the one doing the following.
Turning the tables. This street performer is good at that.
“You have a name?” he asks.
I catch his footsteps. Barely.
“Aurora.”
“Aurora! Princess Aurora of…?”
“New Jersey.” I roll my eyes. What a flirt.
“New Jersey. Of course. Known for its processed meat, goldfinch, and Jon Bon Jovi, although I won’t hold the latter against you.”
“That’s incredibly considerate.”
“What can I say? I’m a charitable soul, too. Mind you, everything I know about New Jersey I learned from a little show called Jersey Shore. Mam is a goner for the one who’s got enough gel on his hair to fill up a pool.”
“Pauly D.” I nod, smiling.
Suddenly, I feel hot. I need to get out of my army jacket. Maybe even my hoodie. De-onionize. Peel off my layers of clothing.
“That’s the one.” He snaps his fingers. “Although, I’m sure you and your family are nothing like him and his orange mates.”
I chew the side of my thumbnail. “Actually, my mom is pretty much the queen of those people. She’s twenty-five percent fake tan, twenty-five percent hairspray, and forty percent skimpy clothes and hair dye. She is, like, super flammable.”
“Where’s the other ten percent?” He chuckles, shooting me a look I can’t decode.
“She’s not very good at math,” I deadpan.
Malachy throws his head back and laughs so boisterously, I feel it vibrating in my stomach. Back home, a boy like him would elevate his looks to his own benefit somehow—become an actor, model, a social media persona, or some other made-up job. My mom would have a heart attack on impact if she ever saw Malachy laugh. He laughs with his entire face, practically inviting wrinkles. Every inch of his flesh is squeezed tight.
“I’m Mal,” he says.
Since we’re mid-walk and he can’t shake my hand, he bumps his shoulder against mine, tugging my hoodie down to reveal more of my face.
“What about you? Are you going to smash any Irish stereotypes?” I ask.
Mal takes a sharp turn onto a corner street. I follow.
“Afraid not. I’m Catholic, a mammy’s boy, and a mostly functioning alcoholic. My grandfather…actually, he’s not technically my granddad. Father Doherty’s a Catholic priest, but Mam’s da died young and Father Doherty, his brother, kind of took care of her like she was his own. Anyway, he taught me how to make stew, which, to this day, is the only food I know how to prepare. I live on a farm with a staggering amount of sheep, all of them arseholes. I prefer stout to lager, missionary position over doggy, think George Best was a god, and reckon brown sauce can cure anything short of cancer, including but not limited to hangovers, a badly cooked meal, and possibly hepatitis C.”