I turned, taking in the gentleman that faced me. Tall, well dressed, raven hair, clean shaven, polite, arms that looked like he worked out almost too much. I knew who he was straight away, even in the semi darkness of the street. “And may I ask why Mr Adrian Sparks, lead singer of The Pumpkin Spices and all too famous Irish bestselling artist, wanta to take some random stranger for a drink?” I asked coldly. “I am far too old for Cinderella stories and not too stupid to not know who you are. I already did the whole best friend with an artist bullcrap. I am not eager to put myself through it again. So, kindly take your self-righteous, famous asshole attitude and go fuck yourself. I am fine.”
Adrian sighed. “Look, the Liffey will still be here in the morning should you still feel like throwing yourself in. Why don’t ye give me tonight to see if I can change your attitude towards ‘stars’, which I honestly don’t blame ye for having one. Most of us are total assholes, but I like to think I am not like that. If I can’t, I won’t stop you from leaving. But at least allow me to try and show you that some of us aren’t alcoholic, drug addicted, sex addicted scumbags that would sell out their own mother for a joint. Please.”
It was the please that stuck in my mind, he would never have been so polite, nor would he have cared if he found me in this kind of state. Not anymore. And what exactly did I have left to lose? I was already broken far beyond any form of putting myself back together again. “Fine,” I snapped. “One drink only and then I am leaving.”
Adrian offered his arm like a true gentleman. “I know the perfect place. It’s just a few streets away.”
If only I knew what I was getting myself into at that moment. The choices I would make because of that one acceptance of a drink. Would I still have taken his arm, or would I have jumped? Would he have jumped in to save me? I would never know. But, for now at least, I had my Irish Prince Charming.
Chapter 2
I sat awkwardly at a corner table, swilling around a half-drunk pint of cider. Half listening to some tourist caterwauling her way through some old girl band song. “If I wanted bad karaoke, I could have stayed in England,” I commented drily.
“Look, I know this isn’t the grandest of bars. Hell I can’t stand the tourist nights when they throw it open as karaoke, not open mic bands. However, it was the closest. I figured ye might run off if I tried to take ye any further away. Personally, I would much rather be listening to some ‘real’ music. This burns my ears,” he commented quietly staring at his barely touched pint of Guinness.
I sipped from the drink, staring around the bar taking everything in. I loved to people-watch, but one thing bothered me. “Why do none of them notice?”
He looked confused, like we skipped over two pages and he had lost the thread of our conversation. “Notice what?”
“Who you are. Why do they say nothing? In England you would be swarmed with people asking for autographs and photos.”
He laughed. “Darling, this is Dublin. No one gives a shit about who ye are. It is only the odd tourist who notices me. In fact, there is a rumour that some ‘big artists’ refuse to come here because they do not get bothered by fans. Or at least, the tour guides in town tell the story. Now, my dear, just relax or at least go and give us a song. I am sure ye have a lovely voice.” As the singer went off key again, he winced. “Ye certainly couldn’t be any worse.”
I went pale, taking a much bigger swig. “I can’t, I drank now, it’s impossible.” He stared at me waiting for a real answer. “I might be flat, no, never mix singing and alcohol. Ruins the pitch of your voice. Have to be perfect.”
He grabbed his pint before downing it and slamming the empty glass down on the table so hard that it nearly cracked. He spat the next few words out with a clear distaste. “Who. Ever. Told. You. That. You. Have. To. Be. Perfect?”
Feeling scared for the first time in his company, I finished my own drink also before placing the glass down more carefully. I couldn’t meet his gaze; it was time to leave. “You can fill in the blanks.”
“Outside, right now,” he snapped slamming out the door.
Grabbing my coat and bag, I followed silently. I felt tears threatening to fall as I waited for whatever came next. Which would no doubt lead me back to the Liffey. My first instinct already was to run from him. I stood there shivering, too nervous to even put my coat on in case it enraged him further. “I am sorry, sir, for whatever I did wrong.” My eyes to the floor, angry men terrified me from my abused past.
“Listen here and listen good, woman,” he snapped. “Music is not about being perfect. It is about the vibe, the atmosphere, the connection to the audience, the whole experience of the event. And if ye fuck it up, so fucking what? You are human, deal with it. Whatever that man said to ye, he was a fucking fool that knows nothing about music. I’m fairly sure his whole sum of knowledge could fit on a postage stamp and what he doesn’t could fill the halls of Trinity College! Now, ye are going to damn well come with me and unlearn all
