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Seamus raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He finished his drink and spotted a friend on the other side of the bar, leaving me alone while he went over to say hello. Saying hello for Seamus could take ten seconds or three hours, so I turned on my barstool to people-watch.
The Oak Barrel was the definition of a dive bar, with dark wood everywhere, fake leather in green and black, and black & white photos on the wall of men and women who looked to be old Irish gangsters.
According to Seamus, most people at the bar worked for one of the Irish gangs in town. Some sat at the bar alone, drinking away their sorrows or their sins, while others laughed it up at the tables, enjoying wings and fried mushrooms to soak up some of the booze. The younger gangsters drew my attention most because they were loud and boisterous, and they were never idle.
That night a broad-shouldered man was wearing a leather jacket to perfection. He had thick black hair slicked back to highlight his pale skin and deep blue eyes.
Despite the toothy white smile, this man was a bad boy through and through. It oozed from his pores, from the cigarette hanging out of his mouth to the expert way he held the pool stick as he hustled a group of young wannabe thugs and the distracted smile he wore while he did it.
I watched him for more than an hour, transfixed by his beauty but in awe of how he wore his confidence. Better than he wore that leather jacket. Deep down, I knew he was trouble, but I couldn’t look away. I wasn’t afraid of the kind of trouble he represented. I was probably looking for that exact brand of trouble.
I didn’t think he’d noticed me because I wasn’t dressed like the few women inside the bar. They all wore tight jeans or denim skirts, half-shirts and big hair.
I wasn’t allowed to have big hair. My mother told me big hair was for whores. Well, I didn’t want to be a whore at all. So when those blue eyes settled on me, and he winked, my cheeks flushed. Warmth covered me, and I sucked in a deep breath, shy but still unable to look away.
After he sent the young thugs on their way, he pocketed a little lighter, then sauntered over to where I sat at the bar and laid a twenty-dollar bill down on the scuffed wood.
“A drink for me and the lady. Jameson. Double.”
The fact that this handsome man wanted to buy me a drink left me thrilled, but I didn’t want him to get in trouble, so I leaned in and whispered in his ear. “I’m only sixteen.”
He winked again. Those deep blue eyes just a few inches from mine sparkled with mischief. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
I glanced over at Uncle Seamus. He had started a card game with his friends, so, knowing he would be busy for the next few hours, I turned back to the gorgeous man with deep blue eyes. “In that case, I’d love a drink.”
He flashed a wide, satisfied smile that held just a hint of relief as he sat back and held his hand out. “Colm Ashby, at your service.”
Colm. It was such a fantastically Irish name that I couldn’t help but smile as I put my hand in his and gave it what I hoped was a confident squeeze. “Sadie. Sadie Rose Malone.”
He frowned. “That can’t be your real name.”
I giggled and took a big gulp of the whiskey that was much better than the cheap stuff Uncle Seamus ordered. “It is. What’s wrong with my name?”
“Nothing at all,” he said with a smirk. “Just that you’re much prettier than a rose.”
“I’m not,” I insisted with a shake of my head. Even though I’d started to make my world right by taking care of Owen, I didn’t have the confidence to match it. Not yet.
“Bullshit. You’re pretty as hell, Sadie Rose. So pretty that I’m tryin’ really hard to remember you’re only sixteen.”
I took another sip and another until my glass was empty. Colm refilled it quickly. Soon I felt tipsy and tingly, giggling at his stories and flirting with him.
It was easy to fall for Colm Ashby. He was funny and charming, and he made me feel like a beautiful woman, not just some dirty, worthless girl. Being around him was addictive.
It was a feeling I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams. After that night, I didn’t want to be without him. I liked who I was when I was with Colm, and I liked how he looked at me and made me feel.
Like I mattered.
After that night, Colm and I were inseparable. We were only apart to sleep because I still had a curfew, but that didn’t mean we weren’t fucking, because we fucked as often as we could.
Colm was insatiable, and he taught me so many things about how to please him, about what pleased me. I suspected early on that what I felt for Colm was more than a crush, more than a teenage girl sprung because of good dick, but one night just before Christmas 1982, I knew for sure.
I was flat on my back, sucking hard to catch my breath after Colm fucked me so good I thought I pissed myself. “That’s never happened to me before.”
Colm laughed and turned to face me, his finger sliding in and out of my pussy, making an outrageous squishy sound. “Can’t say I’ve ever made a girl squirt like that before. It was fucking hot.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Fuck yeah. You know how good it makes a man feel to know he can pull that from his woman? I’m hard again just talking about it.”
