Chapter 7
Rhiannon
Ismooth out my dress and head back out into the bar where my orgasm knight in blue jeans, and an olive green henley, is sitting at the bar sipping on a fresh pint of Guinness with the same resting scowl face he had before I dragged him into the bathroom.
He’s rubbing idly at his thigh with one hand, while scrolling his phone with the other. Did he hurt himself? I was so focused on getting myself over the line that I didn’t think about the fact we were doing a little cardio in a confined space. Did he bang into something other than me?
I’m definitely going to have bruises from the sink and the door handle…
To my surprise, no one looks at me with confusion on their face, or asks where the fuck I’ve been for the last, however long I’ve been gone.
They’re all chatting away rightly. On the table in front of where I was sitting is the to-do list I made with my sisters, and number one, fuck a stranger, has been struck through with bright red lipstick.
Oh no.
They know.
My body heats from the outside in. As soon as I slink into the seat, Clíodhna nudges me with her knee. “Feel better?”
Aoife runs her finger around the rim of her glass. “I bet she bloody does. Getting railed by that beast of a hottie in the bathroom would make anyone feel better.” Her eyes sparkle as she pins me with a firm stare and wiggling eyebrows. “Unless he was shit. Was he shit?”
It’s Matthew who answers for me, pointing at my sizzling hot cheeks.
“He wasn’t shit. Look at her face; she’s always had an awful poker face.
” He grins before reaching over and patting my hand.
“Good for you, Rhi. We will, of course, expect all the sordid, dirty details about the size and skill of his dick when you catch your breath.” Now he’s waggling his brows at me too.
Fuck’s sake, I’m surrounded by teenagers.
I don’t even know the man’s name, but he’s sitting over there enjoying a blissfully quiet pint while I’m here getting interrogated about his girthy dick.
I mean, I’m not, yet. But it’s in the post. I bet I have less than sixty seconds before someone asks what his dick was like.
I fight a giggle. Not only did I not get his name, I also didn’t even see his dick. If I chose to describe what it was like, it would all be from memory of how it felt both through his trousers and inside my body.
My thighs clench at the memory. Part of me wishes I’d dragged his arse out of the pub and into the car.
Since I share a house with Arsehole George and he hasn’t had long enough to clear out his crap, there’s a real chance my ex would have walked in with some rando balls deep in me in our pre-marital bed. Woulda served the cunt right.
A weary sigh threatens to siphon off some of the post-sex euphoria simmering in my veins.
As much as getting revenge has been very appealing for the last twelve weeks, I can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it?
What point would it serve? The look on his face at the top of that room, facing everyone who wanted to cut his balls off and throw them in the sea… That was reward enough, no?
Part of me wanted to get my own back because, as the eldest sister, I’ve spent my whole life “being the bigger person,” and for once, it felt like it might be fun to not be that person.
As it turns out, that whole showing-him-up-at-the-wedding thing was exhausting, and I’m not sure George is worth the energy anymore.
I don’t say anything out loud, however, because I already know the answer from everyone at the table. Fuck that guy.
Aoife points at my hand that Matthew’s still holding. “Matt, let’s hope she washed those hands.”
Matthew jerks back from me and releases my hand before dramatically wiping his palm on this thigh.
“I love you, Rhiannon Morrigan, but I don’t need your bodily fluids on me.
Or his for that matter.” He tips his head in the direction of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Even More Handsome sat frowning into his pint.
I roll my eyes, heaving out an equally dramatic sigh. “Right, cause the worst thing you’ve ever had on your hands is my bodily fluids. I think not, Councilor Murphy.”
Clíodhna snorts. “She’s not wrong, Matty. You probably had your hands in far worse last weekend.”
He flares his nostrils like we’re onto something but holds up his hand. “This isn’t about me, Morrigan sisters. It’s about Rhiannon and her bathroom booty call.”
“You look far more relaxed than you did before you went to the loo,” Aoife notes before taking a drink. “Your shoulders were up at your ears, and now they’re not. You have a neck again.”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Aha.” Clíodhna’s pointing at me again. “So, you did kiss.”
And a lot more than that…
The pulse between my legs grows stronger, but squeezing my thighs together does little to salve the ache that man’s cock has left there.
Matthew grunts. “She more than kissed. Want me to go ask him? He’s sitting right there.”
I groan, covering my face with both my palms. They would, too. They wouldn’t think anything of swarming the poor, helpless stranger at the bar and giving him the third degree about banging me in the bathroom.
Glaring at all of them, I widen my eyes, trying to be as threatening as I can manage. “Can we not do this here? He can hear you.”
“Did he make you come, Rhi? That’s really all we need to know.
” Aoife has never been good with boundaries or keeping her indoor voice at an indoor level.
As the youngest child, she seems to have free rein to just blurt out whatever the hell comes to mind without a second thought about who it might impact.
I roll my lips together, biting down on them so I don’t let out an inappropriate noise at the memory of him playing with my clit, or his balls slapping off me as I white-knuckled the sink.
I definitely don’t look over in his direction to see if he’s pretending not to hear me getting the third degree.
“Oh my.” Clíodhna picks up one of the cardboard coasters and fans herself with it. “Yes, yes. He totally did.”
Since I’m not getting away from this conversation any time soon, maybe giving them a little information will get them to shut the fuck up and leave me alone. I hold up two fingers, not saying a word, but it’s enough for my traitorous sisters and best friend to whoop and holler.
So much for getting them to shut up, it’s only gone and made them rowdier.
There’s no way Handsome Man isn’t looking at me. I feel his amused stare on my face as my sisters exchange high fives, and my best friend leans over the table to pinch both my cheeks.
I hate them all and want the ground to swallow me. Risking a glance over in the man’s direction, my eyes lock with his. He arches a brow, and I offer him the most apologetic look I can give him while my face is literally so hot it feels sunburned.
“We need to buy that man another pint.” Matthew makes a move to stand, but Aoife clamps a hand on his forearm.
“The fuck you will.”
The noise around the table simmers down while Aoife eyeballs the phone on the table as it lights up with an alert. She thumbs the screen. The more she reads, the bigger her eyes get and the more color drains from her face.
“Oh, God. Rhi.” She looks at me, her eyes swimming with fear and sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”
Sorry? What’s she sorry for?
“Has George done something else? Has the social media circus gotten worse?”
She nods. “The two posts have totally blown up, but there’s more, and it’s not George.”
“Not George? Then… who?”
Aoife casts a wary glance toward the bar, and other than a subtle warning bell tinkling in the back of my mind, I’m still not on the same page as she is.
“Before I hand this to you, please keep in mind we are surrounded by people, and your reaction is going to be seen, okay?”
Irritation scratches my skin like a cluster of tiny needles. I don’t like where this is going. I don’t like that I’m in public, sitting when I’m about to see whatever this is. I’m hardly inconspicuous, I’m sitting half cut in a wedding dress in a pub, during the day.
I nod, and she hands me her phone.
As I accept it from her, I find the three birds tattooed on my left collarbone and trace them with my fingers. Sometimes it can help to keep me grounded, but as soon as my eyes land on the Larne Gazette’s top headline, my stomach clenches. There’s no way to ground myself right now.
“Scrum and Done: Bride Bolts, Bounces Back with Bar Snog!”
“Wow. They really nailed it with the click-baity headline, didn’t they?” Clíodhna clucks her tongue.
Turns out, I’d read it out loud for the whole table to hear.
Under the headline, there’s a picture of me kissing the face off the mystery man right before I dragged him into the bathroom.
Fuck. I hadn’t even thought that someone might be here watching or might take a picture of me.
I’d just come here, thrown back some gin, and launched myself at the first, unsuspecting hottie I found.
How very responsible of me.
I swallow down a groan.
Second to our older brother, Taranis, I’m usually the most conscientious one in the room. And sometimes, even his stupid boy brain makes him do stupid boy things, so there are times when I’m the adultiest adult of all of us.
Except now. Now my face heats as I skim a paragraph recounting my wedding to the people of Larne and suggesting I might have left George at the altar for the dark-haired man at the bar.
“Oh… fuck.” Matthew speaks next. He turns his phone around. It’s the website of the Larne Chronicle, and this time the headline makes every drop of blood in my body rush to my toes.
“Runaway Bride Scores with Local Sports Journalist.”
He’s not just any journalist either. The name, Robert McAllister, is a name that’s graced social media for the last few months. He’s the reporter who cast a light on the dark underbelly of rugby, who relentlessly pursued a doping scandal in the ranks of Northern Irish rugby.
He’s the man who doggedly pursued my father and older brother, looking for evidence of them both being involved, too.
And he just had his dick inside me.