2. THE QUEST
2
THE QUEST
JACK
A s he’d been doing for the last two weeks, Jack put on his sweats, grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys, and took Trixie the cockapoo out for their late morning run. Every time he even looked at the front door, she stared at him with big, sad eyes. It was purely a ruse for sympathy. The minute Jack touched the leash, she jumped up and pawed at his legs with excited little yaps. He sighed.
“Come on.”
They took the run, Trixie’s face fixed with a goofy grin the whole time like it was the Best Thing Ever! She was just as enthusiastic when she ran into another pup or when she lunged after a lady on a bike. Her favorite thing was to suddenly try to break loose from his hold on the leash and run into traffic before he scooped her up. Jack ignored the laughter of the onlooking almost-teens who should have been in class. He heard them giggling, something about his size compared to the dog.
Little cunts. At times like those, he was almost glad he wasn’t a dad and probably wouldn’t be at this point.
“I can’t wait till your mother gets back and gets you off my arse,” he muttered. Trixie was his mother Dierdre’s puppy and his “house guest” while she and his stepfather Bran were on vacation in Spain. Trixie barked a laugh at him.
Before they went in, Jack let her sniff around the bushes near his house to give her a chance for another piss. He loved days like this anyway, somewhat overcast with the crisp autumn air fresh in his lungs. Unfortunately, before they could get back inside the handsome white stone house, a woman accosted them.
“Oh, how adorable are you?” she crooned to Trixie, who did a little dance routine on her hind legs and preened under the attention. “And the same could go for her daddy.” The woman batted her lashes at Jack while he scowled.
“She’s not my dog,” he said, bristling. This happened every fucking time he took Trixie out. He knew some men used their dogs to get this sort of feminine attention, but not him. “And I’ve no interest in being anybody’s daddy .” His hard tone finally made the woman blink and step back with a faltering smile.
“Arsehole,” he heard her mutter under her breath as she stiffly walked away.
With satisfaction, he grinned at her retreating figure and took Trixie back indoors. That’s when he noticed the living room area rug. One whole corner was torn into strips. Apparently, his house was one giant chew toy as far as she was concerned.
“Look what you did to the rug,” he exclaimed, holding up the shredded remains. Trixie grinned, tail wagging furiously, seeming very pleased with her work. It was his fault; he’d forgotten to put her in her crate like Dierdre had instructed while he’d had his protein shake in the kitchen. “You are going to the kennel when I’m at that dryshite party. Save the big eyes for someone else.”
His next order of business was a weight workout in his home gym. Dierdre had handled the renovation when he’d bought the place, and a gym was at the top of his list of must-haves. It had a big, beautiful glass wall that faced his leafy, enclosed backyard. It was outfitted with top-of-the-line training equipment. It was also soundproofed to cover the clinking of the chains when he pounded the heavy bag. Also useful for muffling the thumping bass of hip-hop and loud guitar riffs and drum solos of hard rock.
After the workout came his protein-packed breakfast and a shower. As he stood under the hot spray, two topics chased each other in a loop in his head. First, the calls he’d been receiving offering him a new contract for a title fight with the number one ranked contender in the league. The second: the invitation he’d received a month ago, requesting his presence at the FitzGerald’s Samhain Ball at their country estate.
The offer to fight hadn’t been a surprise. Even though it had been five years since he’d vacated the title, he was still approached occasionally about getting back into the octagon. This fight would be against Derek “The Demon” La Roque, pronounced like “La Rock”(but not to be confused with THE Rock), hailing from New York City. Early thirties, brash. Strong. Jack had already said no, but this time, for some reason, the thought wouldn’t leave his head.
The other invitation…now that was the real surprise. He’d never received an invite from uber-wealthy Simon FitzGerald before. He’d RSVP’d yes, despite his reluctance to go. Jack hated balls and high society parties. These affairs were Craic Black Holes, places where fun went to die. But there were deep pockets at balls, money that would fund the charity that paid to keep the lights on at his gym, so he was going. Even if it meant he had to find a date to evade another “offer” from Clarissa FitzGerald, Simon’s wife.
He wasn’t interested in her. Wouldn’t have been even if she was single.
Jack didn’t date, period.
He’d resigned himself to quick, discreet hook-ups with exes when the urge to fuck got too strong. Even those encounters were only with exes who lived in other countries and could be counted on never to show up at his door. Getting serious with a woman was something he didn’t see happening anytime soon. Probably never.
The “temps” he’d contacted as his potential date had all been busy or announced they’d met someone permanent, which meant he’d have to come up with someone new. While she was doing drills with another student, he’d overheard one of the girls who trained at the gym mention meeting someone on a dating app. Something about holiday hook-ups, a no-strings thing.
Sounded ideal for his purposes since he had no intention of doing more than showing up at the ball to collect potential donations. The problem was the party was an overnight affair. Most women might assume that meant something was going to happen, but he was firm on one point: there would be no sucking, no fucking, no penetration of any kind. No drama.
He put up a profile under his biological father’s last name. If word got out he was on an app, he’d say that JCarr fella had stolen his picture and lied. Didn’t men do that all the time on these things?
Jack had been on four dates so far to vet a potential companion. All total busts. They very obviously wanted more than a platonic night out, so he’d said, “Thank you for your time,” and ended it on the spot.
And speaking of dates and women and no fucking, it was about that time when it was getting harder to go without. He’d never pretended to be a saint. On the contrary. He loved to fuck. If it was the right woman…
As he ran his hand down the flat of his stomach to his thighs, he soaped up his balls slowly, squeezing them and then grasping his cock in his fist. With his head under the hot spray, he jacked it leisurely at first, making long swooping motions up and down. He paused every now and then to rub his thumb over the slit of his head, then continued the glide. While he worked his cock with steady strokes, he closed his eyes and pictured the third thing that was never far from his mind. The person that he couldn’t get out of his head, even though her permanent rent-free residence there made no fucking sense.
After five years, after all this time, he still thought about her every day. Her . His angel. Out there somewhere in the world, but also here, in his head, in his body. In his blood.
“Penny…” He groaned her name while the movement of his fist got faster until his shower-wet cock couldn’t get any harder, until it twitched and spurted, splashing his cum on the porcelain beneath his feet. He drew out the sensation for as long he could, still strangling it until every last drop of pleasure had been wrung out of him.
Those five years of imaginary sex and staring at videos of Penny Mayfield singing was the longest relationship he’d ever had.
Within the hour, he was at the gym. It was in the old neighborhood, which wasn’t that far from the new, more upscale one he’d inhabited since his finances had improved. It was on the North side, the type of place tourists anxiously asked if they should avoid when visiting Dublin. The answer was always emphatically “Yes.” But it was home to the boys and girls who needed this gym. Kids who needed a chance to do more with their lives and focus their energies on something positive, like he was blessed to have had when he was young.
Jack went to the main floor of the gym where the boys and a handful of girls were doing their warm-ups or weight training. Two of the eldest students were in the ring, wrapping their hands and pulling on bigger boxing gloves for a sparring session. Sampson Chin and Doolie Adeyemi. Awesome fighters. If these boys kept up their pace, it was likely they’d both start in the amateur fight league within the year.
Jack studied them and called out his reminders for their sparring session. “Alright, fellas, remember what I said. Watch those elbows, Sampson. And Doolie, if I see you go for Sampson’s bollocks or anywhere near them, you’re out till next week. Remember, it’s us against the world, gentlemen. Get to it.”
Sampson nodded curtly and Doolie rolled his eyes and grinned. The two met in the middle of the ring and tapped gloves, then began circling each other, waiting for an opening.
While watching them, Charlie spoke up. “What’s this I’m hearing about a title fight and a new contract?”
Charlie’s cauliflower ear had taken many a hit over the years, but that didn’t stop him from hearing all the league gossip the minute it dropped.
“Derek ‘The Demon’ La Roque,” Jack said the nickname with a sarcastic eyebrow lift. “Ranked number one. I wasn’t going to mention it, but Trent contacted me last week. Says they want me back for a title shot.”
The current titleholder, an American, was retiring and vacating the title like Jack had done. The speculation on who might replace him was the talk of the MMA world. Of all the contenders, La Roque was ranked highest with eight straight KOs. Trent Jameson, league representative, wouldn’t explain why the other top contenders weren’t willing to get in the cage with him.
A deeper, more thoughtful frown settled on Charlie’s wizened face with his sallow-toned skin. He folded his arms, staring at the boys in the ring who had paused to pull out their mouthguards for sips of water.
“What’s with the water? You fellas barely worked up a sweat,” Charlie chastised them loudly. Then, lowering his voice, he returned to the conversation. “La Roque. Huh. Why do they want you?”
Shrugging, Jack rubbed his jaw with his thumb. “I don’t know. Probably just going through the archives until they get someone to agree.”
“I’ve watched some of his fights. He’s got almost no technique. It’s all destruction. You said no, of course.”
That nicked Jack’s pride a bit. After his mother and Bran Valentine, Charlie had been his biggest supporter since Jack’s first day at his gym.
“You don’t think I could win?” Jack asked quietly.
Charlie stood up straighter, jutting his chin. He looked exactly like Popeye the Sailor when he did that.
“You’ll always be the champ in my eyes, son. You can do anything you put your mind to. I know you’ve been low since—”
“I haven’t been low,” Jack murmured with irritation.
“You have. But you know why you can’t get back in that cage. So shut yer mouth and get back to yer job. Training these lads so they can get their shot.”
Jack shrugged off the discomfort he felt at his mentor’s words and chided, “And the girls, Charlie. Don’t forget the girls. It’s not 1802 anymore.”
“Don’t be fresh with me, ya gombeen. I’m not too old to knock you into next week for yer sass.” Charlie went back to the ring and groused to the boys, “Alright, alright. Let’s get serious, lads. Work harder.”
Jack went into his office, trying not to be disturbed by Charlie’s apparent lack of belief that he could beat La Roque in the cage if that’s what he wanted. He could do a fair bit of damage if he amped up his workouts to get his full conditioning back and honed his diet to eat totally clean…
“Fuck that,” Jack muttered. He had more immediate problems to focus on, like finding a goddamned date for the goddamned ball.
He checked emails quickly, then picked up his phone and braced himself when he saw he had a message, someone with the username Rosie345. He hadn’t recalled “liking” or even seeing her profile before, but oh well, he’d have a look.
And immediately, his head went for a spin.
“Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.”
It couldn’t be her. Jack squinted at the phone, cursing himself for leaving his reading glasses at home out of pure vanity. As if everyone would believe he had the eyes of a twelve-year-old even though he was fucking forty-three.
He answered her back, squinting harder at the small print, his heart pounding during the entire chat. When it was over, and plans were made, he sat back in his swivel office chair and laughed up at the ceiling with disbelief.
He had a date with Penny Mayfield. His dream woman. It couldn’t be true, could it? He had to be hallucinating. Jack got up from his chair and went out to the floor of the gym.
“Do me a favor. Slap me,” he told Charlie, who shrugged and gave him a solid whack across the cheek.
Looking down at the app, he smiled. Rosie345 was still there.
When Jack woke the next morning, he was sure once again that the conversation with Rosie345 had been a dream. There was just no way. But he checked his phone, and yeah, still there.
He kept checking the phone several times over the course of the morning as he got dressed for the meet up to make sure she wasn’t cancelling on him. All the while, he was working hard to keep his expectations in check in case he was mistaken, and Rosie345 was not who he hoped she was.
During his first arduous months of recovery after the coma, he’d had plenty of time on his hands. Time enough to split between physical therapy and making Penny his research project, courtesy of the world wide web.
Penelope Rose Mayfield was her full name. She’d been born and raised in Owenville, New York by her parents Judge Russell Mayfield and Erica Mayfield. Small town girl from a good family.
Young Penny was a musical prodigy who played a variety of stringed instruments. Attended Julliard to study classical violin. At twenty-five, she’d married her childhood sweetheart Brendan Shaughnessy, who was also her partner in music. The duo performed with two other artists in their band Thorny Rose.
Jack should have stopped caring when he realized what he’d witnessed in that American Roots video wasn’t just two performers at the top of their game. It was a husband staring at his wife with pure adoration written all over his face. It made Jack feel fucking guilty, lusting for her.
After the realization that she was married, Jack stopped researching further. He didn’t want to know about their lives together, didn’t want to see birth announcements of the children they might have had. But he’d still bought their four albums and played them on rotation maybe a thousand times, making his physical therapist so sick of “that hillbilly music” she’d begged Jack to play something else during their many sessions.
He’d downloaded her old photos — the ones without Brendan in them. The ones with Brendan? The jealousy that rose in him whenever he looked at the blond man was too ugly, so he cropped him out, feeling like an evil, pathetic bastard every time. He kept all the photos on his phone in a buried folder.
Was this fantasy relationship easier to handle than the real thing? Possibly.
Was it weird that he jerked off to those pictures? Perhaps.
Was it obsessive?
He didn’t want to answer that.
That American Roots public access TV performance had been a few years old by the time he’d seen it from his hospital bed. She’d been much younger, much thinner, like a reed. In this new photo, her dark chestnut features were still glowing and smooth. She had the same pretty velvet brown eyes, the same straight bridge, and delicate round nose. Her lips were full and perfect. It was her body that had undergone the most change. It had thickened all over in ways that made her even sexier. An infinitely intriguing and oh so much sexier woman.
But if this was her, after all, on a dating app, that meant she was somehow single. And the possibilities of what that could lead to were making his head swim.
“It can’t be her. Why would she be on an app looking for a date?” he mused aloud, still unable to believe this could be real.
He resisted the immediate impulse to go online and find out if she and Brendan were divorced. If she was still married and out looking to cheat, it was against his personal code of conduct to fuck around with other men’s wives or even girlfriends. But would he make an exception to that rule for Penny Mayfield?
Yes. Fuck yes. To hell with honor or his soul if it meant even an hour sitting with her over coffee.
Jack showered, shaved, and threw on a sweater, jeans, and a pair of fresh black runners he so happened to be endorsing.
“In ya go, muppet,” he told Trixie and got her into her crate. She yapped and howled at him. “Stop. You’ll live.” But it made him feel a little badly just the same. As he left the house and locked the door, he muttered, “Deirdre better come back soon.”
He drove to the city center, pulled up, and found a spot at the appointed place right at the appointed time. Across the street was the statue of Mollie Malone, the infamous Tart with the Cart, the likeness of an 18 th -century cailín who’d sold fish during the day out of a cart and was rumored to sell other more personal wares at night. Everyone who came to Dublin visited her at least once during their stay. If Rosie345 was, in fact, not his Penny, she could be a born-and-bred Dub like him. Either way, he figured she’d know where to go.
Clusters of people were gathered around the statue, taking selfies or group photos and grinning. He scanned them as he got out of the car and locked it with his key fob. As he crossed the street, he noticed one woman standing off to the side, facing the small crowd. He saw a flash of her profile. Dark brown skin, that same big halo of hair. It had to be her.
In the photo, she’d been wearing a summery dress that was blowing in the wind. Today she wore a brown jacket that pulled tight over generous breasts and blue jeans. Those jeans, goddamn them, showcased wide, luscious hips, long legs with thick thighs that could keep a man wrapped up warm and happy, and a round ass that literally stopped him in his tracks.
A horn blared. “What are ya doing, eejit? Get yer Jolly Green Giant arse out of the feckin’ road!” someone shouted at him, startling him out of the sudden high-heat fantasy of gripping those hips while he poured every last drop of himself inside her. Planted his seed in her. He could practically feel the warmth of her skin, taste it.
Jack hurried across and onto the sidewalk, unsure if it was to save his own arse from getting run over or to reach her faster. She’d turned at the disturbance of the horn and the cussing. Recognized him, but instead of her smile growing bigger, a small frown of confusion pulled down her shapely lips, painted with a dark cherry color that he immediately wanted to kiss and lick off.
Looking around, the wrinkle of confusion deepened between her eyebrows until her gaze settled on him again. Jack halted just sort of touching distance, tongue-tied, his whole body on fire.
“JCarr? What — what are you doing here?” she asked, and when he heard her voice, his whole world shifted.
It was definitely her. No doubt about it now. It was Penny Mayfield. The nightingale who’d lured him out of two months of darkness with her voice. The one who’d thrown him a lifeline back to the world with a song. The angel.
His angel.
His.