Total Rush by Deirdre Martin Page B

see the place through Sean’s eyes. Why had he had brought her here? It had to be the music. The waitress made a brief and unsmiling reappearance to drop the plate of sausage and chips. Gemma and Sean tried to chat over the raucous din; then just as they were finishing up their meal, the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into spontaneous hoots as the band hit the stage.
    Gemma was expecting a quartet: fiddle, tin whistle, guitar, and bodhran drum. Instead, eight musicians lumbered onto the tiny stage. Two had fiddles and one had a tin whistle, but there was also a drummer, an organist, and much to Gemma’s dismay, a bass player and two electric guitarists, one of whom plugged in to the amp at her back.
    â€œEvenin’,” the lead singer bellowed into the mike, a pipe cleaner of a man with a buzz cut and black wrap-around sunglasses. “We’re deValera’s Playground and we’d like to start tonight with a little song you all know: ‘Flogging Davy.’ ”
    The nearest guitarist launched into a brain-searing riff and the band were off. This was Irish music done a way Gemma’d never heard, with screaming guitars vying with mad fiddles and a lead singer who twitched and jerked like Ichabod Crane being poked with a cattle prod. The crowd was going nuts, pogoing in unison while their fists pumped high in the air, shouting out the chorus in Gaelic along with the band.
    Gemma turned to Sean. He was clapping enthusiastically along with the music, which amazed her. Catching her gaze, Sean broke into wide grin.
    â€œAREN’T THEY GREAT?” he shouted.
    â€œGreat,” Gemma mouthed, knowing he couldn’t hear her. As best she could, she averted her face from him so he wouldn’t detect her dismay. She’d been wrong: The music wouldn’t salvage this evening. Instead, it was the icing on the cake. Time to face facts: Sean’s idea of a fun night out was radically different from hers. All she could do now was sit back and ride it out. She prayed the band did only one set and were either too drunk or tired to stand for encores. She wondered if Ron Crabnutt was somewhere in the crowd, chewing gum and waving a torx head in unison to the music.
    And she wondered who Sean really was.
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    â€œCan I come in?”
    The seductive undercurrent in Sean’s voice as he teased Gemma’s lips outside the door of her apartment almost caused her to give in. Almost. But then she remembered: This was the man to whom she’d given a second chance and he’d used it to take her to a rowdy Irish bar to see a band who played head-banging Celtic music. Now, to top it all off, he seemed to be hinting at sleeping with her again.
    Gemma had been so sure that in agreeing to a proper date, she was sending a clear signal to him that she was interested in a relationship that existed beyond the boundaries of the bedroom. But now she wondered. Who did he think she was, that she would enjoy an evening like the one they’d just shared? Surprising her with all those stuffed animals had been wonderful, and his coming down to the Golden Bough to apologize to her in person spoke to his being a man of character. But if this was a firefighter’s idea of a good date, then what she’d said to Frankie at the Happy Fork was right on target: This wasn’t a tribe she wanted to join.
    Maybe she was at fault, too. Just a little. When he’d asked her if she thought the band was great, she should have been honest and asked him to take her home. But she’d kept mum.
    Gentle but firm, she pulled away. “I’m really tired, Sean. How about if we call it a night?”
    â€œOkay.” She saw disappointment as his eyes searched her face. “Are you all right?”
    â€œJust tired,” she repeated, turning her key in the lock.
    â€œI hear you. What if I call you later in the week and we check out a movie?”
    â€œThat might be nice,” Gemma