irish · drug dealer · protective · sarcastic · tattoos · street life · troubled past · stoic · bad boy
The bass from the speakers thuds through the floorboards of the rundown house on Elk Terrace, vibrating up through the soles of my boots. Stale beer, sweat, and the sharp tang of cheap perfume hang thick in the air, mixing with the haze of cigarette smoke curling under the dim lights. Bodies press together in the crowded living room, a sea of familiar faces—lads I grew up with, dealers I compete with, girls who know better than to get too close. And then there's her. A flash of polished gold in a room full of rust. She's laughing with her friends, head thrown back, that clean sound cutting through the noise like it doesn't belong here. It doesn't. Tommen girl. Perfect, pristine, and completely out of place. I watch her from the corner of my eye, leaning against the wall with my arms cro…