I snuck glances at Colin driving as we made our way toward our destination — someplace north of Limerick I think, he’d told me and showed me a map but I was not interested in maps. The scenery outside was pleasant, and we were driving on the wrong side of the road which offered a kind of thrill, but I usually find people more interesting that scenery, and okay-looking young guys more interesting than regular people. So I checked out Colin. Discreetly, of course.
Colin was not any older than twenty-two, I guessed, and athletically built, with thick, lightly freckled arms. When he moved his foot from the gas to the brake, his thigh flexed and I could see an edge of muscle moving beneath the fabric of his thin khaki pants. He was baby-faced in a way that might make you think he was pudgy, but there was not one millimeter of tummy rolling over the waistband of Colin’s pants.
If a guy has a flat stomach sitting down, these are buff abs indeed.
Not that I was planning on scoring a look at Colin’s abs. It just made me think of Raph again. Raphael was very proud of his abs and even kept track of his monthly crunch-totals, but when he sat down there was about a half-inch of roll he could never get rid of. God help you if you noticed it, too.
So Colin scored points in the bod department. Unfortunately, his hair color could only be described as strawberry frikkin blond. It looked fine on him, but still. I found it annoying.
“Are you in a band, then?”
His stream of chatter had been relentless, and I’d only half-listened since I was busy checking him out, but this seemed to require a response. “No,” I said, after a moment’s thought.
“All the girls I know with bald heads are in bands. What’s that about, eh? If you want to be bald, be bald, no need to sing about it!” He laughed, thoroughly pleased by his own observation. “Have you got any tattoos, then?”
Well, I did not. But how would Colin ever find that out?
“Yes,” I said. And then, thinking it sounded more provocative, I said, “Two.”
Colin let out a low whistle. “You’re a pistol, I can tell, Mor,” he said. “I almost got a tattoo once, at the end of a long night of too much drink. Praise the Lord I hadna enough money on me! Me mates’d convinced me to get the ‘Emerald Cycles’ advert branded on my bum. What a life of regret and remorse that would been the start of, eh?”
“Don’t you like leprechauns?” I asked, sounding snarky.
“Leprechauns!” Colin snorted so hard I thought a booger would fly out of his nose. He floored the gas pedal. “Is that why you’ve come to Ireland, lass? To see the wee folk? Silly Mor!” Colin laughed harder and drove faster, but the laughter sounded forced. “Take it from your old pal Colin — there’s no such thing as leprechauns!”