Page 13 of Tricky Puck

“Can’t have that,” he says as he chokes down his sip and then wipes a missed drop with the back of his hand in true pirate fashion.

“You’d make a great pirate.”

“I’ve been accused of worse. So, you’re not going to deny your deep, dark longing to be a singer?”

“Why should I? It’s true—but don’t tell anyone.” If I make light of it, he’ll leave me alone.

He chuckles. “Nice try. Let’s be serious.”

“No—I mean it. No one knows. Seriously.” I try to keep the panic from my voice, but I’m in that buzzed stage of intoxication where I recognize that I’m buzzed and can hear the ever-so-slight slur of my voice. Shit. Why did I cop to secretly wanting to be a singer? It’s not even true—or hasn’t been for a long time.

“Seriously? If your people don’t know you well enough to see your deepest secret, then that’s…”

“What? Sad? Pathetic?” I detect the edge of anger or resentment in my voice, and he shakes his head. Not bothering to hide my irritation—which I blame on Pappy Van Winkel—I say, “Maybe they do know, and they’re protective of me and don’t want to hurt my feelings or something, so they leave it alone.”

“So they underestimate your strength, then?”

Pow. I lean back against the cushion and clutch my chest in mock-despair because I remember he’s playing games. “Now you’ve damaged me.”

“Are you sure I haven’t complimented you?”

“Oh. Yeah. You think I have the strength to withstand disappointment where my people think I can’t. Is that it?” Shit. He is so wrong. But I’m not copping to any more weaknesses for this pirate to draw blood.

He nods and takes another swig from his glass of deadly gold pirate juice.

I sigh, an exaggerated sound, to hide any vulnerability he thinks he sees. “Your problem is that you don’t understand the Irish psyche. We’re not an optimistic lot. We believe in spelling the doom of dreams. We’re the ultimate of all cynics, especially when it comes close to home. Superstition dictates that we not dare to say our dreams out loud, or we risk cursing ourselves with failure.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“As serious as a half-drunk Irish girl talking about dreams to a stranger can get.”

“That’s what I thought.” He keeps his smile suppressed in true comedic straight-man style.

I burst out laughing as his perfect audience.

Before I can gather myself and reign in my crazy mouth—because he’s right about me having dreams and poetic inclinations, though I prefer to keep them to my songs—the server returns to our table with our food and a judgmental look on her face when she glances at the bottle missing half its whiskey, and then at me. I raise my glass to her in a mock toast before I take another sip—my last until I fortify myself with some food.

“Is she alright?” The server bends close to Link’s ear—a flimsy excuse to get close to him—and whispers loudly as if a little whiskey might have affected my hearing.

“She’s fine—perfect, in fact. Look at her.” He looks at me like he means it, all the previously subdued admiration showing through like the whiskey’s had its effect on him, too, like he’s revealing his true feelings.

I know that would be a special thing, even with Pappy’s influence slowing down my brain. But that’s a dreamer’s speculation, I remind myself.

Maybe. It’s worth a test.

I lean forward. The server darts her eyes at my cleavage with disapproval. I return her glance with an evil triumphant glint and dip lower to give Link—and any passers-by—an eyeful of creamy boobage. It’s the least I can do for him after his honesty, sharing his possibly true feelings. Showing my cleavage is me being honest with him. Honestly flirting.

“Look at you,” I say. “A genuine compliment.”

The server clatters a plate of food in front of me, barely missing dumping it down my blouse, but I pull back in time and stare at her. Is she for real?

“Excuse me,” she says, then whispers for real, “You realize he’s just toying with you, right?”

“Toying—”

“That’s enough.” Link’s voice is hard and deep as he aims a dark look at the server. Nothing wrong with his hearing. I’m instantly grateful not to be in the server’s shoes—and I instantly feel bad for her.

“It’s okay,” I say, reaching out to touch the girl’s arm. “She was finished,” I say to him and pat her arm by way of pushing her away, not meeting her eyes. I can see she’s incredulous, and I’m not sure if it’s him or me that she’s more incredulous about.