At First Sight: (inspired by Aladdin ) (A Modern Fairytale)

by Katy Regnery

  “I choose you, too.” He nods in agreement, his smile tender. “But it might hurt, macushla.”

  “Macushla?”

  “It means ‘my darlin’,” he tells me, teasing my lips as I did his. “It might hurt, my darlin’.”

  Oh, my heart, this boy kills me dead.

  “I know, caro mio,” I say, pushing my body back until my head rests on the pillows. But I want this. I bend my knees and spread my legs in invitation, holding the pose rigidly. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “Uh, well, h-hold on a second,” he says, sliding up the comforter to kneel between my legs. He runs his palms up and down my thighs, and it’s exciting and soothing at the same time. “We can…I mean, I can, uh, prepare you a little. Make it better for you.”

  My heart flutters like a trapped bird in a cage, beating so fast, it makes me dizzy. “Better?”

  “Yeah,” he whispers, leaning forward. “Better.”

  His lips slide slowly, gently along the soft skin of my inner thighs, his hair tickling my stomach as his fingers touch down gently between my legs. They spread me, exposing my core to the same cool air that puckered my breasts. Only a second later, however, the wet heat of his tongue warms me, my body flushing again as my hips lift off the bed.

  He is tender and thorough, lovingly worshipping this secret place that’s never been touched by another human being. I close my eyes and let my head loll from side to side, my breath hitching and shallow as he licks and laves, blows and sucks. A rising tide erupts in liquid heat within me, and I understand what he means about preparing me, because all I want amidst the quivering and shudders is to feel him inside of me. It’s like he’s unlocked a secret, primal gate that’s simply been waiting for the right key.

  “I want…y-you,” I stammer, my voice breathy and thin as waves of pleasure make my sex tremble endlessly.

  He slides up my chest, kissing me passionately with slick, salty lips, as his penis lines up at the entrance to my body.

  “You’re certain, macushla?” he asks me.

  I force my eyes open, blinking at him as he hovers over me, his arms almost shaking from the self-control he’s exerting.

  “I am, caro mio,” I breathe, rising slightly to welcome him as he slides into my body.

  He is big and long, stretching my virgin tunnel until I cry out from the pressure, from the sudden stab of pain that makes me clench my muscles. But Ian has my permission, and with one final thrust of his hips, he impales me, his forehead meeting mine as puffs of hot breath land on my cheek.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I can’t lie to myself: it’s uncomfortable and I will be sore tomorrow. But my heart floods with tenderness for this gentle man who has taken so lovingly what I offered, and who is trying to make the experience as good as possible for me. It’s all that I could have asked for from my first time, and I will cherish the memory of being so intimately connected with one who—for one magical night—saw me for the girl I am instead of the princess I must be.

  “Sí,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his jaw. “Better than okay.”

  His hands are flat on either side of my head as he moves rhythmically in and out of my body, each stroke more comfortable than the last, the pain from my now-broken barrier receding with each kiss, each nuzzle, each intoxicated word of tenderness and praise.

  My hands trail along the contours of his broad back, lightly, then harder, holding him tighter as his breathing gets faster, small grunts and groans of pleasure tickling my ear as he buries his head in my neck.

  I know when he climaxes because he tightens everywhere and then relaxes with a deep, satisfied, “Ahhh” sound that makes my toes curl because it’s me who’s given him such pleasure.

  He’s heavy on top of me, but it’s a blissful weight—hot and replete—and I miss it when he rolls to his side with soft pants, his eyes still closed, his lips turned up in a relaxed smile.

  “Class,” he sighs, chuckling softly as he turns to look at me. “Was that okay for you, princess?”

  We both know I didn’t orgasm with him, but how often does a virgin climax during her first time? I don’t fault him for this. Not at all. And yes, the experience was good, most of all because I made the decision for myself, and because he made it as pleasurable for me as he could. Not to mention, I have feelings for him. Real feelings. Now that we’ve shared something so terribly intimate, I think it’s possible that I love him.

  “Better than okay,” I say again, blinking my eyes against tears as I nestle into his side. “I will never forget it.”

  “It’ll feel better next time,” he promises, wrapping his arms around me as he yawns softly. “I promise, love.”

  “It was perfect,” I tell him, closing my eyes as we drift off to sleep, and meaning it with all my heart.

  CHAPTER 4

  Ian

  I told her I’d be back tonight.

  And nothing but the end of the world could stop me from keeping my promise.

  After we slept for an hour, we fucked again—slower and more tender the second time—and her little cries as we climaxed together were worth everything to me. I even murmured that I loved her. It was the first time I ever said those words aloud, and I meant them.

  It would be impossible to spend time alone with Tina and not fall in love with her. Aside from her beauty, she’s adventurous and fun, sassy and bold…and brave. So brave, I think, remembering her face as she gave herself to me, breaking the rules by which she’s expected to live.

  Her family’s only in Limerick for one more night, but I’ll be damned if we don’t make the most of it. She’s going to fake sick tonight and ask for dinner in her room.

  And me? I’ll gladly be courses one, two, and three.

  The plan is for me to sneak in at seven and stay until dawn. It’s twelve hours until then, more’s the pity. But the streets of Limerick are quiet in the bright light of a summer morning, and I can’t ever remember feeling this…happy.

  I cross the River Shannon over Sarsfield Bridge, listening to the trickle of water and feeling the wind in my hair. The city’s just waking up and there’s a hop in my step as I pass by businesses starting to open for the day. I’m not certain I’ve ever noticed the flowers at Arthur’s Quay Park before, jaunty and cheerful in the early morning sunshine. I might just pick a few for Her Serene Highness on my way back to her hotel tonight. Smiling as I consider bringing a token of love to a princess, I cross back over the river at Bridge Street, closer and closer to my neighborhood of St. Mary’s Park. The house my grandparents left me mam, that I now share with Albie and Jarlath, is only a kilometer and a half from the princess’s posh hotel.

  But it’s a whole different world here in St. Mary’s Park.

  Built as a local authority housing estate in the 1930s, it moved poor families out of the slums in the Lady’s Lane and Parnell Street areas of the city and onto the northern end of King’s Island, named, in part, for St. John’s Castle, which is located on the southern end of the island, also called Englishtown.

  Ain’t much in common between those in St. Mary’s and those in Englishtown, and if you’re visiting Limerick, you’d be well advised to stay north of the Virgin Mary statue on St. Ita’s unless you know what you’re doing. This is Keegan-Clancy territory and no mistake. Them Murphy-Doyle bastards hunker down across the city, over in Ballinacurra Weston.

  Fishing around in my pocket for the front door key, I’m surprised to hear voices coming from the kitchen. It’s too early for Jarlath to be up and about on a Saturday morning, and Albie just makes himself an egg and watches the telly. But the voices I hear ain’t on the telly. They’re real. And raised in anger. It makes a chill go down my spine.

  Making my way through the dingy front hallway, I step through a battered curtain into the kitchen where no less than seven men crowd the small room with Jarlath seated at the head of the table, half a bottle of whiskey in front of him.

  “What happened?” I demand.

  All eye
s turn to me, but it’s Sean, standing behind Jarlath, who flinches when he sees me.

  Fuck me. Something bad’s happened.

  Jarlath looks up at me, his eyes bloodshot. “Ah, here he is. Finally home, eh? A little late now, boyo.”

  I don’t look at my cousin. My eyes are locked with Sean’s.

  “What happened?” I ask again, my voice low and calm.

  Men twice my age avert their eyes from me, looking down at the table, or out the grimy window over the sink. But not Sean. He stares straight back at me and I don’t look away.

  “Tell me,” I demand, fisting my hands by my sides.

  “It’s Albie,” says Sean, blinking like mad as he speaks my little brother’s name. “I’m so sorry, Ian. He’s dead.”

  He’s…dead.

  Albie’s dead.

  The room spins.

  I can’t breathe.

  I reach for the counter to my left, lurching toward it, trying to steady myself.

  Sean meets me there, and suddenly Luke’s at my other side, arm under me shoulder, holding me up. My legs are jelly and I can’t draw a clean breath because something awful is squeezing the life out of my lungs.

  It’s not the first time I’ve learned that someone has died.

  But Albie.

  Albie.

  Fuck me and my miserable fucking existence, but I never thought it would be Albie.

  “He…he was twelve,” I bite out. “Twelve!”

  My second cousin, Frank Keegan, stands up from his chair beside Jarlath, and Sean and Luke help me sit down. Swallowing back the lump in my throat and willing myself not to cry, I stare at the worn, wooden tabletop and ask:

  “What the fuck happened?”

  Sean and Luke flank me, with a hand on each of my shoulders, as Jarlath eyes me angrily.

  “His older brother was off galivantin’ with some Italian whore and weren’t around to protect him!” spits my cousin.

  “And where were you, ya gammy feckin’ snake?”

  His eyes narrow because we all know exactly where he was: here at this table with a full bottle of whiskey that’s now half gone.

  “It was Jack Murphy and his boys,” says Luke softly. “Jumped him. Threw his bike in the river. Beat him bad.”

  “Fuuuuck,” I hiss, my heart stuttering from the awfulness of it.

  Why? I want to scream. Why Albie?

  But I already know. Killing Albie was payback for what happened in the alley behind the theater last night.

  “Don’t think they meant to kill him,” says Sean.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” asks one of my Keegan cousins. “The lad’s dead. Dead is dead. And they done it.”

  “Best we can tell, he was beat up bad, then hit by a truck whilst runnin’ outta the park,” Sean explains to me. “Blood all over his face, runnin’ blindly, just tryin’ to get away from those bastards…tryin’ to get home.”

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Park over on Oliver Plunkett. That’s where he got hit.”

  The fields were originally designed for playing soccer and the like, but they’ve been used for seedier purposes over the last few decades. Albie and his mate, Colin Clancy, often meet there on their bikes to watch the goings-on.

  “So Jack Murphy came into St. Mary’s,” I confirm.

  “Yeah,” says Luke. “Bold as fuck.”

  I slap my hands on the table. “Then we’ll be payin’ a visit to Ballinacurra Weston later today.”

  Sean lifts his hand, then resettles it on my shoulder. Luke does the same. They’re in.

  I raise my eyes to the older men at the table, a murderous rage racing through my veins. “I’ll need a piece.”

  My uncle Brian nods. “I gotcha covered, Ian. It’s old, but it works.”

  “I’ll stop by at dusk,” I say, knowing that we need to strike at night, in darkness, the same as they did to Albie. No doubt Jack Murphy will be at his favorite pub tonight, celebrating the death of my little brother. I’ll get him right in front of his people, and I don’t give a shite who knows or sees.

  A plan for revenge settled, I fold my hands before me on the table. “Where is he? Albie?”

  “Died at Bon Secours early this morning,” says Luke. “They’ll release him to family tomorrow.”

  “Wake on Tuesday,” mutters Jarlath.

  Bon Secours Hospital.

  I passed it on my walk home this morning when I was dreaming about princesses and flowers; before my entire world came crumbling down around me. Little did I know then that my little brother lay cold inside.

  No-show father. Crackhead mother. Mean, drunken shite of a cousin to look after us.

  How were Albie and I supposed to survive?

  We weren’t. We never had a fucking chance.

  I raise my eyes to my cousin who got us roped into the Keegan-Clancy gang wars in the first place.

  With one furious swipe, I knock the half-finished bottle of Jarlath’s whiskey off the table, listening to the glass shatter against the kitchen cabinets, littering the floor with shattered glass and spirits.

  “This is yer fault,” I tell my cousin, nailing him with my eyes. “May ya rot in hell for it.”

  He puffs up his chest, like he’s about to say something big, then suddenly deflates like a popped balloon, dissolving into sobs.

  Because I can’t bear another moment of this without doing the same, I push away from the table and walk away.

  ***

  Sean and Luke are waiting for me in front of my uncle Brian’s house at six o’clock.

  I’ve spent most of the day in my room, crying and drinking, but I’m not pissed. I have a high tolerance for alcohol, and besides, nothing’s going to keep me from getting revenge for Albie tonight. I’ve hurt plenty while brawling, but I’ve never killed a man. There’s a first time for everything, and Jack-fucking-Murphy is going down. I don’t care if I get a hundred years behind bars for the pleasure of watching him die by my hand.

  My uncle teaches me the basics of how to use his Browning nine-millimeter handgun, warning me that the slide can sometimes jam.

  “If that happens, hold the slide firmly in your weak hand,” he tells me. “With the strong hand, strike the back of the grip. Repeat until the slide is freed, yeah?”

  I nod, tucking the gun in the back of my jeans, and we’re off to find Jack Murphy in his favorite watering hole, The Hollering Banshee, located near his Ballinacurra neighborhood. He won’t be expecting me. Not this early. Not this soon. It’s possible he doesn’t even know that Albie is dead yet. For all I know, Jack and his boys didn’t see Albie get hit. They could’ve split the second Albie ran off.

  Plus, Jack’s an overconfident fuck, I’ve learned over our weeks of rehearsals. Even if he knows Albie is dead, he’ll think he’s untouchable, being the son of Mary and Collum Murphy and on his home turf in Ballinacurra.

  Fuck him and all Murphy scum.

  They’ve got a rude awakening coming tonight.

  As we take seats on the back of the 303 bus, I stare out the window, thinking about Albie’s last moments—how scared he must have been to get cornered by the Murphys in a park considered safe for Keegans and Clancys. I wonder how he wiggled away from them and how far out of the park he had to run. The beating had to be bad if he had so much blood in his eyes that it blinded him from seeing the lorry headlights. Did he see it coming at him right before he got hit? Did he suffer? Did he cry out for Mam? Or for me?

  My heart twists, and I clench my eyes tightly shut, opening them a few minutes later when we stop at a light…right beside the Limerick Palace Hotel. As the bus motor hums beneath my feet, I stare at the white marble building, briefly wondering if Tina’s upstairs getting ready for me.

  I won’t be able to see her, of course.

  I’ll never see her again.

  This morning, after I left her, as I was walking home, I thought to myself that it would take the end of the world for me to miss out on seeing her tonight.

>   Little did I know, my world had already ended.

  ***

  “D’ya have him, Luke? Feckin’ shite! He’s slippin’! Hold him! Hold him upright!”

  Sean is screaming and Luke is running, and I’m propped up between both of them as a searing, terrible pain shoots up my leg.

  “Where t’fuck are we even goin’, Sean? He’s bleedin’ everywhere. He’s been bloody shot!”

  I’ve been shot? I wonder, blinking my eyes. My heart is racing, but my breathing feels all wrong. Too slow. Too difficult. I can’t draw breath. I can’t think straight. My head is addled and thick.

  “St. Anne’s,” says Sean to Luke. Then to me: “You’ll be okay, Ian. Just a little farther.”

  “St. Anne’s?” asks Luke. “The mental hospital?”

  “It’s close,” pants Sean, “and besides, Trímian works there.”

  “Trímian, the director? Of the show? He’s a bloody psychiatrist, Sean! We need a real doctor, for chrissakes!”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” says Sean. “Ya holdin’ up, Ian?”

  Being half-dragged through the streets of Limerick with my leg on fire and my friends talking back and forth in short, terrified bursts doesn’t have me feeling aces.

  “Wha’…happened?” I mumble.

  My voice doesn’t sound right at all. It’s soft and weak like I’ve been drugged.

  “You shot Jack. Tavis-feckin’-Doyle shot you. We lit outta there.”

  Sirens sound loudly in a neighborhood not too far away.

  “When did I…pass out?”

  “I dunno,” says Luke. “It all happened so feckin’ fast!”

  I don’t remember shooting Jack, and I don’t remember being shot. The last thing I remember clearly was following Jack to the toilet. The rest is a blur of white-hot rage, shouting, and pain.

  “Feckin’ hell, Luke! Hold him up! I can’t hold him alone. One more block.”

  I look up at the night sky, but I can’t see the stars.

  It doesn’t matter.