Page 46 of Player

Clarissa

I’m starting to like Finn McDuff. He’s easy to be around, funny, and quick with a comment. He’s generous; the innkeeper was thrilled with her tip. He’s efficient, too, as evidenced by my new clothing from this morning’s no-nonsense, in-quickly and out-even-faster, shopping trip.

Did I mention he’s easy on the eyes?

Way easy. Black eyes and all.

And he’s a filthy, dirty talker. I’m not easily embarrassed but I’m out of my league with Finn. In intimate detail, I imagine him using his tongue on my clit or fingering me to climax while he bends me over a clothing rack. He’s relentless, too, almost like making me blush is his mission in life.

He can certainly talk the talk. Except experience tells me his version of walking the walk is more like a fumble and stumble.

The more I’m in his company, the more curious I am about him. What frazzles him? What would wipe the smile off his gorgeous lips?

We relocated to a small, dank hotel in Cork City. It’s tucked away on a side street. Fewer flowers, more dark hues of brown and black. And he’s arranged for separate rooms with a connecting door.

Tonight, we’re at The Maddest Monk, a pub located several blocks away but within walking distance. Finn informs me this is one of two places we’ll be hanging out. But we’re starting out here because “the pub draws the biggest eegits in town.”

I have to admit he’s right.

And Finn is in his element.

Two pints in and we’re surrounded by men. Finn has the attention of the entire crowd, taking “the craic” while looking gorgeous in a new, green Northern Ireland Football League jersey. Its white stripes accentuate his broad shoulders, and the snug fit over his muscled body leaves no doubt about his masculinity.

He’s an outsider who quickly fits in. Trading jokes and insults at a speed that leaves me dizzy. I’m fascinated and afraid to look away for fear I’ll miss something.

“You sound like a bloke from Belfast who swallowed a Yankee,” the foolish man standing at the bar quips, poking fun of Finn’s American accent.

I stare at Finn with new insight. So, he’s from Northern Ireland but spent time in the States, enough time that his countrymen can detect an accent?

Finn answers without pausing. “You sound like a Corker stroking himself at Sunday mass. Those feckin’ high notes are killers, eh?”

“He’s got a point,” a man within earshot says.

“Eugene does grunt a lot when speaking,” another is eager to add.

“That high-pitched tone of his,” a third joins in, “is worse than any highfalutin prick’s.”

Eugene clenches his jaw. Pissed off and ready to explode.

“Nothing a pint of Irish Champagne can’t cure,” Finn exclaims, waving the bartender over and ordering a round of Guinness.

Hands slap Eugene on the back.

The man smiles.

I stare aghast at Finn.What a player.One second, he’s ready to knock him on his ass, the next he’s pulling him in for a hug. Yes, I knew this about him ... but seeing him in action ...

“Heard this one?” Finn demands, gesturing for everyone to pull in close. “This fella, Murphy, applies for a job at a Dublin firm. Also keen on getting hired is Bob, the Yankee. The boss has them take this test, being there’s one job but both men are equally qualified. The results come in and, wouldn’t you know, Murphy and Bob have exactly the same answers.”

“Yankee cheated,” Eugene interrupts.

“Of course he did ... damn Yanks.”

Finn shakes his head, then lowering his voice, continues. “So, the boss goes up to Murphy to break the bad news.”

“I feckin’ knew it.”

“Let ’em finish, you eegit.”