I pushed the door of The Black Dragon Tavern open, the pungent smells of stale beer, grease, and dirty mop water assaulting my senses. I didn't usually come here at night—preferring to sit on the open patio—but it was one in the morning and if I wanted to be around other people, which I did, inside at the bar was my only choice.
"Brogan Ramsay," I heard from a corner and turned to nod at a couple of the regulars. "What's three thousand ninety-nine divided by seven hundred thirty?" Aidan McGonegal called out, holding up his phone, his finger poised on what I knew to be the calculator.
"Four point two four five two zero five," I answered easily. The corner erupted in hoots and hollers, one guy pretending to fall out of his chair. I smiled, turning to the bartender and ordering a whisky.
"Bang on," Aidan yelled, his calculator just a couple seconds behind. More hoots and applause sounded from behind me and I chuckled.
"The lad is wicked good with numbers," I heard someone else say. Yeah, this was a good call, what I needed. I took a sip of the whisky and massaged the back of my neck.
"Brogan Ramsay," I heard to my right.
I looked up and saw an old man, a glass of amber liquid sitting on the bar in front of him. I nodded, frowning slightly. "Do I know ya?" I asked.
He smiled. "Father Donoghue. We haven't had the pleasure. I know ya by name, and I know your friend, Fionn." A priest? I'd never known Fionn to keep company with holy men.
"Ah. Well, nice to meet ya, Father. Any friend of Fionn is a friend of mine. What church do ya work at?"
He shook his head. "Oh, no, I don't reside in a parish any longer. There was a wee," he raised the pitch of his voice and held his thumb and index finger together, "bit of a scandal some years back. These days, I hold confession from this bar stool right here. The title and a few job duties kind of stuck, shur ya know like." He chuckled, looking none too upset about whatever scandal had occurred that had evidently resulted in his ex-communication. I shrugged. Who was I to judge? I was a fallen man, too.
"I don't usually see ya around these parts this late at night," he said, taking a sip of his drink. "Now Fionn, that's a different matter. That boy's always on the tear, and always with some new floozy on his arm. Ya know when I say floozy, I mean no disrespect. God loves all his children, even the ones who dabble in dubious ethical behavior."
I smiled what felt like a weary smile. "I don't usually have the need to imbibe at all, truth be told, Father."
"Ah, so what's chased ya here at such an ungodly hour, son? Money or a woman? Since I've heard ya have more money than the Almighty himself, me guess is a woman."
I sighed, leaning my chin on my hand. The truth was, it felt good to confide in someone about my own dubious ethical behavior. Maybe confession really did cleanse the soul. "Lydia De Havilland."
"A woman, aye. She doesn't want ya, I gather? Well, why not? You're a fine-lookin' sod."
I shook my head. "It's not about that." I turned to him. "Seven years ago she did somethin' that resulted in my family bein' thrown out on the street."
"Ah. I see. She betrayed ya."
I nodded. "Aye. And because of it, I promised I'd never beg again, never be brought to my knees."
He appeared to consider that for a moment before shaking his head. "Ya can't avoid it. Life brings us all to our knees at one point or another." He smiled suddenly. "I find when it does, ya are in a bloody convenient position to start prayin'." He chuckled and patted me on my back a couple times. I mustered a quick smile. "Also, son, if ya find yourself in love with a woman, on your knees is a rather beguilin' place to be."
I chuckled, suddenly having a pretty good idea about the topic of the wee scandal. But the statement simultaneously amused me and brought a strange ache. Never again would I touch Lydia in that way. Even though her skin had felt like velvet beneath my hand earlier. No. Never again would I touch Lydia.
"The thing is, Father, now the tables are turned, and she's the one who needs savin'." I stopped, looking around the bar, seeing only Lydia's beautiful face in my mind's eye. Malevolent, beautiful face I reminded myself. Blue-green eyes filled with evil. All right, perhaps I was being a wee dramatic. Filled with deception. That was more accurate.
"Sounds like that would be a good place to find yourself. Tables turned on the woman who brought ya low once upon a time and Bob's your uncle! Well done. Sláinte!" Cheers. He held up his drink.
I looked back to Father Donoghue's craggy face, staring momentarily into his sharp blue eyes that didn't appear inebriated at all, despite that he was sitting in a bar late at night with a drink in his hand. He turned in his seat and began to bring the glass to his lips.
I frowned. "Only—"
He turned back toward me, lowering the glass. "Aye, yeah, only."
I couldn't help smiling. "Is there always an only, Father?"
He smiled back, a hundred tiny creases appearing at the corners of his squinting eyes. "Aye, when it comes to a woman, there's always an only, son." He smiled again as if this made him happy for some reason. "I will surmise that in your case, the only is that ya would not hate her so much now if ya didn't love her so much then. And there is such a thin veil between love and hate, me boy. As wispy as the mist on an Irish mornin'."
I let out a breath, raising my glass to my lips and taking a drink, letting the alcohol burn slowly down my throat. He was right, perhaps. I had loved her then with a fierce boyish infatuation. But I had loved a girl who hadn't really existed, and I needed to remind myself of that. I had loved an idea, an image, a beautiful face and a sexy body. And yet . . . if that was true, why did she still make me feel this out-of-control need, this confusion and hunger and lust?