Saving 6: Boys of Tommen #3
Saving 6: Part 5 – Chapter 35

DECEMBER 23RD 2003

AOIFE

“YOU KNOW, you don’t have to buy me a present this year, babe,” Paul announced, as he sat across the table from me at The Dinniman, after the lunchtime rush on Tuesday. It was two days to Christmas, and we had been up the walls at work all morning. “All I want for Christmas is—“

“Don’t even go there,” I warned, reaching across the table to clamp a hand over his mouth. “Seriously, Paul, I have less than two minutes of my lunch break left until I have to get back out there. I have no intention of using them to fight with you.”

He threw his hands up. “Who’s fighting?”

“Us,” I shot back, setting my hand back down. “Or at least we will be, if you bring up the whole sex in lieu of a gift idea again.”

“Aoife.” He stared hard at me, brown eyes full of barely contained frustration. “Come on, babe. We’ve been going out forever.”

“Three years isn’t forever,” I replied, taking a sip from my coffee. “It’s a drop in the ocean in the grand scheme of things.”

“We will be together four years next February,” he argued back.

“Not when you add up all of the times during those four years when we’ve been off,” I reminded him. “Take that into account and it’s closer to two years than four.“

“Aoife!” he snapped, reaching over and snatching my hand up. “Come on. I’ve been patient. I’ve done the waiting.”

“You’ve also done the sexing, remember?” I shot back, reminding him of just how much he’d enjoyed our break back in third year.

“Why are you bringing that back up?” He blew out a frustrated breath. “That was two years ago. We were off at the time. You said it was okay. I didn’t cheat on you.”

“No, you didn’t cheat on me. You were careful to wait a couple of hours after we broke up before sticking your dick inside that black-haired bitch from Tommen,” I stuck the knife in by hissing. “What was her name again? Ella something?”

“Bella,” he muttered, having the good grace to drop his head. “Bella Wilkinson, and you know that she didn’t mean a thing to me. I was drunk and depressed. You had just ended it.”

”Last time I checked, needing breathing space because your boyfriend publicly labeled you a slut doesn’t constitute as a good enough reason to get drunk and stick your dick in the closest available female. But hey, what do I know about the workings of the male teenage mind.”

“I swear to you that it didn’t mean anything,” he bit out. “It wasn’t even that memorable, Aoif. Honestly. It was just sex.”

“That’s fine, Paul. I believe you,” I told him. “But just so we’re on the same wavelength, you should know that sex isn’t just sex to me.”

“No,” he bit out. “Because sex is just a mythical fucking word in the world of Aoife Molloy. Oral is perfectly acceptable, but God forbid you let a dick inside you!”

I rolled my eyes. “Your tantrum isn’t gaining any support for your cause, asshole.”

“What the hell is it going to take to pry your legs open?” he muttered under his breath, tone laced with resentful sarcasm. “A fucking ring?”

I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, when Garry, my boss, flagged me over with a tap of his watch.

“I need to get back to work, but consider this conversation over,” I said, rising from my seat, and re-pinning my apron to my waist. “I’m not discussing it again until I’m ready, but once I am, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Is it him?” Snatching my wrist, he pulled me back to him and asked, “Is it still about him?” He narrowed his eyes in disgust. “Because he doesn’t fucking want you, Aoife. He’s too busy sticking his dick in half the—“

“No, it’s about me, Paul. It’s about me not being ready,” I snapped, yanking my hand away. “I need to get back to work.”

“Whatever,” Paul grumbled, waving me off. “Enjoy being leered at.”

“Hey, Gar,” I said, ignoring the big sulking dope behind me, as I hurried behind the bar. “Sorry about that. I lost track of the time.”

“You’re grand, love,” the old man assured me. “The back lounge is after filling up again, so plenty of tables to serve – but only take the food orders and clear away glasses. Whatever you do, make sure you don’t take any drink orders, ya hear?” He cast a glance to where my boyfriend was sitting, and muttered, “We don’t need any little birdy running home to daddy with tales that his seventeen-year-old girlfriend was serving alcohol.”

“Don’t worry, Gar. I’m always discreet.” I patted him on the shoulder and winked. “And what the Gard’s son doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.”

“That you are, Aoife,” he replied, with a relieved smile on his wrinkly face. “Right you are, so.”

With my notepad and pen in hand, I headed into the back lounge, and was immediately bombarded by a surge of both hungry and thirsty punters.

Smiling to myself, I straightened my shoulders, stuck out my chest, and walked towards to a table full of rowdy men. “Hello, gentlemen, what I can get for you today?”

Oh yeah, I was going to make a fortune in tips today.

I ended up staying on at work for a couple of extra hours to help out with the never-ending rush of punters out on the town celebrating Christmas. Instead of finishing at six like I had been scheduled to, it was after nine when I finally left the pub and made my way across town, with the hope of snagging a spin home off my dad.

When I reached the garage, it was in darkness.

“Shit,” I muttered, kicking the metal roller door. “This is just perfect.”

Groaning loudly, I let my forehead rest against the cool metal while I contemplated my options.

Walk home after an eleven-hour shift in four-inch heels?

Not happening.

Phone up my father, only to have him tell me drive myself?

Nope.

My fingers grazed the car key in my coat pocket, and I instantly rejected the notion, as a ripple of fear coursed through me.

I hated driving.

I literally detested the whole ordeal.

I detested and feared it so much that the rust-bucket of an Opal Corsa that my father had done up and given to me back in September for my seventeenth birthday remained parked at the garage.

That’s right; I was so fearful of driving a moving vehicle, that I didn’t want it anywhere near my house.

Unlike a lot of other places, the law was pretty relaxed in Ireland regarding learner drivers. Basically, you took a theory test, got your green license from the tax office, and off you went. We didn’t need to undertake a shit ton of lessons or abide by a million laws like my cousins in London had to. Hell, my own mam had been driving on her green license for twenty years now. The Gards always looked the other way. It was no biggie.

The only damn reason I had applied for my provisional driving license was so that I would have photo I.D to go out drinking with when I turned eighteen next year.

I didn’t want it to drive, but that’s exactly what my father assumed I would do.

“I hate to point out the obvious, Molloy, but when a shop door’s locked, and the lights are out, it means the place is closed.”

Joey’s familiar voice filled my ears, and I quickly swung around to see him coming from the side of the building.

“Jesus,” I whisper-hissed, startled to see him in the darkness. “What are you doing out here?”

“Locking up,” he replied dryly. “If you’re looking for your old man, you’re out of luck,” he added, as he used a set of keys to lock the side gate behind him. “He went on the beer with the rest of the lads at lunchtime.”

I feigned sadness. “And they didn’t take you?”

“Sadly not.”

“I suppose you need to turn eighteen to enjoy the full perks of the job, huh?”

He smirked. “I need to turn seventeen first before that can happen.”

“That’ll be soon, right? Your birthday is close to Christmas, right?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, sliding his work keys into his pocket. “Christmas day.”

“That’s so shitty,” I groaned, feeling a flash of sympathy for him. “I bet you’ve been cheated out of so many presents down through the years, with the whole two-for-one gift bullshit.”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever noticed, Molloy,” he replied. “I’m not the present counting type.”

“Well, you’re a better person than I am, Joey Lynch, because I would cause ructions if I had to share my birthday with Jesus.”

Joey laughed, actually laughed a genuine laugh, as he closed the space between us. “So, are you going to ask me, or are we going to stand out here all night?”

My heart flipped in my chest. “Ask you what?”

“To walk you home.”

“Okay.” I blew out a shaky breath. “Walk me home, Joey Lynch.”

“That’s telling,” he teased, leaning against the door, as he smiled down at me, green eyes dark and full of heat. “You need to ask nicely.”

My god, it was something else when that boy smiled.

He was just so beautiful.

“I have a better idea,” I heard myself say, and then I did something incredibly fucking reckless. Reaching into my coat pocket, I withdrew the set of car keys and jingled them in front of his face. “How about you drive me, instead?”

Even though he was the master of concealing his emotions, Joey couldn’t mask the excitement that flashed in his eyes. “I won’t be seventeen for two more days. I only have a tractor license until then.”

“That’s true,” I agreed, watching his gaze flick from my face to the keys and then back to me. “So that means that we’ll be breaking the law, doesn’t it?” I taunted, giving the keys a little rattle. “But, then again, when has that ever stopped you?”

Joey stared at me for a long time before releasing a low chuckle. “Give me the keys, Molloy.”

Squealing with nervous excitement, I clenched my eyes shut and choked out a laugh, when we took the corner of the local supermarket, after burning the rubber of my tires doing half a dozen donuts around the empty carpark.

“Oh, my Jesus, watch out for the footpath!”

“Relax, Molloy, I’ve got this.”

Yeah, he did.

Joey might not have an official license yet, but he certainly knew how to handle a car. I put it down to years of messing around with motors at the garage with Dad.

With Jay-Z and Beyonce’s ‘03’ Bonnie & Clyde’ blasting from the car stereo, a fitting song given the circumstances, I held on for dear life to the dashboard, as the wild and reckless boy in the driver’s seat blew my mind. Sitting in the passenger seat beside him, I felt like I was on a power trip. Like we could take on the whole world in this moment.

It was exhilarating.

“Happy fucking birthday to me,” Joey laughed, clearly delighted with life, as he slipped my car into fifth gear, and left the lights of Ballylaggin behind us. “So, where do you want to go, Molloy?”

Anywhere with you. “I don’t care, just don’t kill me, okay?” I begged, and then screamed out a laugh when we flew over a hump in the back road.

Joey cast a sideways glance at me and grinned. “I’m making no promises.

A lot of miles on the clock later, and we were on the back road near the beach, with me in the driving seat, and Joey laughing his ass off at my discomfort.

“I can’t do it!” The car chugged and stalled for the third time in a matter of minutes. ‘It’s pointless. I’m never going to figure this shit out.”

“Well, you better keep trying,” he warned, not one bit sympathetic to my cause, as he balanced my heels on his lap. “Because I heard your father tell Danny Reilly that if you don’t pull your finger out, and start actually driving instead of admiring the stereo, he’ll sell him the car.”

“Fine by me.” Flustered and barefoot, I turned the key in the ignition, and attempted to pull off. “I’m entirely the wrong person to be behind the wheel of a potential death machine.”

“Yeah, because you’re really going to do some damage in first gear,” Joey drawled. “Come on, Molloy, you know the drill. Clutch and slide into second.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t.”

“I really can’t.”

“Stop being a princess and just fucking do it.”

Deep in concentration, I attempted to do just that, but the gear stick wouldn’t comply. “This car hates me,” I wailed, yanking on the gear stick and then wincing then the engine roared in protest.

“Jesus, come here. Okay, press the clutch.” Reaching across the passenger seat, Joey covered my hand with his, and deftly slid us into second. “Now put a bit of pressure on the accelerator,” he instructed, while I repressed a shiver from the feel of his big hand on top of mine. “Good, now clutch again,” he added as he switched us into third. “See? You’re doing it; driving without conking the engine. It’s not as bad as you’ve built it up in that head of yours.”

“Yeah, but it’s just so fucking tricky,” I wailed, both hands springing up to grip the wheel. “Feet on the pedals, hands on the wheel, hand on the gearstick, eyes on the road…” I blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s like I tell my dad every time he forces me to get behind the wheel. There are just too many things to do at once.”

“I thought females were the ultimate multitaskers.”

“Well, not this female,” I choked out, twisting the wheel to avoid a pile of sand sludge on the road. “Oh, my Jesus, Joey. I hate this stupid car.”

“You don’t hate the car,” he countered. “You hate the feeling of not being in control. It’s new and scary. I get it, Molloy. You’re just figuring it all out.”

“How do you know so much about this?” I eyed him sitting beside me. “How can you be three months younger than me, and kick my ass at driving?”

“It’s not a competition, Molloy,” he chuckled, with a shake of his head. “And your dad showed me a lot down through the years.”

“Well, good for you,” I bit out. “Because he basically showed me nothing until he handed me the keys for this thing and said drive.”

“Give it a couple of months. You’ll look back at this night and laugh.”

“Doubtful,” I mumbled, eyes locked on the dark night ahead of me. “Very doubtful.”