by Chloe Walsh
"Spineless eejit," I growled under my breath.
Frustrated, I walked us over to the wooden bench.
Dropping her schoolbag on the floor, I carefully lowered our bodies onto the bench until we were sitting side by side.
I kept my arm wrapped around her bony little shoulders, not daring to leave her side for fear of her falling.
"This is just great," I tutted, sulking. "Fucking wonderful."
"You feel so warm," she whispered and I felt her cheek nuzzle against my bare chest. "Like a hot water bottle."
"Okay, you really need to keep your eyes open," I told her, panicked by her words.
Knees bouncing nervously, I turned her in my arms and caught hold of her face between my hands. "Hey," I coaxed, giving her face a little shake with both hands. "
“Hey…girl?" I added lamely because I didn’t even know her name. I'd almost killed the girl and I didn’t know her fucking name. "Open your eyes."
She didn’t.
"Hey – hey!" I said louder now. "Look at me." I shook her head. "Look at my face."
This time she did.
She opened her eyes and fuck me, I unintentionally sucked in a sharp breath.
Jesus, this girl was beautiful.
I'd noticed it earlier of course, she had a striking look about her, but now, seeing her up close like this and being able to count the freckles on her face – eleven by the way – it was hitting home just how striking she was.
Her blue eyes were big and round and fucking beautiful, with small hues of yellow dotting through them, rimmed with thick, long lashes.
I wasn’t even sure I'd ever seen that shade of blue before. It certainly didn’t shake anything up in the memory bank.
Hands down, she possessed the most gorgeous pair of eyes I'd seen in my life.
She had long, elbow-length, dark brown hair that was thick and curled at the ends.
And hidden behind the mountain of hair was a small, heart shaped face, smooth, clear skin, and a tiny dimple in her chin.
Perfect shaped, dark eyebrows that arched above those killer eyes of hers. A tiny button nose, high cheekbones, and these puffy, swollen lips.
Lips that were a natural rosy red color and kind of looked like she had been sucking on an ice pop or something – which I knew she hadn't because I'd spent the last half hour trying to keep her awake.
"Hi," she breathed.
I blew out a relieved breath. "Hi."
"That's really your face?" she asked, eyes drooping, as she studied me with a vacant expression. "It's so pretty."
"Uh, thanks?" I offered uncomfortably, still cupping her cheeks in my hands. "It's the only one I have."
"I like it," she whispered, "it's a good face," just before closing her eyes again, sagging forward.
"No, no, no," I coaxed, jolting her roughly. "Stay with me!"
Moaning, she blinked awake again.
"Good job," I praised with a heavy exhale. "Now stay awake."
"Who are you?" she croaked out, depending entirely on my hands to keep her head upright.
"I'm Johnny," I told her, biting back a smirk. "Who are you?"
"Shannon," she whispered. Her eyelids drooped a little but quickly sprung back open when I nudged her cheeks. "Like the river," she added with a small sigh.
I chuckled at her response.
"Well, Shannon like the river," I said brightly, desperate to keep her focused and talking. "Your parents are on the way. They're probably going to take you to the hospital for a check-up."
"Johnny," she groaned and then winced. "Johnny. Johnny. Johnny. This is bad…"
"What?" I urged. "What's bad?"
"My dad," she whispered.
I frowned. "Your dad?"
"Can you save me?"
I frowned. "Do you need me to save you?"
"Mmm-hmm," she mumbled sleepily. "Rub my hair."
I balked at her request. "You want me to rub your hair?"
She nodded and sagged forward. "It hurts."
Shifting closer, I adjusted her body so that her head lolled against my shoulder, and while cupping her face with one hand, I used the other to stroke her hair. It was an awkward position, but I managed.
Jesus, what the fuck was I doing?
I shook my head to myself, feeling like an eejit, but continued to do what she asked anyway.
It was going well – right up until she face-planted on my dick.
Jerking at the insanely intimate contact, not to mention the sudden jolt of awareness in my dick and the scorching pain in my groin, I attempted to move her face from my crotch, but she groaned loudly in resistance.
And then she pulled her legs up on the bench and settled herself down for a nice, old kip on my cock.
Fuck my life.
Holding my hands up in the air and far away from her body, because I needed a sexual harassment accusation like I needed a hole in the head, I looked around for someone to help me, but no one came.
The hallways were conveniently void of adults.
Fuck this school.
I thought about making a run for it, but I could hardly throw her off me.
Yeah, because breaking her head wasn’t fucking bad enough.
So, I just sat there with her head in my lap and her cheek nuzzling my dick and prayed to god to give me the strength to ignore the feelings growing inside of me and not get an erection.
Other than the obvious reason of horrendous timing, my cock was broken.
Well, it wasn’t so much my cock being broken as it was the surrounding area, but getting hard could result in me passing out right alongside her.
But then she whimpered and the sound brought back the worry and concern, disaster averted.
Like it had a mind of its own, my hand moved to her face.
"You're okay," I coaxed, battling down my anxiety, the urge to nurture this girl both a new and equally terrifying feeling for me. "Shh, you're okay."
Brushing her hair back off her cheek, I tucked the dark brown tendrils behind her ear and then I resumed stroking her sore head.
There was an impressive lump forming on her scalp where the ball made contact, so I stroked the area with my fingertips, using a featherlight touch. "Is this okay?"
"Mmm," she breathed. "It's…good."
"Good," I mumbled, relieved, and continued with the stroking.
A faint scar caught my eye where her temple met her hairline.
Without thinking about what I was doing, I trailed a finger over the inch-long indent of skin and asked, "What happened here?"
"Hmm?"
"Here." I trailed my finger over the old mark. "What's this from?"
"My dad," she replied, breathing out a heavy sigh.
My hand stilled as my brain registered her fucked up answer. "Come again?"
When she didn’t respond, I used my other hand to gently shake her shoulder. "Shannon?"
"Hmm?"
I tapped the old scar with my fingertip and said, "Are you telling me that your dad did this to you?" I tried to keep my tone calm, but it was a challenge with the sudden urge to maim and kill bubbling up inside.
"No, no, no," she whispered.
"So, your dad didn’t do this?" I asked for confirmation. "He definitely didn’t?"
"Of course not," she mumbled.
Thank fuck for that.
I released the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"Jimmy?"
"It's Johnny."
"Oh. Johnny?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you mad at me?"
"What?" The question, spoken so quietly, threw me and I stared down at her, feeling a pang of protectiveness in my gut. "No. I'm not mad at you," I told her, pausing for a long moment, fingers stalling, before asking, "Are you mad at me?"
"I think so," she whispered, nuzzling resuming.
My eyes rolled back and I bit back a moan.
Ah fuck!
"You can't do that," I bit out, holding her head still.
"Do what?" she sighed contently, then rubbed her cheek against my thigh. "Be mad?"
"No," I choked out, holding her head still once again. "Be mad all you want, just stop grinding your head on my lap."
"I like your lap," she breathed, eyes closed. "It's like a pillow."
"Yeah, uh, well, that's nice and all –" I paused to still her face with my hands once more, "But I'm sore, so I need you to not do that."
"Do what?"
"Rub me," I croaked out. "There."
"Why are you sore?" She sighed heavily and asked, "Are you broken, too?"
"Probably," I admitted, shifting her face onto my good thigh – well, good being the one that hurt less. "Stay there, okay?" It was more of a plea than an order. "Don’t move."
Complying, she didn’t move her head again.
Using my free hand to press against the tension forming at my temple, I thought about how much shite I was going to be in.
I was missing class.
I was hungry.
I had club training tonight.
I had a gym session arranged straight after school with Gibsie.
Physiotherapy with Janice after school tomorrow.
I had a school match on Friday.
I had another training session with the youths at the weekend.
I had a busy fucking schedule and I didn’t need this drama.
Several minutes passed in pained silence before she moved again, and in that time, I debated all the ways Mr. Twomey was an incompetent principal.
I had a list as long as my arm when she tried to sit up again.
"Be careful," I warned, hovering over her like a mother hen.
I helped her into an upright position and managed to slide off the bench in the process.
Every muscle south of my navel screamed out in protest, but I didn’t move away.
Instead I continued to crouch in front of her, keeping my hands on either side of her waist, waiting to catch her. "Are you okay, Shannon?"
Her long brown hair fell forwards, cloaking her face like a blanket.
She nodded slowly, brows furrowed deeply. "I…I think so."
I sagged, my relief palpable. "Good."
She leaned forward then, resting her elbows on her thighs, eyes open and staring into mine, and all at once she was far too close for comfort – and that was saying something considering no less than two minutes ago she'd had her face in my lap.
We were too close.
Suddenly, I felt very exposed.
My hands moved from her waist to her thighs, an automatic reaction to having a female lean her face towards mine.
I quickly checked myself, pulling my hands away to rest on the bench instead.
Clearing my throat, I forced a small smile. "You're alive."
"Barely," she whispered with a wince, blue eyes burning holes in mine, studying me with more clarity now. "You have a terrible aim."
I laughed at her words.
They were so far from the truth that I couldn’t help it.
"Well, that's a first," I mused. "I'm not used to being criticized about my ability to kick a ball."
I wasn’t a natural ten, but I had a decent aim and the ability to kick from long range when necessary.
"Yeah," she croaked out. "Well, your ability to kick a ball almost killed me."
"Fair point," I acknowledged, cringing.
Without thinking twice about what I was doing, I reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears.
I felt her tremble from the contact and quickly scolded myself for the move.
Don’t touch her, dickhead.
Keep your hands off.
"Your voice is strange," she announced then, blue eyes locked on mine.
I frowned. "My voice?"
She nodded slowly, then groaned and cupped her face once more. "Your accent," she clarified, breathing hard. "It's not a Cork accent." She was still clutching her head but she was more alert now.
"That's because I'm not from Cork," I replied, unable to stop myself from reaching up and smoothing back a piece of her hair. "I was born and raised in Dublin," I heard myself explain, tucking the rogue tendril behind her ear. "I moved down to Cork with my parents when I was eleven."
"So, you're a Dub," she stated, clearly amused at the information. "A Jackeen."
I scoffed at the term and tossed back one of my own. "And you're a Culchie."
"My cousins live in Dublin," she told me.
"Oh yeah? Where about?"
"Clondalkin, I think," she replied. "What about you?"
"Blackrock."
"The southside?" Her smile widened, eyes more alert now. "You're a posh boy."
I cocked a brow. "Do I look posh to you?"
She shrugged. "I don’t know you enough to say."
No, she didn’t.
"Well, I'm not," I added, uncomfortable at the thought of her making a preemptive judgement of me.
I shouldn’t care.
Hell, I never normally cared.
So why was I sulking over it now?
"I believe you," her small voice broke through my thoughts. "You could never be posh."
"And why's that?"
"Because you curse like a sailor."
I laughed at her reasoning. "Yeah, you're probably right about that."
She laughed right along with me, but quickly stopped and groaned, clutching her temples.
Regret soared inside of me.
"I am sorry," I told her, tone gruff now and thick.
"For what?" she whispered, seeming to lean closer as she chewed on her bottom lip.
"Hurting you," I replied honestly.
Christ, my voice didn’t even sound like it belonged to me. It was strained…raw.
I cleared my throat and added, "It won't happen again."
"You promise?"
There she went with the promises again.
"Yeah," I said, tone thick now. "I promise."
"God," she groaned, grimacing now. "Everyone's going to be laughing at me."
Those words, that small fucking sentence, brought to life some weird fucking emotion I hadn't experienced before.
"I'm so embarrassed," she continued to mumble, eyes cast downwards. "I'll be the talk of the school."
"Look at me."
She didn’t.
"Hey –" I paused and tipped her chin up with my thumb and forefinger. Once I was satisfied I had her attention again, I carried on, "No one is going to say a word about you."
"But they all saw me –"
"Nobody is going to open their mouth about it." Realizing my tone was bordering on angry, I brought it down a notch and tried again. "Not the team, Coach, or anyone else. I won't let them."
She blinked her confusion. "You won't let them?"
"That's right," I confirmed with a nod. "I won't let them."
"You promise?" she whispered, a tiny smile pulling at her swollen lips.
"Yeah," I replied gruffly, feeling like I would promise all the fucking promises in the world just to make this girl feel better. "I've got your back."
"No, you got my head," she croaked out. She glanced down at her body and sighed. "Actually, I think you ruined all of me."
Thank fuck for that, because you're ruining all of me right now, I thought to myself.
Jesus, where the hell did that come from?
Blinking away the thought, I settled on a safer, "I'll have my people call your people to work out the bill," comment instead.
That drew a smile out of her, a proper smile, not a shy one or a small one.
It was an honest to god megawatt smile.
She was just so fucking pretty.
I hated that word, pretty was a pussy word used by women and the elderly, but that's what she was.
Fuck, I had a feeling that her pretty face would be cemented in the fore point of my mind for a very long time.
But it was those wild eyes that really struck me and I had this crazy urge to google eye color charts just so I could figur
e out the fucking color blue in her eyes.
I would do that later, I decided.
Creepy or not, I needed to know.
"So," I pressed my luck by asking, "It's your first day?"
She nodded again, smile faltering ever so little.
"How's it going for you?"
A small smile tipped her lips upwards. "It was going just fine."
"Right." I cringed. "Sorry again."
"It's okay," she whispered, studying my face with those big eyes. "And you can stop saying sorry now. I believe you."
"You believe me?"
"Yeah." She nodded then exhaled a sharp breath. "I believe you when you say it was an accident," she squeezed out. "I don’t think you'd intentionally hurt anyone."
"Well, that's good." I had no idea why she would think otherwise, but I wasn’t about to question the girl. Not when I had half-mauled her. "Because I wouldn’t."
She grew quiet again, withdrawing from me, and I found myself racking my brain for something to say.
I had no explanation for why I wanted to keep her talking to me. I guess I could scratch it down to needing to keep her conscious.
But deep down I knew that wasn’t the reason.
Scrambling through my brain to find something to say, I blurted out, "Are you cold?"
She looked up at me with a sleepy expression. "Huh?"
"Cold," I repeated, resisting the urge to run my hands up and down her arms. "Are you warm enough? Should I get you a blanket or something?"
"I'm…" she paused and glanced down at her knees. Releasing a small sigh, she looked back to my face and said, "I'm actually hot."
"Completely fucking accurate assessment."
The highly inappropriate response was out of my mouth before I had a chance to filter myself.
I quickly followed it up by touching her forehead, my pathetic attempt at checking her temperature, and then nodding solemnly. "You're definitely warm."
"I told you." Her big eyes were wide and locked on mine. "I'm really, really hot."
God.
Fuck.
"So," I tossed out casually, trying to distract myself from my wayward thoughts. "What year are you in?"
Please say fifth year.
Please.
Please.
Please god make her say fifth year.
"Third year."
Yeah, and that was that.
She was in third year.
And just like that, I watched my five-minute dream float out the window.