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 funny, trying to break the ice, but I don’t reply. Instead, I focus on fixing her bike so she and her vanilla-smelling self can ride the hell away from here.
“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 grinning when she’s near. She’s annoyed, and it gives me great satisfaction seeing her pissed off.
“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.
Why?
Because I wanted her too.
I don’t like this sinking in the pit of my stomach. Is this what…feelings are? I don’t know. How can I? I watched the only person full of feelings be slaughtered in front of my eyes. The only person to teach me what emotions are is my dad, and he’d rather teach me how to shoot or kneecap someone than deal with something he said I’d never need.
“Emotions make ya weak. They get ya killed.”
My phone rings, thankfully interrupting these thoughts which will eat at me until I drown them in a bottle of Buckie.
It’s my uncle Sean. “Bout ye?”
“Sound. On the way home.”
“Yer da is waitin’ for ya.”
Shite.
He wasn’t supposed to be back for another hour or so.
“I’m about halfa way.”
“Yer coddin’,” he says, and I can imagine him shaking his head. “Where ya at? A’ll come get ye.”
I hang up and text my uncle the GPS coordinate from my maps. He’s here within twenty minutes.
Uncle Sean is quiet, which means things will be anything but at home. When we pull up the graveled drive, I sigh, seeing this once castle as nothing but a prison. This house has been in my family for generations.
Its beauty is undeniable, but I don’t live in the main building. I can’t.