Thy Kingdom Come

Rory knows not to argue and pulls over. We’re in the middle of nowhere, but it’s in the dark where I thrive. I’ve seen the bogeyman. He doesn’t scare me anymore.

Opening the door, I bid my friends farewell. “Thanks a million. I’ll chat to ye later.”

Cian turns over his shoulder and smirks. “Be careful of the culchies.”

“Ack, they need to be careful of him,” Rory retorts playfully.

With a smile, I close the car door and watch my friends drive off into the night, faffin’ about like normal twenty-one-year-olds should. I start to dander home.

The full moon provides some light, but the darkness doesn’t scare me. It’s the daylight that does. But it wasn’t always this way. When Ma was alive, I used to love digging with her in her garden. She loved roses.

Peering down at the rose tattooed on the back of my hand, I sigh. Her memory fades every single day, and I’m afraid it won’t be long until she’s gone forever. Reaching into my pocket, I finger over her rose brooch which I’ve carried with me since her death.

It was the only thing my dad let me keep of hers. Everything else, he threw away. It seemed he wanted to erase any memory of her. I wanted to believe it had something to do with my stepma, my ma’s once best friend.

But I soon learned this was all my dad.

A dim light up ahead catches me off guard because I’m literally in the middle of nowhere. It looks like the screen on someone’s phone. I have my knife and brass knuckles within reach, but when I get closer, I see that I won’t be needing them.

The first thing I notice is her hair—it’s almost silver under the moonlight and tied in two loose ponytails. The black headband contrasts the platinum color. As I get closer, I see that she’s wearing a short navy skirt and matching top.

When she hears me, she spins around, using a small torch to see who’s there.

“Hello?” she yelps in a posh accent.

“What’s the craic?”

She cocks her head to the side, obviously confused. She’s definitely not from around here.

“What’s goin’ on?” I say, the universal language for why the fuck is she out here, all alone in the middle of the night and the middle of nowhere.

“Oh,” she says, brushing back a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “My bike broke.”

She flashes the torch on the pink bike which lays on its side.

“I was riding home from a party, hence the costume,” she explains, as if needing to clarify why she’s riding a bike in thigh-high stockings and boots.

Not that I care because she looks a ride.

Taking a closer look at her outfit, I smirk, but am suddenly alarmed I responded this way because it’s not forced. “Babydoll?”

She seems surprised I know she’s dressed as a character from one of my favorite comics. “Yes!” she says happily. “I’m glad someone has a clue around here.”

Compliments make me uncomfortable, so I clear my throat. “I’ll take a look at yer bike.”

“Thanks.”

I crouch down to see what the damage is. Instantly, I see the bike chain has come loose. “Wee buns. Y’ll be on yer way in no time.”

She cautiously walks over, watching as I go to work fixing the chain. “What are you doing out here?” she asks, pointing her torch my way to provide more light.

“Just out for a dander.”

“A what?”

Smirking, again surprising myself, I clarify, “A walk. Where ya from?”

“Oh,” she says, giggling. “I’m from London. I just moved here with my aunt.”

No wonder she has a posh accent.

“Are you from around here? My name is Poppy Yates. I’m a Pisces. I prefer thunderstorms over sunshine. And my favorite color is blue.”

I know she’s trying to be fu

“How about you?”

“How ’bout me, what?” I counter quickly, before silently cursing myself. She’s just trying to be friendly.

“That’s your lead-in to tell me all about yourself. It’s called making conversation,” she replies lightly.

“Right, well I’m not interested in makin’ conversation. All done,” I reveal, not answering her question or giving her my name.

Coming to a stand, I almost bump into her because she’s standing so close. She’s short, maybe five-three. I’m six-three, so I guess most people are relatively short compared to me.

“Th-thanks,” she falters, taking a step back.

I move the kickstand so the bike is ready for her, but she quickly reaches out and grips my wrist.

On instinct, I recoil forcibly. “Any more of this and there’ll be less of it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she quickly apologizes, her cheeks taking a reddener. Even though she’s probably lost in translation, my firm tone has hinted what I mean. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me.”

“No bother. See ya.” I need to leave, but am stopped in my tracks.

“Are you always this rude? Or is it just me?” she says bluntly, placing her hands on her hips.

I am shook by her confidence and can’t seem to stop gri

“Don’t flatter yerself, Babydoll,” I frankly reply. I don’t care what her name is. She’s Babydoll to me.

When a lopsided smirk falls across her full lips, I want to reach out and touch them; I want to know what a genuine smile feels like. I haven’t smiled for so long, I’m almost envious of her lips.

But I’m also curious to how they’d feel; how they’d taste.

“Oh, so you’re always a rude sod then. Good to know.” Her smile soon turns to a scowl as she hops onto her bike.

I laugh deeply in response. The surprises just keep on coming.

A part of me wants to stop her as I actually don’t want her to go. She interests me, and I don’t know why. Aye, she’s parful, but that’s not it. There is something…more.

She rides past me, head held high, and doesn’t see the pothole. The wheel of her bike gets caught, and she shrieks, falling off or, more accurately, falling onto me. I break her fall, and we both tumble onto the gravel road.

I’m lying on my back with her pressed to my chest and her face inches away.

Her breathing is uneven as she clearly had a fright. Mine, however, are measured and calm. She is soft against me, and her warmth doesn’t suffocate me like others have.

I take a moment to admire her beauty. Her eyes are green, her lashes long. Her pink, glossy lips are full. I can see the arch of freckles across her cheeks and nose.

What is this feeling inside me?

She licks her lips, and I have the urge to follow her tongue.

She whimpers, moving in my arms. It’s then that I realize I’m touching her without wanting to claw out of my skin. I suddenly don’t like it. I don’t like this vulnerability she infuses in me. We both shift at the same time, appearing to realize this moment is a little too intimate for mere strangers. I know better than to be distracted by a pretty face.

She gracefully gets off, ensuring she’s not flashing any arse in her short skirt as she picks up her bike, quickly mounting it. “Thanks a-again,” she calls out, riding away as if the devil is at her heels.

Looking down at myself, I realize he is.

Coming to a stand, I wipe the gravel from my clothes, confused as to what the fuck just happened. Sure, I’ve had girls show interest in me. I’m not being cocky; it’s what happens when you bear the Kelly name, but this was different.