“Nothing,” he reiterated.

Oh God, what is this pain in my chest? “Let’s go,” I said, barreling past him.

“January!” We heard loudly, swinging both our attentions toward Gogarty’s. Cillian. “Where’re ya’ goin', lass?”

“We’ve got an early start tomorrow,” Tom said, answering for me, which angered me beyond belief, but I had some sort of strange indigestion and my chest hurt so I let him win that one.

Cillian stumbled down the steps toward us and grasped me in a fierce hug. “It was so nice to meet ya’, January,” he said into my ear, making the tears I’d been holding back fall. I’d been like that since I was young. Whenever I was struggling not to cry, the second someone touched me, the emotion would come spilling out of its own volition.

“It was a pleasure, Cillian,” I said truthfully. I hugged him back to gain some time and eventually, God willing, some state of composure. Ironically, the same touch that made them spill is usually the same touch that helped me reel them back in. A strange dichotomy, I know.

Cillian pulled me away from him just as I gained control, but I averted my eyes to hide the rawness in them. “When you’re in town next, lass, you look me up, right?”

“Zap,” I heard Tom curiously mutter under his breath but didn’t acknowledge it.

 “Of course I will, Cillian.”

“Just ya’ ask any of the blokes in this bar, they’ll point ya’ my direction.”

“Thank you, Cillian,” I said, hugging him quickly before pulling away and waving goodbye as cheerfully as I could. Cillian watched us walk away for a moment before turning back to Gogarty’s.

Tom and I walked in silence the entire distance to Anchor House and it was beyond deafening. When it came within sight, I practically sprinted down the walk and up the steps toward the door but, distracted by the pain in my chest, I fell and scraped my hands on the fourth step—completely humiliating me. The tears I’d gained control of thanks to Cillian now spilled in embarrassment, the pain in my chest pierced me tenfold. I felt Tom’s breath catch before he reached for me.

“Don’t touch me,” I whimpered like a ten-year-old. “Please,” I added, clearing my throat, “I’m fine.”

I stood and carefully walked up the steps with my head held as high as I could get it, stiffening my back to the point it was almost painful. I felt Tom’s presence behind me the entire time but that only served to magnify the pain in my chest exponentially. Without so much as a glance his direction, I stuck the key in my door with a tight "Goodnight, Tom" and steered my way inside. The bed beckoned to me and I found myself answering with a soft sob in its pillows.

I woke to a pounding head. No, not a pounding in my head, I realized, it was a pounding at my door. I got up, not bothering with my hair, though I knew it was a glorified mess. I swung the door open.

“Paybacks?” I asked a stoic Tom.

“Hardly. I’ve rented a car for our journey to London today. The ferry leaves at eight forty-five. Meet me downstairs in fifteen.” And with that, he turned and walked back downstairs.

I saluted his back. “Good morning, January. Nice to see you. Have a nice sleep, did you?” I closed the door. “Jerk.”

Fifteen minutes doesn’t mean jack crap to me in the mornings. It takes me that long to pee. Seriously. I’m like a snail in the mornings. I supposed I’d have to get used to things like that on the road. I sighed loudly and ran to the bathroom, turning on the shower. I glanced in the mirror and noticed I still had my clothes on from the night before. That probably made Tom cluck his tongue at me. He was such a "judger." God! I stripped and landed in the shower, washing my hair and shaving my legs in less than five minutes. Another two minutes for my teeth. Three minutes later, I was stuffing everything into my duffel after dressing in a thermal, one of my The Belle Jar t-shirts, jeans, and black boots.

Hair wet, no makeup, I slammed my hotel door home, ran down the stairs, and skidded to a halt in front of Tom checking us out at the front desk.

“Good morning!” The clerk greeted me.

“Good morning!” I answered cheerfully back. “So nice to see a friendly face this early in the morning!” I added, staring straight at Tom with the largest smirk on my lips.

I hauled ass past his glare and down the stairs, arriving at what I assumed was our rental since it was just across the street and in the back laid Tom’s duffel. Copycat. I tossed mine beside his and shut the hatch to the impossibly tiny rental. God, I’m going to have to share this with him! There’s barely enough room for one, let alone his gigantic ass! I tossed my purse/hobo-bag/lifeline on the hood of the car and rummaged through my bag for my makeup. Leaning over and peering into the window, I applied a little rouge, mascara, and lip gloss. Just enough for myself to appear somewhat human then turned my head over and brushed my long hair, trying so hard to keep the tangles out of its impractical length. I flipped it back over and detangled from there. I threw my brush back into my bag and ran my fingers through it, trying to get it to dry as quickly as possible. I was done.

I looked at the tiny car and the potential proximity and thought twice. I reached back into my bag and spritzed a tiny bit of perfume, enough to tickle the nose but not enough to suffocate you in the car, then applied a bit of color to my lips and a thin layer of liner to my eyes. I shook my hair out and checked my reflection. Almost. I reached back in my bag and grabbed a small rubber band as well as a black chopstick. I loosely braided a French braid waterfall at the top and side of my head, leaving a few tendrils loose, tied it off, then wrapped the entire thing and all the loose hair into an unkempt bun at the side of my nape opposite my braid, stabbing it together with the chopstick. The effect was a sweeping look and it was beautiful. It always got me compliments. Ahem. Always. Good enough. Good enough? Good enough for whom, January? Oh, shut up!

Tom exited Anchor House at the precise moment I turned around. He stopped dead, dropped whatever papers he was holding and his keys but the kicker was when he bent to retrieve them, his eyes wouldn’t leave mine, that’s when I knew I had him. His hands rummaged the concrete below him haphazardly, making him flustered when they turned up empty. Eventually he pulled away to find what he’d dropped. Ha! I’ll take that compliment, thank you very much, Thomas Eriksson.

“Let’s go,” he said, stepping in front of me.

I turned around and started to open the door. Tom’s hand reached out at my ear and kept me from opening it, heating me up from the inside at his proximity.

“No,” he said, making me turn around. His nose was inches from mine. He smelled like soap, aftershave and wintergreen Altoids.

I breathed deeply. My eyes felt heavy. “No?”

“This is the driver’s side, remember?” he said, waking me from my trance.

“Oh,” I said sheepishly. “Sorry.”

I slipped out from underneath his arm and rounded the car to the passenger side. I opened the door, sat, and put on my seatbelt. I stared out the window, chewing my thumbnail and cursing myself for tying up my hair. The red blush I felt coming hit me with a vengeance and there was nowhere to hide. Stupid blood.

Thomas

Good God, January was a beautiful woman. When she came down the stairs, all fresh, no makeup, hair damp and down her back, I thought I was going to keel over at how feminine and natural she looked, but when I came outside and saw that she’d braided her hair like she was ready for a red carpet event in the five minutes I’d been away from her, I was definitely floored. Or, "concreted" depending how you looked at it.

I blundered around like an idiot at my own feet staring at her incredible face. I’d given her fifteen minutes—not actually thinking she’d only take the fifteen minutes. Weren’t women supposed to take twice as long as the time limit given them? She was supposed to take longer, and then I was supposed to give her shit for it. After all that, she was supposed to put me in my place. That’s how it was supposed to work. She made me feel like an idiot in so many ways. Particularly in this moment because we were going to be hella early and it was all because I put a ridiculous time limit on this gorgeous girl just because I felt like being an ass. And I was.

I got in the car and belted myself in. I glanced January’s direction and noticed her neck was a flaming red. All I could do was smile like an imbecile at that knowledge. She was flushed and I’d deciphered that she only became beet red for one of two reasons. One, she was flustered because she was embarrassed or, two, she was flustered because she was attracted to whomever she was talking to. My smug ass was sure this flush was the latter because, well, I was attracted to her in the previous moment, but that didn’t make me feel as pissed off as I’d been when it had happened before. No, it made me excited and hopeful, therefore making me pissed off at myself for not being pissed off. I’m an idiot.

I started the car and put it in drive before jetting off onto the cobblestone road and taking a left on Beresford. We were at the port in less than fifteen minutes. Luckily, there were cars lined up to board the ferry, which essentially looked like an overgrown speedboat, if I was being honest. That made me slightly nervous, but apparently the Dublin Swift would take us to Holyhead in North Wales in less than two hours and that would work out perfectly for time as we could be in London by five in the evening, leaving us just enough time to rest and go out that night. There were three bands the label wanted us to look at.

“Couple of things,” I said, breaking the silence. January jumped. I cleared my throat. “Sorry. Anyway, um, we should be in London by this evening. There’re three bands there Seven wants us to look at and I know of two for sure that I have been wanting to see since meeting them both in New York when I was with The Ivories.”

She turned her alluring head my direction and I bit my lip to keep myself from rushing across the tiny space and kissing off her face. “Five bands in one night!”

“Yeah, I know it’s the pits, but they don’t like paying our bills if it doesn’t prove worth it, catch me? This is a hard job, January. It doesn’t pay shit. You get no job assurance, no perks, no sleep. When you do get to sleep, it’s in some shady places sometimes, but it’s worth it for most of us because we get paid to listen to music. You think you can hang?”

She furrowed her brows at me. “Anything you dish my way, I can take. Trust me. I’m a big girl.”

Good thing the car was in drive or I would have lifted her into my lap at that last comment. “I’m sure you can,” I said, not able to help myself.

“What?” she said, whipping her head back around.

“Nothing, I mean, we don’t have to stay for all the songs in their sets, you know. We can get a feel for them and if we don’t like it, we can move on.”

“Oh, okay, that’s cool.”

As the line to board our car inched closer to the ship, I noticed January’s hand twisting in circles. She kept worrying her lip and pinching her brows. Her breathing got deeper and she actually started to worry me.