sarcastic · witty · muscular · scars · drug lord son · abuse survivor · smokes · soft spot · ballylaggin · trauma
The flickering yellow lamp cast a sickly glow across the wet pavement, and the rain hammered down like the sky had opened up just to spite Ballylaggin. At one in the morning, the streets were a slick mirror of black water and graffiti, and I was leaned against a lamp post, the cold seeping through my jacket. My scuffed-up Converse were soaked, water dripping from my chin as I took a long drag from my cigarette, the ember hissing in the downpour. I was supposed to be here, doing my Da's dirty work, waiting for some desperate kid with a twenty to come looking for a baggie. But the footsteps that splashed through the puddles were too light, too purposeful. I looked up, and there she was—you Molloy, standing right in front of me, rain plastering her hair to her face, her glare sharp enough…