Page 4 of Thy Kingdom Come
“How hammered are ya?” asks Orla Ryan as she drags my wasted arse up the stairs of her parents’ home. Strangers look on, gossiping behind their hands.
I moan in response, sinking further into her as she tightens her hold around my waist.
Orla has had a crush on me since I cut off one of her pigtails in primary school. I never understood why. I still don’t. I don’t understand why most girls have a crush on me.
My mates tell me it’s because I’m dark and mysterious or something naff like that. With a hooped piercing in my nose and one in my lip, I don’t really look the part of Prince Charming, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I thought my tattoos would steer them away, but again, it only enticed them all the more. This has worked in my favor for many reasons—just like right now—and I hate it.
My long fringe flips forward as my chin drops to my chest. My dirty blond hair is cut short on the sides and long on top, and I wear it this way just to see my father ragin’. Just thinking about that fucker has me clenching my jaw.
He’s the reason I’m here. He’s the reason for all this.
Focusing on Orla and where she’s taking me, I shake my floppy head. “Yer parents’ room,” I mumble, semi-coherent.
“Yer so bad, Puck Kelly,” she whispers excitedly and changes course, obeying my command.
She opens the door and flicks on the light, still clinging to me, and leads me toward the bed. We both collapse onto it, a trail of giggles spilling free from her. I’m on my back, and Orla doesn’t waste a second as she straddles me, lowering her mouth to mine.
She kisses me softly, cupping my cheek and coaxing me to reciprocate, but that’s not why I’m here.
I don’t like intimacy. Honestly, I hate it. I don’t like being touched. The only person whose touch I crave is dead, and when she died, I died with her. To the outside world, I look relatively “normal,” but it’s a whole different story on the inside.
On the inside, all I think about is revenge and blood…my mum’s blood staining the white carpet a bright red.
Cupping the back of Orla’s neck, I give her what she wants, returning her kisses with a brutal passion and pushing aside the need to hurt her. This is the only way I know how to be. I wish I could be gentle and enjoy the things most twenty-one-year-olds do, but I can’t.
The only thing coursing through me is vengeance, and, being a Kelly, I must deal with that in the most deplorable of ways. Just like right now.
Orla runs her fingers over my T-shirt, circling the barbell in my nipple before stopping at the button on my ripped black jeans. When she flicks it open, I reach down and stop her.
“Ya don’t wanna?” she breathlessly pants against my lips. Her hot breath reminds of me of the warm blood that coated my knuckles last week when I paid a visit to one of my dad’s customers who was late with their payment.
“I do,” I confirm, threading my fingers through her hair. “But could I trouble ye for some water?”
Orla’s disappointment is clear, but she’s a good Protestant girl and nods. “Aye, no bother.”
She gingerly slides off me and arranges her dress, not wanting to alert the partygoers downstairs what we were just doing.
“I won’t be long.”
Nodding, I throw an arm over my eyes as if snuffing out the bright light. In reality, I’m blocking out all the atrocities I’ve done.
The closing of the door announces her departure, which is my cue to follow, but just not in the way Orla thinks.
I spring to my feet, my drunken state miraculously gone because I’m not plastered. I never was. Locking the door, I get to work for the real reason I’m here.
The corner of my mouth lifts when I open the bedside dresser and see Mrs. Ryan’s pink dildo. I wonder if Nolen Ryan is privy to the fact that his Holy Joe of a wife has a battery-operated friend feet away. Unable to help myself, I swipe it and slide it in my back pocket.
Closing her drawer, I round the bed, and when I open Nolen’s dresser, I curse under my breath.
The bastard was right.
Reaching into my backpack—which I slipped under the bed earlier—for my phone, I snap a picture of the evidence before taking it and theCatholicrosary beads from the drawer. I slip everything into my backpack. My job here is done.
The party is in full swing downstairs, and I know it’s only a matter of time before Orla comes back. I walk toward the window, unlock it, and look at the two-story drop.
“Ach, finally,” says my best friend, Cian Davies, peering up at me as he flicks his feg into the bushes.
I’ve known Cian since I was born. Our fathers have been best friends since their teens, and it was expected we were to follow in their footsteps. His father is an eejit, but thankfully, his son just so happens to be the coolest person I know.