Juice: The O'Malleys Book 1, contemporary Adult Romance (6 page)

“What is a Duffy?  I suppose she could be a Duffy,” he said rubbing the kitten under its chin. Duffy purred. Cass nearly groaned aloud. Were all females instinctively drawn to him?
Probably
. No doubt this man had pussys of all kinds at his beck and call.

He scrunched up his forehead and spoke to her with his face animated and curious. “Hang on; are you telling me you named this kitten in the last 30 seconds?”

“Everyone deserves a name and I think it suits her,” said Cass furiously trying not to look at him and failing miserably. Her eyes wouldn’t stop drinking him in and her imagination was in overdrive. Cass and sexgod holding hands, Cass and sexgod hugging. Hmm. Cass and sexgod in bed, fucking.
Stop this immediately!

“Oh..kay. Speaking of names, mine is Rory.” He put out his hand again and this time Cass offered her shaking right hand slowly in return. As their fingers touched, Cass felt the electricity travel from her hand to her gut. Jumping back she frowned at him
. Well that was new
!
Jesus does that actually happen in real life
? Rory held her hand a moment longer than was necessary and she looked down at their hands still entwined. Eyeing the long brown fingers and wide hands, Cass wondered how hands could be considered sexy?

“Rory…R..o..r..yyyyy.” She sounded it on her tongue. It sounded sexy, felt sexy. Rory coughed lightly and cleared his throat, Cass blushed to her roots realising that she had spoken aloud. Her nipples strained behind the fabric of her tee shirt and between her legs suddenly felt electrified too. Cass clamped her legs together paranoid that it was visible in some way and let an ‘oooh’ noise escape from her stupid betraying lips.

Rory’s eyes widened and he parted his lips slightly.

Caught by the bollocks! Act normal for heaven’s sake, Cass!

“Rory, like from The G…Gilmore girls?” she stammered.

He frowned then, as though she were speaking in tongues.

“What or who is a Gilmore Girl?” When he frowned, little creases appeared on his forehead. Cute.

“The TV show? The girl’s name is Rory. The daughter on the show. Lorelai's daughter?”

Oh ye Gawds, this is going nowhere, fast.
She was consciously aware that she was babbling and the more she tried to stop, the worse it got.

“Never heard of it,” he clipped. “Rory is an Irish boys name.”

“Oh, yes. Yes I know. It’s a nice name and it’s a good show too. The Gilmore Girls, I mean.”

He nodded slowly at her. “I’ll check it out.”

He was so not going to check it out.
She nearly groaned at the mortification of it all.

“Right,” she muttered, fidgeting.

“Cassidy is an unusual first name.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Most people call me Cass,” she shrugged.

“Pretty.”

“Huh?” She looked at him scrunching up her face.
He thinks I’m pretty?

“I said your name is pretty, Cassidy. It suits you.”

“Oh…oh thanks.
I’m an idiot!
It was my great grandmother’s maiden name, she was Irish too.”

“So we have something in common then.”

He smiled then, a big broad smile. Somewhere inside her, she envisaged her ovaries exploding and groaned internally.

“And where are you from, Cassidy? Your accent doesn’t sound like you’re from London.”

“Devon, I grew up in a small village called Ashworth.”

“Really? Nice part of the country, I’m told. And what brought you to London, Cassidy? Were you looking for something a bit more exciting than Devon?”

The way he said her name had the hairs standing on the back of her neck. His voice was gruff and deep. He had moved in closer to her. Too damn close. She had to lift her head back to meet his eyes, and could feel the hardness of his chest against her shoulder as he continued to rub Duffy’s body. Trying not to focus on the movement of his hand rubbing along the cats back, was an exercise in futility. Her breath was coming out hitched and nervous and the smell of him was intoxicating making her feel exposed, vulnerable.

“I came to London two and a half years ago to set up an art gallery with my friend

Marie and we’ve have been here ever since. I run ‘The Muse’ gallery just off Brampton Street.  Just around the corner actually.”

Cass pointed in the general area behind him not taking her eyes from his face.

“Good for you, I might drop in for a look.”
Yeah right, I won’t hold my breath.

“Cool. Anyway, I have to go, I have an appointment. It was lovely to meet you mister…umm. Rory.”

She took a step back from him.

He looked as though he wanted to continue the conversation, but Cass didn’t give him the chance. He was unsettling her, just by being so close. The artist in her kept imaging him naked, and spread out in front of her in all sorts of disgustingly elaborate, filthy poses.
Gawd, I really need to get laid!
Although, she had survived well this long without a man. Well, apart from the buzzing variety.
A girls got needs
!

And he smelled so good, like expensive cologne and lemon soap. Her eyes were wandering all over him, his crisp black shirt open at the neck revealed a smattering of dark chest hair underneath. Very distracting indeed!

Cass realised that she hadn’t in fact moved at all, she was just standing there in the same position ogling him. Something she suspected he was fairly familiar with. Giving him a ridiculous half nod, half Japanese bow and an embarrassed smile she stalked off towards the gallery, kitten in hand. She cringed and mouthed ‘
no no no no,
' the entire journey to the other side of the road. She turned around and waved quickly, then groaned when she saw the two men still staring after her. 

It was without a doubt the longest walk of her life, and she spent it wondering if her long t-shirt was even half covering her ass. First world problems.
You know how it is!
Cass marched around the corner and broke into a run when she was out of sight.

She crashed through the doors of the gallery, newly christened Duffy in hand.

The ‘Muse Gallery’ was her pride and joy, her lifesaver. If she were trying to sell its beauty to you, Cass would tell you that it sits nestled attractively in an old courtyard of shops that have been recently renovated. That she loved the beautiful white-washed limestone that adorned the outside walls. How the window boxes on the outside windowsills are filled to bursting with red, pink and blue flowering Petunias, Azaleas and Geraniums.  How the cobblestones outside the front door make you feel as though you have walked into the past, enveloping you in a nostalgic haze of warmth.  But, by far, she would tell you that the wooden window frames are her favourite thing about the outside of the gallery. That she chose the beautiful royal blue paint herself, and had driven everyone to distraction getting the tone absolutely right. Cass had insisted on that particular colour, because it reminded her of summers spent in Cornwall at the beach.

They had spent so many happy days there, dragging seaweed and seashells through their aunts summer house beside the sea. The house sat high atop the cliffs, like an ever watchful and safe presence, while the children played on the sand below. Sometimes the sheer force of its beauty would draw the eye naturally upwards to gaze upon it. Cass recalled looking up at the white-washed house with its royal blue windows and waving to her parents and aunts and uncles, who sat reading or talking above them. The safest of childhoods, the longest and sunniest of days. The best days of her life. She smiled sadly as she remembered two little children running along the shore, the sounds of their screams and laughter echoed loudly in her head. Harry and Cass, frantically splashing each other until one of them inevitably pushed the other into the sea. Happier days, before Harry had gone away. Died. Cass closed her eyes momentarily and took a long breath in through her nose. Her mother had shown her different techniques and a shitload of meditation tips, to quiet her inner self whenever the panic of Harry’s passing threatened to overwhelm and consume her. Being a twin meant you were special, it meant you were a pair. You were a part of something magical. Harry and Cass had done everything together. They had been inseparable. When Harry had died that night, the night of their twenty first birthday three years before, everything had changed. Their lives had fragmented and cracked like a broken mirror. It can be glued back together so carefully, so gently. In reality no matter how much you want it to be as perfect as it was, it can never be the same. There will always be a part that is blurry and flawed, and broken. And that was Harry and Cass. Life went on after Harry, as though he had never existed in a way. Nothing stopped, the sun still rose and set but she was different. She was changed, forever altered.

The people left behind are the mirrors, reflecting the lost part of themselves. Each life Harry had touched with his beautiful soul, were missing pieces that had been lost irreparably. Cass often wondered if she would ever be a whole person again. And then, inevitably, she realised that she didn’t want to be whole.

Does being whole also mean forgetting?
Cass refused to do that. She refused to forget the person he was, the person he made her. If she was a better person for having Harry in her life, was she somehow lessened without him?

But, Cass knew one thing for sure. Loving someone hurt. Because when that love is ripped away, it leaves a gaping wound that can never heal.
And is it better to have loved and lost?

No. It is better not to love at all.

Harry had insisted on driving his friend Matt home. Matt had been complaining of feeling sick all evening which had eventually culminated in him puking all over their mother's floor.  Always the gentleman, always the good friend the go-to-guy, Harry had offered to drop Matt the short half a mile journey home. Cass was very aware that she has begun to breathe deeply in a futile effort to stop the sting of unshed tears which always accompanied her memories of that night. The boys had stood no chance. The drunk driver had come out of nowhere, speeding on the wrong side of the road. Harry’s friend Matt had been killed instantly.

Harry had lingered on for two weeks, before they made the heart-breaking choice to let him go, donating his organs as had been his wish. He had carried an organ donor card, his parents hadn’t even been aware of it. Even in death Harry had been generous to a fault.
Oh Harry, why did you leave me here all alone?

Cass sighed and tickled the kitten under its chin, thinking about Harry never got easier, even after three years. For her parents it was a living hell and deep inside Cass knew that seeing her age and mature must be a bittersweet process for them. She had turned twenty-four last month, while Harry would always stay twenty-one. Forever frozen in time, forever young.

(
Rory)

Here’s to a long life and a merry one.

A quick death and an easy one.

A pretty girl and an honest one.

A cold pint and another one!

Irish proverb.

R
ory sat back in the car seat and put up the electric divide between himself and the driver. The sooner his friend and regular head of security Paul had returned from his two weeks leave, the better. He would move this eejit on. What a total fool of a man.

God, he was fuming at the use of a boot to shoo away the kitten, but had hidden it well. One thing Rory had learned in the world of business, was that emotions are best kept hidden.  It doesn’t pay to make scenes in public. But he itched to have a few strong words on the subject with the man in private and would do so shortly.

So, that was Cassidy Evans. The up and coming painter and artistic consultant.

Cassidy Evans, the woman he had been waiting to meet. She looked different in person, more beautiful, more alive. He put his head back on the leather seat and breathed heavily out through the side of his mouth. She was stunning. A goddess, how fitting that she would be an authority on paintings of the pre-Raphaelite artists who themselves had favoured redheaded muses. Her breasts were something else. Rory adjusted his trousers and felt the hard bulge of his erection through the material. He pressed hard against it.
Down boy, save it for later.
It had been a while since he had felt that force of reaction to a woman.
Liar, you’ve never felt even half of that
.