Irish Kiss: A Second Chance, Age Taboo Romance (An Irish Kiss Novel Book 1)
Irish Kiss
An Irish Kiss Novel
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Sienna Blake
Irish Kiss: a novel / by Sienna Blake. – 1st Ed.
First Edition: February 2018
Published by SB Publishing
Copyright 2018 Sienna Blake
Cover art copyright 2017 Giorgia Foroncelli: giorgiaforoncelli@libero.it. All Rights Reserved Sienna Blake. Stock images: shutterstock
Content editing & proofreading services by Book Detailing.
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Contents
Irish Kiss
Playlist
Introduction
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
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31
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84
Epilogue
Dear Reviewers,
Books by Sienna Blake
Acknowledgements
About Sienna
Irish Kiss
Sienna Blake
Saoirse
I wanted him since the day I met him. Bearded, tattooed and tall as an Irish giant. He was more than just handsome, he was drop-dead gorgeous. And the only one who ever truly cared. It didn’t matter to him that my father was a criminal and my mother a whore. He saw me, understood me.
I could be anything I wanted, he said.
Except his.
Because I was too young and he was my Juvenile Liaison Officer.
Diarmuid
It’s been years since I last saw her. No longer a girl, she has the body of a woman. When our eyes met again, I saw the only one who ever broke through my asshole mask. She never judged me. She saw me, accepted me.
She could be anything she wanted.
Except mine.
’Cause she’s only seventeen and I’m trying my hardest not to fall for her.
If I give in, she will ruin me.
*This is a slow-burn, angsty love story spanning across a seven-year time period with sexual situations and drug use involving characters under the age of eighteen. Irish Kiss is a complete standalone novel with a Happily Ever After, but damn, it is going to hurt along the way.
For my FlexHuddlers,
Especially Sinead, Anna, Gerry and the real Diarmuid.
Playlist
Damien Rice – The Blower’s Daughter
Paramore – All I Wanted
Hinder – Lips of an Angel
Tom Waits – Hope I Don’t Fall in Love With You
Edwin McCain – I’ll Be
Theory of a Deadman – Angel
Passenger – Let Her Go
3 Doors Down – Here Without You
Paloma Faith – Only Love Can Hurt Like This
Introduction
Someone very special to me once said that we were the “lucky ones”. He meant kids like us with no real family.
Because we got to choose ours.
I chose him. Long before he chose me.
He is my family. My soul family.
He and I were never going to be a normal kind of love. We were never going to have it easy. And we would break each other’s hearts more times than a heart could break.
He also told me, “Those who deserve you, won’t judge you.”
If you’re prepared to set aside your verdict until the final word is written…
Here is our story.
1
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Saoirse
Saoirse [SEER-sha]: means freedom and liberty
Then—Dublin, Ireland
I pressed my ear to the slit in the doorway of my bedroom, listening out for any noises that might warn me as to what to expect this morning. My room was no bigger than a closet, really. But it was mine and I could lock it from the inside—thank God. In the distance the leaky tap in our grotty bathroom dripped. Car tires slapped wet on the surface of the road, the pitch of their engines getting higher and louder as they neared, then deepening and fading as they passed. That’s called the Doppler Effect, did you know?
Underneath all this was the near-constant melody native to this soggy island, the insistent snare-pattern of rain. Other than that, everything was quiet. For the moment.
My stomach growled, urging me to venture out. I took a deep breath, hitched my old, scuffed backpack—one strap left clinging on by a desperate finger—over one shoulder and slipped out of my room.
The door to my mother’s bedroom was partly open. I cringed at the yellowing sheets on her bed, pulled out of the corner and scrunched up under a pale skinny calf. Ma’s leg. She never remembered to change her sheets. Or to do the laundry. I did it when I could. When she wasn’t passed out on top of them.
I passed through our tiny living space: a ratty couch, a dull grey carpet worn to the bones and a low table littered with empty beer bottles, wrappers, papers, a glass pipe and an empty baggie.
Ma had someone over last night.
That’s why I locked myself in my room and covered my ears with my hands and hummed every single Damien Rice song I could remember until the noises stopped and I fell asleep.
I crept into our jammed corner kitchen, stained laminate cupboard doors hanging askew, the cooker flaking with bright mandarin rust.
Ah, shite. Someone had left the bread out on the counter again. I could see mold on the crust through the crinkled plastic. It was so moist in this apartment that mold grew in what felt like hours if you weren’t careful. That’s why I put the bread in our tiny iced-up freezer. But it didn’t mean shite if it wasn’t put back.
I opened up the bread packet, pulling out the slices left, hoping that I could salvage a piece by scraping the mold off.
No such luck.
I dumped the end of the bread in the bin, my stomach mewling, wished I could shove it into my ma’s face as if she were a bad dog. I felt hot with guilt the instant I had thought it.
>
I pulled open the pantry cupboard, careful not to disturb the broken door that whined like a bitch in heat, praying that there was something in here I had missed, moving aside the bag of flour and container of clumpy salt.
I dropped my empty hand. My chest burned with fury. For once, I’d love it if Ma would go to the damn store before we ran out of food. Just once I’d love to not have to worry. Just fucking once.
Out of the corner of my eye, there was a flash of movement from her room. I froze. Then noises. The creak of bed springs. The rustle of sheets. “Open ye fookin’ mouth,” in a guttural voice, followed by the sound of slurping and choking.
I screwed up my nose. Her “friend” was still in there. He’d just woken up by the sounds of it. I backed away. I knew better than to disturb them.
I told my ma off the first time she let a man that wasn’t my da use her body like that. I must have been twelve.
Her hand whipped out so fast it was a blur, the sharp crack piercing the thick air in the room. Pain spread through my cheek like a mislaid firework. I’d been too shocked to move. Too shocked to cry or anything.
My ma had fallen to her knees and wrapped her bony arms around my waist, crying into my hair. “I’m so sorry, baby, I’m just so lonely.”
I recoiled at first. I couldn’t believe this snivelling creature was my ma. I wanted to shout at her, to shake her. To scream at her until she woke up.
But I understood. Every night when I tucked myself into bed I wanted to cry and moan, too. I wanted to forget.
I lifted my arms and patted her back. “It’ll be okay, Ma,” I said, ’cause that’s what you have to say to make people feel better, even if it wasn’t true.
“I’ll do better, baby, I promise,” she sniffed into my hair.
She always made promises. And broke them. I knew better than to believe her.
With the sound of depravity in my ears, I hurried out of our flat, locking the door behind me, sucking in the crisp air outside.
If Dublin had an armpit, we’d be slipped and forgotten into the musty creases of it. We’d been here in this council flat in the north of Dublin since my ma left Limerick on the west coast last year after my da was locked up.
I paused on the railing near the stairs, as I did every time I left the dump I called “home”. From the fifth floor of our council flat we were higher than the other buildings, mainly two-level townhouses or four-level buildings. Closer to the heavens, I thought with bitterness.
We were surrounded by grey blocks, clumpy patches of mud and clusters of brave grass that were meant to satisfy as a garden.
I dared to look past our neighbourhood to the area nearby. Tree-lined streets, beautiful brick houses with small trim gardens tended to with loving hands, bushes bursting with roses, and dainty rows of lavender. It was only a few streets away but it might have well been the other side of the country to me.
My chest burned. I hated all of those people in those terrace houses, all those self-important fathers with proper jobs, those overbearing helicopter mothers, all those ungrateful brats with full bellies and laughter in their lungs and no idea how lucky they were. They had no idea what life was really like, what it was to burn and ache and hate and struggle. To feel like you had to fight and kick for every breath because life was holding your head underwater, laughing at you all the while.
I’d learned long ago that I was alone. But that didn’t bother me. I knew I couldn’t count on anyone else except for myself.
“You want a what?” The guy over the counter of the convenience store stared at me.
I know what he saw—a skinny kid with untamed frizzy blonde hair. I straightened up as tall as I could. At just five feet two I was small for my age.
“A job,” I said.
He shook his head at me, his lips in a smile. “What are you, twelve?”
Hope sank. “I’m fourteen.” Almost. In four months.
He clicked his tongue. “You look no older than twelve.”
My insides burned. I hated this. I knew I was smart, smarter than most people twice my age, but I was trapped in a prepubescent body that no one would ever take seriously. Trapped with a ma who had no idea how to care for me. Trapped in this fucking life because I was a nobody.
I gritted my teeth, desperation folding into a bitter ball at the back of my throat. “I swear, give me any two numbers and I’ll multiply them in my head.”
“I don’t—”
“Any two numbers. Go on.”
Perhaps he heard the warble in my voice proving that I was close to tears, not that I’d ever let them loose. Or perhaps he just wanted to humour me before he told me to fuck off.
He sighed. “Three and twelve.”
I glared at him. “Larger numbers. At least three digits each.”
“You didn’t even—”
“Thirty-six. Now pick two more numbers.”
He looked down to the counter and pecked at his calculator. His eyes widened a little before he looked up.
“Alright,” he said slowly. “Nine hundred and thirty-two times four hundred and one.”
I inhaled. Everything paused in my world as my mind turned like a planet on its own axis, smashing the numbers together like atoms.
I could sense the man behind the counter staring at me. “Look, kid. You don’t have to—”
“Three hundred, seventy-three thousand, seven hundred and thirty-two.”
His mouth remained open as it was. After a pause he snapped it shut. He tapped at his calculator again then froze.
His face snapped up, eyes searching my body. “You got a calculator on you?”
I almost rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it’s called my brain.”
He shook his head. “You can’t have… But that’s… How did you…?”
“I told you. I’m smart.”
He stared at me for a beat before he shook his head. “Sorry, kid. I really want to help. Even if I did want to hire you, I can’t. If they caught me hiring someone underage, they’d fine me. Can’t afford the fine. Sorry.”
Underage.
I cursed under my breath, swallowing back the hot sting. I wouldn’t legally be able to get a job until I was fifteen. And even then, in this shitty work climate who was going to hire a fifteen year old with no experience and no skills? I knew this was coming. I knew I wouldn’t fucking get anywhere with this dumb idea. I just… I had to try, ya know?
I had just hoped…maybe…someone…anyone…would fight for me.
Just once.
2
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Diarmuid
Diarmuid [DIER-mid]: an Irish mythological hero with the power to make women fall instantly in love with him
Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit. But I wasn’t going to show up here in anything less.
I even wrote that in my will. Left instructions in black and white to whoever survives me to bury me in my favourite pair of worn leather boots, denim jeans, a plain white tee and my black leather jacket that was like a second skin, leather soft as summer butter.
The collars of these ridiculous button-up shirts were always too tight around my neck, the material strained around my barrel chest like chains making me feel like I couldn’t move my arms properly.
I felt like a fake. The stylish effect of a suit looked at odds with my shoulder-length dark hair currently pulled back into a scruffy bun. The hem of my black pants barely hid the scuffed toes of my favourite boots. Even though I shaved that morning, I couldn’t hide the long afternoon shadow across my jaw. The cuffed long sleeves couldn’t hide the ink glaring out onto the backs of my hands. Yeah, I wasn’t fooling anyone in this penguin outfit.
I stepped through the front door of a large house in the north of Limerick on the Emerald Isle’s west coast, ignoring the curious looks from the parents and students huddled around near the door. I didn’t look like a parent, not one who would have a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old child. But nobody stopped me. Nobody dared to. Sometimes there
were advantages to looking the way I did. People rarely questioned me.
Over their heads, I spotted Timmy’s mother waving at me from across the living room. I pushed my bulk through the crowd, knocking into shoulders and nearly knocking over a scowling parent with my elbow.
“Diarmuid, so glad you could make it,” Timmy’s mother said as I stepped into the space beside her. She held an e-cig in her right hand; in the other she held a pint glass with the dregs of a pale lager at the bottom, the glass wet with condensation around her glaring pink fingernails, her glassy eyes and slight sway telling me that it wasn’t her first.
She was wearing a vivid pink and white floral dress, a matching jacket over her fleshy shoulders, her unruly auburn curls tamed into one of those fancy updos.
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Mrs O’Leary.” I leaned in to dry-kiss her cheek, getting a whiff of her rose-heavy perfume.
“Come on now, call me Mary. You make me feel ancient with all this Mrs O’Leary shite.”
I grinned and enquired after the rest of her brood—four boys, Timmy was the eldest. Mrs O’Leary answered happily.
“And where’s the lovely Ava?” she asked.
“She was going to meet me here,” I said, looking at my watch, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “She’s probably just running late.”
Again.
I stabbed a curt where r u? into my phone and hit send.
“Have you seen Timmy? He’ll be wantin’ to see ye now. Oh, there he is.”
I glanced over to where Mrs O’Leary was pointing with her e-cig. My gaze fixed upon the eighteen-year-old boy-man making his way towards us with a grin slashed across his freckled face.
“Jesus, lad,” I said, pulling Timmy in for a quick hug and slapping him on the shoulder. “Look at ye.” I pulled back, shaking my head as I eyed him over. His suit was secondhand—I knew because I’d gone with him to buy it just for his Debs Ball—but it fit him well, looking nearly new. “You clean up alright.”