Killian
Bam!
By the time I realize I’ve been hit by a car, I’m already lying on the ground.
I’m more surprised than hurt, really.
I’ve walked this road countless times—I can’t even fathom a number high enough to be accurate—and I know that this road gets maybe two or three cars a day.
At most.
And never at night.
Ever.
And as sloshed as I am, I still know to walk on the side of the road. I may enjoy a drink every now and again, but that doesn’t mean I’m an idiot. I know to walk on the side of the road in order to avoid ending up in the exact situation I’m now in.
It seems as though my precautions were all for naught, though.
Especially when faced with a giant monstrosity of a vehicle that takes up the entire fucking road.
A cool night breeze sweeps over the field, and I feel the grass—no, not grass—clovers tickle the side of my face.
Maybe the luck of the Irish is on my side after all. It’s not every day that you get hit by a fucking car and not get hurt.
I try to push myself back up—seeing as I have no intention of sleeping in a clover patch tonight—and that’s when I feel it.
This yell of pain peals out of me and echoes over the countryside. I’m pretty sure I just woke the people of Dublin from their slumber with that yell.
The pain that shoots through my arm is intense. It’s broken, or partially fractured, at the very least.
Not even all the Guinness in the world could numb that pain. It doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t test the theory, though.
“Oh, my god. Are you okay?”
I hear a voice—a familiar voice—from the road.
There’s no way that it could be…
I must be far more hammered than I thought. I tell myself that I’m just imagining things—that the booze is playing tricks on me.
But hearing her voice is one hell of a trick.
Because this is no trick at all. This is as real as the clovers surrounding me, or the waning moon in the night sky, or the pain that just finished coursing through my fucking arm.
But that pain is gone now.
Rebecca Doyle.
I’m dumbfounded. Out of anyone who’d be out here, she’s the last person I expected to see.
And then I’m taken by the sight of her.
She’s the definition of the picture-perfect Irish lass. I don’t care where she grew up.
Her hair is red, like a smoldering fire. Her eyes are this pale blue that reminds you of the lake on a summer morning.
Her skin is as fair and flawless as the rarest, most precious diamond. She’s slender, but not frail or petite-looking.
But perhaps my favorite of her many attributes are her legs. You could wrap yourself up between her thighs and find no happier place on God’s green earth.
And—judging from the look on her face—she’s just as surprised to see me as I am to see her.
“Killian? Killian Walsh?” she asks as if she’s seen a ghost.
And maybe she has.
“Rebecca Doyle,” I groan and shift my weight. “It’s good to see you again.”
The clovers dance in another fresh breeze.
Luck of the Irish my ass.
The irony of it all isn’t lost on me. Ending up in a clover patch after getting hit by Rebecca Doyle of all people isn’t just ironic—it’s a bit poetic.
“Are you okay?”
She’s more concerned about my well-being at this point than I am.
She’s here, and that’s more than enough for me to forget that she just hit me with her car. My focus still is trapped and bound by just how amazing she looks. It’s been years since I’ve seen her, and she looks every bit as stunning—perhaps even more so—than I remember.
“Killian? Are you okay?” she asks again.
“Oh, nothing to worry about, lass. Just a minor bump.”
I try to get up again, but the shooting pain in my arm puts a stop to that. My face winces with the horrid sensation.
I’m going to need some whiskey for this one, I think.
“Minor bump my ass,” she deadpans. “Let’s get you up.”
She grabs my good arm and wraps it around her neck.
She smells like wild cherries and forget-me-nots on a pleasant spring morning. Of course she smells so soothing. What else would I expect from this woman?
A small chuckle leaves my lips.
“What’s so funny?”
Everything.
“Nothing at all. They just say laughter is the best medicine and all, so I figured I’d give it a try.”
She gives me this side-eye look, like she doesn’t believe me. And she’s right not to—I wouldn’t believe me either.
“And?”
“So far, I’d say that it’s utter shite.”
A faint smile sneaks around the corner of her lips. It’s not a big grin or anything, but it’s a start.
It’s nice to see that my Irish charm still works on her.
“I’m sorry for hitting you.”
There we go—I was wondering when she was going to get around to apologizing.
“Think nothing of it. Truth be told, I’m sure I probably had it coming for something I’ve done. I’m sure there’s someone out there somewhere who’d love to buy you a pint right now.”
“I’m sure.” She gives me another look that matches her straight-faced tone. “What are you doing walking out here in the middle of the road at this time at night, anyway?”
“What are you doing out here driving like you’re in one of those horrible Fast and Furious movies?”
Rebecca gives me a look as if to say Touché.
“It’s a bit of a long story.”
There’s a pained look on her face. It’s as if she’s recalling some unpleasant memories or having some less-than-pleasing thoughts.
It’s not a look I like seeing upon her face.
Don’t feel too bad for the lass. She did just hit you with her monster of a fucking SUV and probably broke your arm.
“Fair enough,” I tell her with a shrug of my good shoulder. “My story’s rather short. I was out having a pint at the pub and decided to head home. Next thing I know, I see some bright headlights, and I get hit by that.”
I point to her rental.
My thoughts again linger on her presence and beauty—it’d be a challenge to stop them.
And I can’t help but wonder why she’s here. Ireland isn’t all that big, I’ll admit, but why this county specifically?
When people visit Ireland, they want to see places like Dublin or Cork. Neither of those are my neck of the woods.
And why this road? It isn’t exactly well-traveled or used. There isn’t all that much out this way at all.
Given her surprise, she certainly wasn’t here for me. Would be nice if she was, though.
And then she still has that same effect on me now that she had years ago.
When I look at her, the pain in my arm doesn’t matter at all. I’m one-part thankful for it, because broken bones are not enjoyable. But I’m also one-part wishing she wasn’t here.
The last time we met, I had my favorite whiskey ruined for me. I don’t want to go through that again.
The breakup between an Irishman and his whiskey is a tragedy that outshines any Shakespearean play.
But if I’m being completely honest, I’m more concerned about whether or not her lips taste as good as I remember.
And if the rest of her tastes just as good, too.
It’s not exactly what I should be thinking about, but she did just hit me with her car. I’m allowed to indulge in some nice memories of our past.
It helps with pain management.