Total Rush (11 page)

“Customer service doesn't seem to be her strong point,” Sean agreed.

Gemma sipped her drink. It was watered down, more tonic than gin. The evening was not starting out on the most auspicious note. Still, all might not be lost. So what if O'Toole's was the kind of place she would never choose to go to in a million years? The music was supposed to be good, right? And there was Sean.

“How's your drink?” he asked, taking a pull of his Guinness.

“Great,” Gemma fibbed. “Yours?”

“Lovely,” Sean said blissfully in a fake brogue.

“I've never understood the appeal of beer,” Gemma admitted. “It's like”—she paused, searching for the right analogy—“potato soda.”

Sean laughed. “Spoken like a true beer connoisseur.”

“So,” Gemma began, permitting herself the great pleasure of gazing at long length into his incredible eyes, “have you started to read the book on Wicca yet?”

Sean dipped his head, cupping his ear. “What?”

“The. Book. On. Wicca,” she repeated loud and slow. “Have you started it yet?”

“Yeah.”

Gemma took this as a positive sign. “And—?”

“It's interesting.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Gemma could rattle off a slew of questions she was dying to ask him about it, but she didn't want to make him feel pressured, or worse, that he was somehow being quizzed. Of course, there was the possibility that he thought it was bizarro mumbo jumbo and didn't want to hurt her feelings. She was determined not to focus on that, not right now. “How's work?” she asked brightly, practically shouting.

“Okay.”

“Just okay? Any interesting fires?”

“They're all interesting. That's the problem.” He paused thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Things are fine. Nothing exciting.”

“I see.”

“It's hard for me to talk about what I do, Gemma. If I told you half the stuff that went down, you'd never want me to leave my apartment, and the other stuff—the technical stuff—would probably bore you to tears.”

“Try me,” Gemma urged playfully. “What do you guys talk about? What do you do for fun?”

“Abuse each other.” He took a sip of beer. “Wait, here's a good one: Some drunken teenager out on Long Island got stuck in the chimney of his frat house. By the time the fire department arrived, he was dead, unfortunately. Know what he died of?”

Gemma's hand flew to her throat. “What?”

“The flue.” Sean laughed.

“Sean! That's not funny! That's awful!”

“Firehouse humor, babe. Sometimes it's the only thing that gets you through.”

“I guess I can understand that,” Gemma said. But deep down, she wondered.

The waitress returned with a smarmy look on her face and only one plate in her hand. She dropped the sausage and potatoes in front of Sean. “The chef said to tell ya, and I quote, that he doesn't give a flying feck if you're Mr. Jesus H. Christ himself, we only do what's on the menu.”

“Bring us an order of sausage and chips, then,” Sean said, slumping in his seat mortified. He turned to Gemma. “I'll take the sausages off the plate. So much for firefighters having some pull in this city,” he added with a frown.

“We could go,” Gemma suggested tentatively.

“But we haven't heard any music yet.”

What does it matter? We'll be deaf by the time the band gets on,
thought Gemma. The decibel level of the crowd was earthshaking. Still, Sean was right. They hadn't heard any live music yet. A few haunting Celtic ballads, a few foot-tapping ceilis, and the night would be back on track.

“Here, have some of these potatoes while we're waiting,” Sean said, pushing his plate between them.

As delicately as she could, Gemma wiped away the perspiration she could feel beading on her upper lip. It was so hot in O'Toole's she thought she might pass out. She tried to see the place through Sean's eyes. Why had he had brought her here? It had to be the music. The waitress made a brief and unsmiling reappearance to drop the plate of sausage and chips. Gemma and Sean tried to chat over the raucous din; then just as they were finishing up their meal, the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into spontaneous hoots as the band hit the stage.

Gemma was expecting a quartet: fiddle, tin whistle, guitar, and bodhran drum. Instead, eight musicians lumbered onto the tiny stage. Two had fiddles and one had a tin whistle, but there was also a drummer, an organist, and much to Gemma's dismay, a bass player and two electric guitarists, one of whom plugged in to the amp at her back.

“Evenin',” the lead singer bellowed into the mike, a pipe cleaner of a man with a buzz cut and black wrap-around sunglasses. “We're deValera's Playground and we'd like to start tonight with a little song you all know: ‘Flogging Davy.' ”

The nearest guitarist launched into a brain-searing riff and the band were off. This was Irish music done a way Gemma'd never heard, with screaming guitars vying with mad fiddles and a lead singer who twitched and jerked like Ichabod Crane being poked with a cattle prod. The crowd was going nuts, pogoing in unison while their fists pumped high in the air, shouting out the chorus in Gaelic along with the band.

Gemma turned to Sean. He was clapping enthusiastically along with the music, which amazed her. Catching her gaze, Sean broke into wide grin.

“AREN'T THEY GREAT?” he shouted.

“Great,” Gemma mouthed, knowing he couldn't hear her. As best she could, she averted her face from him so he wouldn't detect her dismay. She'd been wrong: The music wouldn't salvage this evening. Instead, it was the icing on the cake. Time to face facts: Sean's idea of a fun night out was radically different from hers. All she could do now was sit back and ride it out. She prayed the band did only one set and were either too drunk or tired to stand for encores. She wondered if Ron Crabnutt was somewhere in the crowd, chewing gum and waving a torx head in unison to the music.

And she wondered who Sean really was.

 

 

“Can I come in?”

The seductive undercurrent in Sean's voice as he teased Gemma's lips outside the door of her apartment almost caused her to give in. Almost. But then she remembered: This was the man to whom she'd given a second chance and he'd used it to take her to a rowdy Irish bar to see a band who played head-banging Celtic music. Now, to top it all off, he seemed to be hinting at sleeping with her again.

Gemma had been so sure that in agreeing to a proper date, she was sending a clear signal to him that she was interested in a relationship that existed beyond the boundaries of the bedroom. But now she wondered. Who did he think she was, that she would enjoy an evening like the one they'd just shared? Surprising her with all those stuffed animals had been wonderful, and his coming down to the Golden Bough to apologize to her in person spoke to his being a man of character. But if this was a firefighter's idea of a good date, then what she'd said to Frankie at the Happy Fork was right on target: This wasn't a tribe she wanted to join.

Maybe she was at fault, too. Just a little. When he'd asked her if she thought the band was great, she should have been honest and asked him to take her home. But she'd kept mum.

Gentle but firm, she pulled away. “I'm really tired, Sean. How about if we call it a night?”

“Okay.” She saw disappointment as his eyes searched her face. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” she repeated, turning her key in the lock.

“I hear you. What if I call you later in the week and we check out a movie?”

“That might be nice,” Gemma murmured, pushing open her apartment door. She smiled up at him and thanked him for a lovely evening, happy when Sean planted a small, sweet kiss on her lips and thanked her for the same. But she could tell he was confused.

He wasn't the only one.

His date with
Gemma left Sean kicking himself.

He'd been so elated she was willing to give him another chance he'd grabbed at the first thing they seemed to share: Irish music. O'Toole's sometimes
did
play traditional Irish music—he should have checked the paper before heading down there. Judging by the music she played in her store, it wasn't a stretch to think deValera's Playground might not be her cup of tea. So he wasn't exactly surprised when she didn't invite him in afterward, though he was disappointed. But what was with her tepid response when he suggested a movie later in the week? Did she really think it would be “nice” to get together again? Or was she using polite Lady Speak to tell him to go chase himself? Why did women have to be so damn hard to read?

Rather than risk screwing up for a third and possibly final time, Sean decided to consult someone who knew Gemma well: her cousin Michael. Looking up the Blades schedule online, he saw they were playing a home game, and so he took the subway to Met Gar. His own experience with the FDNY team told him the Blades got there early to work on their sticks and skates. He told security he was a friend of Michael's, they checked with the man himself, and he was in.

The corridors below the arena were brightly lit and snaking, their concrete walls decorated with blown-up action photos of both past and present players. Sean found himself checking the sprinkler system on the ceiling, as well as the strategically placed fire extinguishers along the corridor. Funny the things you looked for depending on your point of reference.

He found Michael standing at one of the skate-sharpening machines, carefully running the blade of his skate back and forth, throwing off sparks.

“Mike.”

“Hey, Sean.” Michael put down his skate and drew him into a fraternal hug. “What's up? You boys need some tickets for tonight's game?”

“I hadn't come for that, but if you've got 'em, what the hell.”

“Sure, I'll set you up. So, why you here?”

“It's about your cousin.”

Michael looked amused. “Which one? I've got twenty.”

Sean laughed appreciatively. “Gemma.”

Concern flashed across Michael's face so fast Sean almost missed it. Was it possible Michael knew about the night they'd spent together? Had Gemma come crying to her cousin about what a creep he'd been? If so, then he was royally screwed. No way would Michael help him out.

“What about Gemma?” Michael asked carefully.

“I really like her. I took her out on Saturday, and it didn't go too well. I was hoping you might be able to give me some advice.”

“I can try.” Michael looked distinctly uneasy as he began massaging the back of his neck. “Look, before we go any further, there's some things you should probably know. About Gemma.”

“Like what?” Sean could guess where this was heading, but he decided to play dumb. It would be fun watching Michael scramble to describe his cousin.

“Well, she's kinda crunchy, you know?”

“Crunchy?”

“Crunchy as in granola head. She's into herbs and teas and all that shit.”

“I'm fine with that.”

Michael's eyes darted away evasively. “She's also very spiritual, if you catch my drift. Intuitive. Very into nature.”

“Tree hugger?”

“No, nothing like that. She's—”

“A witch?” Sean supplied.

Michael's eyes shot back to his. “
Madonn',
she told you?”

Sean nodded.

“And it doesn't freak you out?”

Sean shuffled his feet evasively. “I don't really get it, but if it makes her happy . . .”

“My sentiments exactly,” said Michael, looking relieved. “Hey, if you can get past the witch stuff, you're already light-years ahead of most guys. I salute you.”

Sean frowned. “Don't salute me yet. I brought her to O'Toole's last week.”

Michael's mouth fell open. “O'Toole's? Right around the corner?”

Sean nodded again, more forlorn this time.

“What are you, out of your fucking mind?”

“I know, I know,” Sean muttered.

“Gemma at O'Toole's is like me rushing Kristie Yamaguchi. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wanted to take her to see some Irish music.”

“Who was playing?”

“DeValera's Playground.” Sean sighed.

“They're good. Theresa's thinking of taking them on as clients. But no way are they up Gemma's alley.”

“I know that now. She was playing Enya in the store so I just assumed she liked all sorts of Irish music.”

Michael pulled a tortured face. “She loves that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“All that mystical Celtic crap. And traditional stuff, too.” Michael shook his head despairingly. “I don't want to scare you, but once, when I was in the store, she was playing bagpipe music. What kind of Italian girl listens to freakin' bagpipes? I told her it was giving me a headache and she just ignored me. She marches to the sound of her own drummer.”

“Yeah, she does,” Sean agreed.
Which is kind of why I like her.
“Do you think she'd like it if I took her to hear traditional music?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Any other suggestions?”

Michael thought. “I think she'd like it if you cooked for her or something like that. She's kind of a homebody, you know? Likes quiet stuff.” His hand shot out to clutch Sean's arm. “Don't ever get in a car with her, though. The woman can't drive to save her life.”