Mr. Shut Up and Kiss Me

*This story is copyrighted Mostodd07 2019. It is a Halloween 2019 Contest story. Please vote if you enjoy it, but I'm more interested in your thoughts. If you would, feel free to leave a comment at the end. Thank you.*

Owen Collins grabbed Liam and Neal by the arms of their suits, pointing to the shadows.

"Black cat!" Owen stammered. "Huge...black...cat..."

The other two men stopped, looked, and laughed.

"You better get your eyes checked, Owen," Liam said. He was about seventy but wiry and pugnacious. Owen was not yet thirty-five. "There are three cats over there. Three! And not a one of them is black."

Owen's "black" cat slunk from the shadow. It was not black but a silver gray. Its long fluffy tail twitched twice, then stopped. Neon green eyes glared in the night before it darted again into the gloom. Two other cats followed the silver cat. One was a yellow tabby with white muzzle and blushing pink nose, the other was a reddish tabby with horizontal slits obscuring deep blue eyes. Both watched the three men, curious as to their destination.

Liam called out to the cats, "We're headed for Scruffy Duffy's pub. You're welcome to join us if you can scrounge up the cover charge."

Neal, in his sixties and heavier than his buddy Liam, guffawed like a braying mule. The three men continued their trek, past a lonely graveyard, an empty church, and several abandoned cottages.

The midnight Irish moon shone on a rough cobblestone pavement. Street lanterns, plentiful around Owen Collin's expensive hotel, had become scarce. He, Liam, and Neal were searching for Scruffy Duffy's, the establishment suggested by the fetching lass whom he had met in the hotel bar. His friends were looking to spend the evening with some beautiful Irish ladies they had met. Owen was more circumspect, but didn't want to leave his new friends alone in a strange city.

Clouds like abandoned sailing ships crossed the hazard-yellow moon. The ever-changing shadows on the pavement were sharp-edged and black. Cobwebs caught the mist, refracting moonlight. Further along the pavement, they heard the skittering of tiny claws on bricks and stones, probably rats.

Owen stumbled along with these two older lawyers, both boasting of their Irish heritage although they practiced law in Mendota, Illinois. As they traipsed on, the familiar urban surroundings grew more quaint. Everything looked less "big city" and more like a forgotten village. Time seemed to have retreated.

Liam grabbed Neal's jacket and spoke directly into his face. His drink-reddened face had turned ashen, and his eyes were wide and searching both sides of the street. "Did you hear that? That scream! That shriek!"

Neal laughed. "I heard nothing, you crazy old man."

Owen had to agree. "I didn't hear anything either, Liam. If you're growing anxious, perhaps we should head back."

Liam considered returning to the hotel. He straightened his suit and tie and his composure. "No. I'm eager to meet the bonny friends we made at the bar. Aren't you?"

Neal nodded vigorously. "You bet. Come on."

Owen heard the clatter and rumble of a coal-burning engine, although he did not see it. The sudden shriek of a steam whistle shredded his nerves. Neither Liam nor Neal reacted to the horrifying scream. Owen gathered himself, then shook it off. He was as jumpy as Liam.

They plodded on. The sweet promise of meeting the beautiful, fey women from the hotel bar drew them inexorably.

Neal suddenly stopped mid-stride. He turned his head, straining to listen. "There it is!" he said. "Now I hear it. What is that? It's a kind of keening or wailing, I think. My God! It's horrible."

Owen and Liam turned to each other. Owen cocked his head to listen, but he heard no wailing sound. The look on Liam face meant that Liam had not heard the keening, either.

"You're hallucinating, Neal," Liam said. "Come on. Just a few steps more and we'll be there."

Leaning on each other, encouraging each step, they continued. At the end of a shadowy, empty street, they saw warm lights and heard thumping music coming from an enchanting establishment.

"Who visits this pub?" Owen wondered. "Where do they get any customers? There's nothing around. I think we had better turn back."

Liam shook his head. "No, me boy. Look! Look! There she is, Scruffy Duffy's. Just like the ladies said. Come on. We'll down a pint or two and capture a tun of stories to tell when we get back."

Owen trailed the two men, worrying that he had entered the wastelands of a city he knew nothing about. Then he remembered the tall lady in silver gray from the hotel on near Jurys Inn and sighed.

She had perched alone at the hotel bar, trying to make eye contact with the patrons. The locals avoided her. Owen figured her for a high-priced call girl, one of at least seven in the bar that evening. Some of the more daring Illinois lawyers tried to chat her up, but were immediately shot down. She was waiting for someone special.

Owen's trip was a boondoggle, arranged by the Illinois Bar Association to allow their wealthier members to blow off steam. This "once-in-a-lifetime" adventure targeted the Auld Sod, Ireland, its green hills and copper-haired colleens, among other sights. Owen Collins was decidedly not one of the wealthier members of the bar, not since his divorce. Since losing his wife's affections, he suffered from a combination of melancholy and hopefulness. A trip to Ireland seemed the perfect tonic for a lawyer still trying to establish himself.

Owen had checked into an expensive hotel near Jurys Inn Dublin and was assigned a comfortable single room overlooking the street. The room reminded him of a hundred other hotel rooms he'd visited, so he wandered down to the bar in the lobby to mingle with the other lawyers and to meet some locals. Near midnight, he found himself sharing a table with two elderly lawyers with Irish names, Liam and Neal, who ordered the drinks and paid for them. Owen's only contribution was listening to their outlandish courtroom stories.

As Liam and Neal cackled and laughed at each other's stories, Owen scanned the bar area. His attention had been captured by a beautiful, dark-haired woman with china white skin. She was wrapped tightly in a silver gray dress that came to mid-thigh. It hugged her body closely as it struggled to flatten her ample breasts. The shape of her hips was clearly outlined. Her ass cheeks were pinched together. The dress was so snug that it seemed to squeeze the woman into a taller version of herself.

Toward midnight, Owen offered to buy Liam and Neal a round as an excuse to go to the bar. He ordered three pints. While they were being drawn, the tightly wrapped woman sidled up near him. Her dress left her slim white shoulders uncovered. She had perfect bone structure in her shoulders and collar bones. Her jet black hair slid sensuously along her shoulders. She smiled in a sly way that signaled adventure and her green eyes glistened. She wore no jewelry, which Owen thought unusual, but perhaps it was to prevent theft when she was alone with her John.

"Visiting Dublin long?" she asked with a musical Irish lilt.

"About a week."

"You should try our local pubs. Try Scuffy Duffy's on the north side of town. Me and my friends enjoy tippin' a few there when we're done workin'."

Owen's three pints came.

"Are you done with work soon, miss?" he asked, just to be polite.

When she laughed she lifted her head so he could see the laughter rippling in her long slender throat. She locked eyes with him. "Tell your friends. We'd love to see all three of you some night at the pub."

"Thank you for the info, miss." Owen turned to go back to the table. Her slender white hand rested on his forearm.

"We'll be there every night this week. Tonight would be a good beginning. Hopin' to see you soon."

Owen had to duck his head to enter Scruffy Duffy's. The place was redolent of fine tobacco and Irish comfort food. The dark wooden floor was scrubbed, polished, and scuffed innumerable times. There was a dart board, but no pool or billiard table. Men slouched at the tables, many with pipes between their teeth, playing cards in their mitts. Lager and whiskey spilled on the tables and the bar. In a raised corner, a trio of musicians banged out Irish rebel songs using a guitar, a fiddle, and an Irish bodhran frame drum.

"No ladies that I can see," Liam said. His shoulders sagged.

"Even worse, I've got no bars, no service. My phone's not working. How about yours?" Neal asked.

None of the three of them had any internet access or cell service. Owen set an alarm on his phone to remind him to herd his friends back to the hotel, in case they should lose track of the time here.

"What's your pleasure, gents?" the white-shirted barkeep shouted above the din. Before they could answer, a gray-bearded fellow leaning over the bar piped up.

"This round's on me, boyos." The old gent with tousled hair and grizzled whiskers held up his glass to the attorneys. "Sláinte. That's cheers to you Yanks."

Custom and good manners required the lawyers to each buy a round for the house. The men in the pub enthusiastically accepted each round. The music got louder. The room grew warmer. It was lucky Owen's alarm sounded, since the men were not eager to leave. The musicians had put away their instruments, the shades on the windows were drawn, and the crowd started too thin.

When during the night it happened, Owen couldn't say. One minute they had been singing, pounding the table, and laughing with the others. The next, the three women they had hoped to meet sat next to them, looking as fetching as they had in the hotel bar. In this cozy pub, they looked more accessible but no less lovely.

The locals respected the lawyers' desires to be with the three beautiful ladies. They melted away, leaving Owen, Liam, and Neal with the ladies. An achingly sweet violin started to trigger memories of home and mother. The women leaned on the lawyers' shoulders.

"I have to get back," Owen said.

"Oh, too late now, dearie. You're locked in with the rest of us. Relax and enjoy the ambience." Her green eyes warmed him with their intensity, drilling in to his soul. Owen wanted to resist, but found himself sailing with her.

She had a battered black leather notebook with her. He noticed that the two other women each carried a similarly worn leather book--one in blond leather, one in rose-tinted leather. She thumbed her book's pages until she found the last page with any inscription. "Speak to me your name, sir," she whispered.

"Oh, no. First, tell me your name."

The woman dropped her green-eyed gaze to the floor. "I don't think you could pronounce it."

"Where are you from? One of the counties surrounding Dublin?"

She laughed with her head back and her throat exposed. "I'm one of the Good Folk, don't you know."

"Now, tell me your name."

She gave a wistful smile, sighed, and said, "Why not?" She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "Catrionia," in her Irish lilt with a rolling "r."

Her breath tickled his ear. All he heard was "Cat."

"Now, speak to me your name, sir."

Owen studied her lovely face and the set of her jaw. She seemed determined about something. He paused before answered. She asked again.

"Speak to me. Your name, please."

"Shut up and kiss me," he said to her surprise.

Owen awoke alone in his bed at the plush hotel on Jurys Inn. His head swam with the aftereffects of alcohol and sex. The gray morning's light felt like a blessing. Someone was pounding on his door.

"Go away!"

"Oh, good, sir. You're still with us. I was just checking." It must have been a maid's voice, checking on him.

"What time is it?"

"It's still early, sir. I'll tidy your room later. It's no bother. Really, sir."

"Oh, good grief. Come in, come in. How early is it?"

A tiny maid peaked her gray head into Owen's room, doing a quick scan of the unmade room.

"Well, it's eleven-forty-five. You've missed breakfast, but there will be a lunch for your group soon."

Owen was awake now. He slipped out of the bed, realized he was naked, and grabbed a towel.

"You can make up the bed if you like. I'll be in the bathroom." He pulled wide the hotel room door.

"Oh, sir!" The elderly maid covered her eyes. "I couldn't. I just wanted to be certain you were fine. Two poor old gentlemen met their untimely ends, I'm afraid."

"That's too bad. Look, it's up to you. I'm going to take a shower. You can straighten the room or come back later. I don't care. Your choice."

The woman stepped lightly into the room, just past the threshold. "Oh, my. It looks like someone had a St. Paddy's Day party in here." She winked her wrinkled eye at him.

Owen noticed the messy bed. The sheets were twisted. Pillows spilled off the sides. He was usually a pretty sound sleeper. He didn't remember any nightmares, but it looked like someone had slept through a furious one. On the nightstand was the battered black leather book that the tall woman had been carrying. The other two books he had seen her friends carrying were also on the nightstand, underneath Cat's notebook.

"Those two poor Yanks. They were elderly, but not aged, if you ken my drift. Both died in their beds. Heart probably. I've heard it said that both gentlemen had the biggest smiles on their faces. Whatever death was to them, they seemed to embrace it. I suspect they probably partied to death with some nasty ladies. But you didn't hear that from my lips."

"That would explain the grins, I suppose." He scratched his head. He noticed long scratches on his legs, shoulders, and arms. He looked up, and the maid was checking those wounds, too.

"I'll just come back later, sir."

"Do you know the names of those Yanks? Maybe I knew them."

"Oh, sure. Irish names, don't you know. Liam was one. And the other, I don't know, Nate or Nevin or..."

Owen stood quite still when he heard this. He continued for her. "Neal?"

"That's it, sir! Neal. Neal it was. I hope they wasn't friends of yours. If they was, my condolences, sir."

Owen didn't answer. He opened Cat's old leather book. It was filled with words he could not read. He turned to the maid.

"Do you read Gaelic?"

"A mite, sir. Not a great deal, but a mite."

She took the book with two fingers like it was sticky. She laid it flat on the bed, adjusted her glasses, and began to scan the pages.

"These aren't Gaelic words, sir."

"No? What are they?"

She slammed shut the book. "They are names! Gaelic names, sir. I want no part of this unholy thing! Please remove it from this room, and I'll come back later."

She shuffled out more quickly than Owen thought possible, making repeated signs of the cross on her chest and forehead.

Owen held Cat's book with the Gaelic names. He opened a few pages at random, but the names were unknown to him. Then he got to the last page with writing. There he recognized one name. The last one written.

It was his own, Owen Collins. Owen Collins.

He set the book on top of the other two. He went into the bathroom to shower and try to put together his memory of the last evening.

How he had returned to his hotel room, Owen couldn't say with any certainty. He didn't recall coming back with Liam and Neal, either. Somehow they all had made it back to the hotel on Jurys Inn. Liam and Neal had enjoyed themselves greatly, judging from the large smiles reported on their faces. Now, that he could believe. He remembered them grinning and dancing with Cat's friends at the pub.

Cat. That was her name. Cat.

As he showered, other thoughts came back. Holding Cat close in Scruffy Duffy's pub. Dancing with her, her long legs rubbing against his own as he held her. How warm her back felt when he put his arm around her.

"Shut up and kiss me."

He remembered saying that to Cat and her surprised reaction. He guessed he had offended her by his impertinence. Tears formed in her eyes. Her set jaw, her tight lips, slowly opened to a sensuous smile. Her white teeth were slightly apart. She leaned in to kiss his lips.

When Owen's lips met hers, it felt like he was touching stone or marble. Her lips were cold and unmoving. Then, after a second or two of contact, her lips warmed. They gently moved under the pressure of his own lips. Her mouth opened, and he dared to touch his tongue to the intimate places within her mouth. Her teeth were smooth and sharp. She nipped him once, which caused him to jerk backward.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to."

She leaned into him again, her lips warm and pliant immediately.

Liam and Neal leaned closer, pushed by the ladies they were escorting. The ladies were more interested in Owen's public display of affection with Cat than the men were.

"Did she speak his name, Róisín?" asked the blond woman. She poked her face close to the two kissing.

"I didn't hear it spoken, Gráinne. In faith, I didn't. She shouldna be acting this way, should she?"

"Nay, not at all, not at all."

Liam said, "I thought you said your name was Rose. And your friend was Grace."

"Of course, of course. Bless me." Róisín then turned to Gráinne. "Catrionia may be in a wee bit o' trouble. She may need our help, even if she doesna know it."

Cat waved them both away while she and Owen moved onto a small space on the floor to hold each other in a dance embrace. Only the violin played, but it was enough for them to sway hip to hip, chest to breast, cheek to cheek.

Owen now remembered that they all left the pub at the same time. They had been "locked in," since they had stayed past the legal closing time but so had many of the patrons of the pub. Cat peered around the slightly open door, looking both directions for any signs of trouble. Then she pulled Owen outside with her. The other two couples followed.

Darkness filled the side streets and the alleyways. The air was crisp with late night chill. Although there were now six of them together on the blocky pavement, Owen felt no more safe. The old graveyard, the empty buildings, the sickly yellow moon, all seemed as dangerous as ever. He listened for steam locomotive, but it must not have been running. He could smell the tang of the Irish Sea and feel its raspy breath on his cheek.

The ladies kept to the shadows as they walked the darkened streets. Liam, Neal, and Owen needed the help of any light they could find to navigate the uneven pavement. Owen stole glances at Cat every chance he could. She was a marble statue come to life, floating through the shadows with her companions. Before long, he no longer noticed the paving stones. He glided along with Liam and Neal. They were invigorated, showing no signs that they had been drinking since early evening.

They parted in the lobby. Cat followed Owen to his room. He remembered that now. He hadn't invited her; he didn't need to. It was an understanding that had formed between them. The same understanding had arisen between the other two couples. They all squeezed into an elevator and left on a different floor.

That was the last Owen had seen of Liam and Neal, at least until he left.

Cat followed him into his room. He marveled at the way her dress was wrapped so snugly around the body that he had been holding while they danced. He knew what was hidden beneath that dress. She was not shy about leaning into him as they danced. He had never met a woman who expressed her sensuality so freely, so openly, so wantonly.

She slipped off her dress. The room was dark except for the artificial light that seeped around the curtains and blinds. It was enough to illuminate the marmoreal curves of her slim hips, her round, high breasts, the gentle pooch of her tummy, and the deep thatch between her legs. She slunk forward into his arms. His hands found the taut mounds of her ass. They were cold, like the marble it resembled. Her thighs bulged into his own thighs. His cock filled and grew, pressing rudely between her legs. She groaned like she enjoyed the pressure of his penis touching the sensitive folds of her vagina.