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I don’t deserve a damn thing, and clearly, the big guy upstairs feels the same. Not that I’m much of a religious man either these days. My sins are of the darkest kind, and I doubt a man like me will earn enough forgiveness to secure a place in heaven. I’m confident there’s a seat waiting for me in hell with my name on it. Probably the throne because even my soul is too dark for the devil to control.
“Well, maybe I can cheer you up at least.” Sugar’s lips twist up, and now we’re back to happy constipated again.
Fuck. I need another shot.
I must say that out loud because the next thing I know, Sugar reaches behind her and grabs two glasses. She holds one up to me, and I accept it. She swings hers back before she leans forward again. I see the kiss coming even in my buzzed state and move my head at the last second so that instead of my lips, she gets my cheek. I don’t care much for kissing. It feels too intimate and often gives the girl the wrong idea when all I need is her mouth on my cock or my cock in her cunt.
She presses her alcohol-wet lips to my cheek as one of her hands moves to pop open the buttons of my shirt while the other fumbles with my belt buckle. She awkwardly rocks against my lap as she struggles with my clothes. I lean my head back against the couch cushion, close my eyes, and sigh, content to just let Sugar take the lead. I am the birthday boy after all, right?
Suddenly, a wave of heat flashes across my body, but it’s not because of Sugar and her desperate grinding. No. This is from something else. It’s like that sixth sense that tells you someone is watching you.
I raise my head, open my eyes, and stare into the most captivating pair of emerald-green eyes. The strobe lights highlight the soft waves of her red hair, making the strands look like a waterfall of fire flowing down her back. Her dress falls off one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of her neck and hugging the rest of her body in a way that's impossible to ignore. Lost in the throes of the music, she moves with an effortless grace, her body an extension of the melody.
My eyes move down her body, lingering on her supple chest and long, toned legs. I know beautiful women. They surround me daily. But even the most gorgeous women pale compared to her. She possesses a beauty beyond this world that I’ve never seen before.
I’ve always been so certain of my beliefs. But seeing her at this moment makes me question each one. That maybe magic, and fairy tales, and birthday wishes are real after all because an angel stands before me. Sent down from heaven to save my tortured soul from the darkness that holds it hostage. I’m ready for my rapture.
2
Rose
January
As far as prisons go, Miami is a pretty one.
The depressing thought leaves me missing Ireland's wild, rolling green hills even more. At least in the Dublin countryside, I was free amid the vastness of nature—the rich forests, the bubbling creeks and rushing rivers, and the jagged cliffs that drop off right into the ocean.
The car slows and turns off the main road. Security barely has the gates open before we’re driving through them. Once we pass through the heavy tree-lined and guarded entrance, the driveway opens up to the property's meticulously maintained green front acreage. We round a slight bend, and the O’Leary estate comes into view in all its majestic glory.
The two-story mansion wraps around a circular plot to accommodate the massive house. Inside are eight bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, a luxurious kitchen, a state-of-the-art gym, and a movie theater. Outdoors, the estate boasts an infinity swimming pool that overlooks Biscayne Bay.
If Miami is my prison, then this house is my cell.
The driver pulls around to the front of the house and parks. A guard approaches and opens my door, but I stay rooted to my seat. Because I know the moment I step out, the reality of being back in Miami after ten years away will hit me as hard as the humidity that hangs in the air, even in January.
“Miss O’Leary?” The guard ventures curiously. “Would you like help?”
I close my eyes to resist rolling them because no, I don’t need help. Ignoring his outstretched hand, I slide out of the car and walk beneath the stone arch that leads to the front door. As soon as I look up the marble steps, a true smile stretches across my face when I see the beautiful woman in her mid-twenties standing in the open doorway. Waves of dark hair cascade around her shoulders, and her brown eyes sparkle as brightly as her smile. I jog up the last few steps and am greeted with the warm embrace of my big sister.
“Grace.” I whisper her name like it’s hard for me to accept that I’m finally holding her in my arms. Video calls can only ease the pain for so long before the physical ache becomes too much.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Grace whispers softly into my hair as she squeezes me tighter. “I can’t believe I’m hugging you again.”
“I missed you too.”
The trauma from the car accident ten years ago, which took our mother and little brother but spared me, left an everlasting wound on my soul that will never fully heal. A wound that, for a time after I first left, haunted me with a fear that I would never see my sister again, let alone ever hold her in my arms.
I experienced what all the therapists I saw following the accident called survivor’s guilt. I know the accident wasn’t my fault. I didn’t cause the other driver to drink and drive. I didn’t make him run that red light. I didn’t ask him to hit our car so hard that it rolled several times, making it nearly impossible for the first responders to get us out.
Still, I struggled with depression for years. Plagued by the same terrible thoughts and questions.
Why did they have to die?
Why take Aiden, only ten years old, with the rest of his life ahead of him?
Why spare me?
But don’t pity the dead. Pity the living, right?
