Riding Irish (6 page)

Eventually I gathered together a pair of black jeans, a tight black t-shirt and the closest thing to a motorcycle jacket that I owned – it was thin and if you weren’t looking too closely or feeling it with your hand, you might think it was made of leather. At least it had a few zippers on it. I wondered if Ronan would think I was mocking his lifestyle somehow with an outfit like this, but I doubted it. More likely he’d be amused that I even tried. I slipped on my boots and stood before the mirror, brushing my long hair out.

Ronan thought I was a real Irish beauty, and I had to admit that when I tried, I really looked the part. My hair was as red as it gets without using something from a bottle, and I had never had any complaints about my proportions. What counted was that Ronan thought I was beautiful. I certainly thought he was amazing, and when two people are as hot for one another as we were, there’s nothing that can keep them apart.

I checked my phone and saw that it was already getting close to seven o’clock. I needed to get some dinner along with my drink, much as I had the night before. Part of me wanted to explore further down Grey Lane before stopping at the Bleeding Hart as I’d told Ronan I would, but I had another reason for heading to the one Irish place I’d already been – I wanted more information.

That bartender certainly seemed to know what was going on, and he was friendly enough to me before they’d arrived. I figured my best bet for getting some background on Ronan and the Druids would be from him. I was falling hard for Ronan, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still cautious about his line of work.

I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder before heading out the door. It had turned into a wet, cold summer day in Dublin. After yesterday’s magnificent warmth, I could only imagine that whatever gods controlled the Irish weather had decided we were in for at least a week of dreary conditions. I was plenty used to the weather on the East coast, and Dublin’s wet conditions were hardly a shock to my system.

I started out down Grey Lane at a brisker pace than I’d traversed it the night before. I couldn’t help myself. I was in a hurry to make my way to the Bleeding Hart so I could pose my questions – and get my dinner – before Ronan arrived as he’d said. For all I knew he could be there already, and I’d just have to leave without having my curiosities about him satisfied for now.

As I approached the pub, I felt a sense of relief. At first, I was worried he might be inside, but then I noticed the distinct lack of any motorcycles parked outside, and realized that he certainly wouldn’t be travelling on foot. I stepped into the pub and it felt refreshingly familiar. The same bar stool I’d sat on the previous night was empty and so I made my way down to it. The idea of being a ‘regular’ in an Irish pub appealed to me greatly, and that all starts with sitting in a familiar place.

Bernard the bartender was busy cleaning glasses, but he set down his work to come over when he saw me.

“Evenin’, lass,” he said to me, “What’ll it be?”

“I could use a bit of dinner and a pint, thanks.”

He smiled at me and went about pouring my pint. I’d never been much of a drinker but I got the feeling that while I was in Ireland, I had better get used to having beer with every meal. He set the beer down in front of me and lingered for a moment.

“Talia will be right out with some dinner for ye,” he said.

“Thanks,” I replied, before adding, “It’s Bernard, right?”

“Aye, that
it is. And if ye don’t mind me
easedroppin, yer name is Catrina.”

“Guilty as charged,” I told him with a smile. “Say, Bernard, could you tell me anything about those bikers who were in here last night – the Druids?”

He lowered his eyes from me for a moment before shaking his head. “I thought ye might be asking ‘round about them. I saw ye were getting mighty close with Ronan
las’ night.”

I blushed slightly. Bernard hadn’t seen the full extent of what had transpired between Ronan and
I
, so I wasn’t too ashamed to sit before him, but I’m sure he could guess what had happened to me over the past 24 hours.

“Th’ Druids are a rough bunch of lads, I won’t lie to ye. That Ronan, he’s their leader, as much as a crowd like that has a leader. His pappy, Donald, he was the one that founded their gang, but he died years back and Ronan’s been at the helm ever since. Donald and I knew each other from way back, and I was always glad to have the Druids around the place, back in the old days.”

I inferred his meaning easily. To confirm my suspicions, I asked, “But not these days?”

He shook his head again. “Back when Ronan was just a wee baby, his da formed
th’ Druids as a way to spend time wit his mates and see th
’ countryside, nothing more. Over the years, they mostly decided that having regular jobs like us plain folks was no good, and so they stuck to just riding. Ye have to pay the bills somehow though, and when ye look like
th’ Druids do, that means trouble.”

“What kind of trouble? What is it that they do, exactly?”

“I’m not sure it’s my place to be tellin’ you their business, lass, but I’ve got a feeling that you need a push in the right direction.”

I began to get concerned. If even an old friend of the Druids was trying to steer me away from them, they must be tied up in some really nasty business.

“Th’ Druids ain’t
criminals like you might think of them. They don’t go around
robbin’ banks and stealin’ purses. So whatever you might think of them, know that you’ll never have to fear that sort of ‘ting from ‘em
. Still, when things that shouldn’t be sold move into our corner o’ Dublin, it’s the Druids who do the
movin
’. When one gang needs some muscle to take on another,
th’ Druids do the flexin’. They’re a rowdy bunch, and they’re fighters – each and every one o’ them.”

I sat back on my stool and considered my beer for a long while. “Thank you, Bernard, I’ll keep it in mind,” I told him, and he returned to polishing glasses behind the bar. I had learned a lot, but somehow my feelings on the matter hadn’t changed. I knew that Ronan was a dangerous man already. I had seen his scars and knew that he wasn’t one to stay out of a fight. The one thought I kept returning to in my mind was that these were men of honor. Sure, they might be mixed up in all manner of illegal business, but they lived by a code. They weren’t out to hurt anyone, so far as I could tell. Violence was never the
goal,
it was simply the tool that was used to achieve other ends. Maybe I was deluding myself with such a broad rationalization of their behavior. Maybe I should have headed out of the pub right away, grabbed my bags from my house and spent the rest of my stay in Ireland in a hotel. Instead, I sipped my beer and waited for my dinner to arrive.

After another heaping plate of roast, potatoes and a few odd vegetables, I was feeling much fuller and even more enthusiastic about my new companion. Whatever else he might be, Ronan was charming and I considered myself thoroughly charmed. I contented myself with that thought and enjoyed the last of my beer. I listened closely to the street outside the
pub, waiting for the sound that I knew would come at any minute.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the unmistakable sound of a motorcycle engine roared into earshot. I silently prayed that it wouldn’t drive right by – that it was Ronan, here to whisk me away. When I heard the bike pull up outside, I had to hold my hands in my lap to stop from endlessly fidgeting. The door of the pub swung open, but I kept myself facing straight ahead. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him as he strolled into the bar. Ronan was finally here.

He waved to Bernard who was reaching for a glass and said, “Not tonight, Bernard, I’m on my way out.” My heart sank in my chest. Maybe he was just here to tell me that he had something more important to do. He wasn’t going to stay for a beer, and that shot my idea of our second perfect evening together straight to pieces. He walked over and I turned to him with a smile.

“Hello, Ronan,” I said in a steady voice.

“Hello, yourself, Cat,” he responded, his face breaking into his trademark grin. I might be the one being called cat, but he was practically Cheshire in his predictable facial expressions. “Finished with your dinner? I hope you got a good bit o’ rest today.”

“Yes, thank you,” I told him, “I hope you got a bit yourself.”

“Never enough, it seems, but I’m fit to ride. Will you come with me? I’ve got something I’d like to show
ye.”

My heart sprang in my chest once again. I had been so worried that Ronan was going to be riding off without me that I hadn’t considered the reason for his short visit to the Bleeding Hart was that he was taking me along! I grabbed my purse without a word and stood. He grinned and waved to Bernard as we walked out.

It was another cool summer night in Dublin. The streets were shining and slick with a brief rain that had come and gone in the evening. An aura of heat was still rising from Ronan’s bike as he mounted it to ride once more. I hopped on the back like I’d done it a thousand times and hugged my
thighs around him. This felt comfortable and familiar now. Without waiting for him to ask it of me, I put my hands around his chest and held tight.

“Don’t ye want to ask where we’re going?” he said.

I smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” I told him, “wherever we go, I’m just glad to be along for the ride.”

He laughed a little and revved the engine. Without another word, the streets of Dublin were flying beneath the bike once more. This time we rode out of the city in the opposite direction from where we’d gone the night before. We went by my house even, and I strained my neck for a moment to stare at it. Nearby I could see old couples staring out the windows at the loud motorcycle as it went by. I had my cottage in the suburbs, but did I really want the life that went with it? Ronan would never settle down in a place like that with me. More and more I was realizing that I never wanted to settle for that kind of life either. There was excitement in the open road – more than I’d ever known in my sleepy life in Baltimore.

Soon the houses gave way to more and more farmland. While my first trip out of Dublin had given me a sight of the hills surrounding the area, here things were flat as far as the eye could see. It was strange to think that this exciting and dangerous man was also responsible for showing me such pastoral beauty. The quiet calm of the Irish countryside was as much as part of him as the bike and the jacket, but it was a great contrast to those trappings of crime and violence.

We rode for close to an hour before he pointed off ahead of us, presumably to our destination. It was a farmhouse that looked much like the other dozens of farmhouses we’d passed since leaving Dublin. Even at a distance, lights were visible in the windows. It looked large and old. I saw a glint of something shiny out front, but couldn’t make it out at first. As we got closer, I realized it was a long line of motorcycles. It appears I’d finally been invited to see the club house. This was where the Druids spend their time together.

We pulled up and Ronan parked the bike in a vacant spot just in front of the door of the house. I supposed that must be one of the perks of being the leader. Now that I saw it up close, the house was much larger than others along the road. Its size was somewhat hidden by the trees that lay about the property. Still, it retained some of the charm of a small Irish cottage. It may not have been decorated with doilies, but there are some similarities that even an Irish biker gang wouldn’t want to shake away.

He opened the door wide and held it for me. I stepped inside and was presented with a scene very different from the small cottage exterior that the farmhouse suggested. Just inside the door was the end of a long bar. Scattered around the room were tables and chairs with bikers in them. It was a wonder that they bothered to stop in at the Bleeding Hart when they had what seems to be a fully functional bar waiting for them at home. I suppose sometimes you just have to stop for a drink on the road.

Behind the bar, a thin man with a thick mustache raised a glass to Ronan as we walked in. Around the room a couple of other bikers said something in greeting, though the words were indecipherable.

“Welcome to the clubhouse,” Ronan said. “It’s not much, but
it’s home.”

“Is it – I mean, do you live here?” I asked.

“I have a flat in town, but I keep a room here as well. Most of us do.” He kicked at an easy chair with a man sleeping in it as we walked past on the way to the bar, saying, “
Some
of us just never seem to leave.” I didn’t pretend to understand the reference, but smiled all the same.

We stepped up to the bar and he patted a stool next to him. I sat down and he went around the bar to get us some drinks. The mustachioed man wasn’t a
bartender,
it seems, but just another Druid who happened to be back there when we came in. Without asking my preference, Ronan poured me a pint and another one for himself.

“You look good back there. Ever consider a career as a bartender?” I asked with a wink.

“Hah, never,” he said, “The bartender’s life is a wee bit too dangerous for me!”

With a laugh we drank our pints and relaxed a bit after the ride. My body was still unused to being on a bike all the time, and my muscles were sore after only an hour of riding. The atmosphere in the clubhouse was relaxing and pleasant and despite being somewhere new and far from home, I wasn’t feeling the same anxiety that had been my constant companion since arriving in Dublin.

Ronan set his pint down on the bar and said, “I have to go check on something. I’ll be back shortly. Don’t let the boys scare you, they’re harmless.” He winked and knocked once on the bar before stepping away and going through a door. I just smiled at him as he went and took another sip of my beer.