Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [51]
“It’s a bit much,” she agreed.
“I don’t think any writer, even Joyce, thinks things out so thoroughly before the fact. If you ask me, we just project all this symbolism and meaning onto books to make ourselves feel smarter.”
“I feel smarter,” she said with an automatic smile, “just talking to you.” It was the kind of line in which she specialized, the kind of line that had catapulted her from one safe haven to the next, Tarzan swinging on a vine from tree to tree.
“Rory Malone,” he added, offering his hand, offering the next vine. His hair was raven-black, his eyes pale-blue, his lashes thick and dark. Oh, it had been so long since she had been with anyone good-looking. It was something she had learned to sacrifice long ago. Perhaps Ireland was a magical place after all.
“Bliss,” she said, steeling herself for the inane things that her given name inspired. “Bliss Dewitt.” Even Barry, not exactly quick on the mark, had a joke at the ready when she provided her name. But Rory Malone simply shook her hand, saying nothing. A quiet man, she thought to herself, but not The Quiet Man. Thank God.
“How long are you here for?”
They had just had sex for the first time, a most satisfactory first time, which is to say it was prolonged, with Rory extremely attentive to her needs. It had been a long time since a man had seemed so keen on her pleasure. Oh, other men had tried, especially in the beginning, when she was a prize to be won, but their best-intentioned efforts usually fell a little short of the mark and she had grown so used to faking it that the real thing almost caught her off guard. Nice.
“How long are you staying here?” he persisted. “In Dublin, I mean.”
“It’s … open-ended.” She could leave in a day, she could leave in a week. It all depended on when Barry cut off her credit. His credit, really. How much guilt did he feel? How much guilt should he feel? She was beginning to see that she might have gone a little over the edge where Barry was concerned. He had brought her to Ireland and discovered he didn’t love her. Was that so bad? If it weren’t for Barry, she never would have met Rory, and she was glad she had met Rory.
“Open-ended?” he said. “What do you do that you have such flexibility?”
“I don’t really have to worry about work,” she said.
“I don’t worry about it, either,” he said, rolling to the side and fishing a cigarette from the pocket of his jeans.
That was a good sign—a man who didn’t have to worry about work, a man who was free to roam the city during the day. “Let’s not trade histories,” she said. “It’s tiresome.”
“Good enough. So what do we talk about?”
“Let’s not talk so much either.”
He put out his cigarette and started again. It was even better the second time, better still the third. She was sore by morning, good sore, that lovely burning feeling on the inside. It would probably lead to a not-so-lovely burning feeling in a week or two and she ordered some cranberry juice at breakfast that morning, hoping it could stave off the mild infection that a sex binge brought with it. Honeymooners-cystitis, as her doctor called it.
“So Mr. Gardner has finally joined you,” the waiter said, used to seeing her alone at breakfast.
“Yes,” she said.
“I’ll have a soft-boiled egg,” Rory said. “And some salmon. And some of the pancakes?”
“Slow down,” Bliss said, laughing. “You don’t have to try everything at one sitting.”
“I have to keep my strength up,” he said, “if I’m going to keep my lady happy.”
She blushed and, in blushing, realized she could not remember the last time she had felt this way. It was possible that she had never felt this way.
“Show me the real Dublin,” she said to Rory later that afternoon, feeling bold. They had just had sex for the sixth time and, if anything, he seemed to be even more intent on her needs.