Binding 13 (Boys of Tommen, #1)

by Chloe Walsh

Her blue eyes were big and round and fucking beautiful, with small hues of yellow dotting through them, rimmed with thick long lashes. I wasn’t even sure I’d ever seen that shade of blue before. It certainly didn’t shake anything up in the memory bank. Hands do...

She had long, elbow-length dark-brown hair that was thick and curled at the ends. And hidden behind the mountain of hair was a small heart-shaped face, smooth, clear skin, and a tiny dimple in her chin. Perfect-shaped dark eyebrows that arched above those killer eyes of hers. A tiny button nose, high cheekbones, and these puffy, swollen lips. Lips that were a natural rosy red and kind of looked like she had been sucking on...

I blew out a relieved breath. “Hi.” “That’s really your face?” she asked, eyes drooping, as she studied me with a vacant expression. “It’s so pretty.” “Uh, thanks?”

“Who are you?” she croaked out, depending entirely on my hands to keep her head upright. “I’m Johnny,” I told her, biting back a smirk. “Who are you?” “Shannon,” she whispered.

A faint scar caught my eye where her temple met her hairline. Without thinking about what I was doing, I trailed a finger over the inch-long indent of skin and asked, “What happened here?”

“Here.” I trailed my finger over the old mark. “What’s this from?” “My dad,” she replied, breathing out a heavy sigh. My hand stilled as my brain registered her fucked-up answer. “Come again?”

Without thinking twice about what I was doing, I reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears. I felt her tremble from the contact and quickly scolded myself for the move. Don’t touch her, dickhead.

“I am sorry,” I told her, tone gruff now and thick. “For what?” she whispered, seeming to lean closer as she chewed on her bottom lip. “Hurting you,” I replied honestly. Christ, my voice didn’t even sound like it belonged to me. It was strained…raw.

“No one is going to say a word about you.” “But they all saw me—” “Nobody is going to open their mouth about it.” Realizing my tone was bordering on angry, I brought it down a notch and tried again. “Not the team, Coach, or anyone else. I won’t let them.” She blinked her confusion. “You won’t let them?” “That’s right,” I confirmed with a nod. “I won’t let them.”

“Yeah,” I replied gruffly, feeling like I would promise all the fucking promises in the world just to make this girl feel better. “I’ve got your back.” “No, you got my head,” she croaked out. She glanced down at her body and sighed. “Actually, I think you ruined all of me.”

Thank fuck for that, because you’re ruining all of me right now, I thought to myself.

Hehe

She was just so fucking pretty. I hated that word. Pretty was a pussy word used by women and the elderly, but that’s what she was. Fuck, I had a feeling that her pretty face would be cemented in the fore point of my mind for a very long time.

But it was those wild eyes that really struck me, and I had this crazy urge to google eye color charts just so I could figure out the fucking color blue in her eyes. I would do that later, I decided. Creepy or not, I needed to know.

Hehe

I had no explanation for why I wanted to keep her talking to me. I guess I could scratch it down to needing to keep her conscious. But deep down I knew that wasn’t the reason.

“I’m…” She paused and glanced down at her knees. Releasing a small sigh, she looked back to my face and said, “I’m actually hot.” “Completely fucking accurate assessment.” The highly inappropriate response was out of my mouth before I had a chance to filter myself.

Lmaoooooo

should be in sixth year, but I repeated sixth class when I moved to Cork. I’ll be eighteen in May.” “Hey—me too!” “You too what?” I asked cautiously, trying not to get my hopes up, but it was a hard thing to do with her sitting so close. “I repeated a class in primary school.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Now why in the holy hell did I have to ask that?

Pregnant women made me nervous, but not nearly as much as Shannon like the river did.

I would keep a wide-ass berth. I didn’t need the hassle. Girls were a fucking complication I didn’t need, even little ones with wild blue eyes. Dammit, now I was thinking about her eyes again. She still has your jersey, I mentally noted, which made me sad for a whole different reason.

“Well,” he began slowly. “She had her pussy and ass out, Cap—a very nice ass that matches the very nice rest of her—so yeah, lad. There’s been talk.” “What kind of talk?” I bit out, feeling an irrational surge of anger boil inside of me.

“She’s gorgeous and she’s new and the lads are… curious,” he added, choosing his words carefully. “New is always fun—” He paused, grinning, before adding, “Gorgeous is better.” “It stops,” I growled, agitated at the concept of my teammates talking about her. I saw that look in her eyes. I heard it in her voice.

Something had happened to Shannon Lynch, something bad enough that resulted in her switching schools. It didn’t sit well with me.

If I had to say what type of female I was interested in, it wouldn’t be blonds or brunettes, curvy or skinny. My type was older—with every girl I’d ever been with having at least a couple of years on me. Sometimes many more. It wasn’t a fetish or anything.

In a way, my childhood was robbed from me because of my ability to play rugby.

“Since when did you start giving a shite about what any of us do?” “I don’t. Do whatever and whoever the hell you want,” I countered heatedly. “Just not her.”

“Listen up,” I barked, drawing everyone’s attention to me. “That girl on the pitch earlier?” I waited until I had my teammates’ attention and then I waited for understanding to cross their features before bursting into a rant. “What happened to her out there today? It would be embarrassing as hell for anyone and especially for a girl. So, I don’t want to hear one word of it repeated around school or town.”

McGarry was a mediocre rugby player at best, playing scrum half for the school this season, and a goddamn pain in my arse to cover on the pitch. He was only on the team in the first place because his mother was the coach’s sister. It certainly wasn’t for his talent. It gave me great pleasure taking him down a peg or ten at any given opportunity.

“Is she yours now or something, Kavanagh?” “Well she’s certainly not yours, prickface,” I shot back without hesitation. “Not that I was including you in that statement.”

Not one person tried to stop me when I barreled toward Ronan. No one dared. I had hit my quota of bullshit for the day and the lads knew it.

At five foot ten and sixteen years old, Ronan wasn’t small by any means, but at seventeen, six foot three, and growing, I was a big bastard. Off the pitch, I rarely used my size to intimidate anyone, but I would use it now.

AHHHHHHH

I was sick to death of this kid and his mouth. He had no goddamn respect, and hell, maybe I could handle his crappy attitude and aggression toward me. But not her.

“I’m your daddy on the field, bitch.” I smiled darkly and squeezed, cutting off his air supply.

“Keep pushing me, kid, and it won’t matter who you’re related to; you’ll be off this team. But go anywhere near that girl, and God himself won’t be able to save you.”

I was also sore as shit down there. Cock, balls, groin, thighs. Every part of me ached. All the damn time. I wasn’t sure whether my balls hurt more from the injury or the need for release.

I was a confident person by nature but walking around with an out-of-commission dick—with no endgame in sight—meant that my self-esteem had taken a battering.

She ended up having to help me get dressed, raging hard-on and all, and then rush me to the hospital, where I was scolded by the doctor on call for interfering with myself. I shit you not, she used those exact words before delving into a deeply disturbing rant about the dangers of masturbating so soon after the surgery I had, and the long-term ramifications it could have for my penis—with my mother sitting next to me.

LOLOLOL OH MY GODDDD

I was a pissed-off almost-eighteen-year-old with a broken dick and a deflated ego.

I would stick to business and accountancy. An unlikely passion for a rugby head but it was right up my street. I would get a standard degree in business, play until well into my thirties, retire before my body completely gave up on me, and then pursue my master’s. See, I had it all planned out. No room for change. No room for girlfriends. And no goddamn room for injuries.

I ate clean, I trained hard, and I followed every order, suggestion, and demand given to me by my coaches and trainers. It wasn’t an easy lifestyle to uphold, but it was the one I had chosen for myself. I trusted my gut and pursued my dreams with relentless drive, taking comfort in the fact that I was almost there. Until I made it—and I would make it—I would continue to make the sacrifices and remain focused, dedicated, and undistracted from bullshit teenage drama.

A girl, a fucking female I’d known for no longer than two hours, had managed to do what no one else ever had: knock me off-kilter. Shannon like the river was on my mind, and I didn’t fucking like it.

I was an obsessive bastard by nature, with a one-track mind that was currently—and solely—programmed on her. I had to know more. I needed more.

It mattered that she was able to do this to me. It mattered that, hours later, I was still thinking about her, wondering about her, and inevitably worrying about her. It mattered that she mattered when no one ever mattered to me before. Fuck, now I was confused about all the matters.

I couldn’t concentrate on business qualifications if I tried. My head was too clouded with words of warning and images of sad blue eyes.

I stared down at the folder. “What’s this?” “A present,” Gibsie replied, adjusting the visor. “Homework?” I deadpanned. “Wow. Thanks so much.” “It’s yer one Shannon’s file,” he corrected, rolling down the sleeves of his jumper. “No doubt your obsessive ass was looking for it.” Well, shite.

Pages upon pages of incidents and reports all neatly typed out on white paper, detailing every horrendous ordeal the girl had suffered in her old school—and there had been a lot.

A few pages in, I learned that Shannon had slipped from a solid C student at the beginning of first year to scraping D’s and E’s by the end of second year. Attached to her less-than-stellar exam results were notes from her former teachers, praising her gentle nature and diligent and conscientious work ethic.

She was the victim of bullying. They cut her ponytail off when she was in first year. When she was thirteen. Their punishment for such a crime was a week’s suspension. Seriously. A week off school for cutting a girl’s fucking hair off. Girls. They were so goddamn sick and twisted.

The more I read, the sicker I felt in my stomach… Incident in P.E. resulting in a bloody nose. Vomiting incident in the bathroom. Incident in woodwork with a glue gun. Issue after school with third-year girls. Another vomiting incident in the bathroom. Issue before school with fourth-year girls. Refusal to take part in overnight school bonding retreat. Were they fucking kidding? Many, many more vomiting incidents. Referral to educational psychologist. Older brother lodges fourth complaint about the bullying.

Assault in the schoolyard, older brother suspended. Older brother must have sorted it himself. Isolation reported by several teachers. Serious physical assault by three older students, Gardaí called. No shit, Sherlock. Older brother suspended again for intervening. Removal from school at the request of mother. About fucking time. School records requested by the principal at Tommen College. Horrified didn’t being to describe my feelings when I was finished reading. Pissed off didn’t quite fit the bill, either. Disgusted, disturbed, and wholly enraged seemed a more accurate assessment of my feelings.

That feeling I had earlier today? The pain I was so sure I’d seen in her eyes. It was real, it was there, I recognized it, and now I could do something about it. I could prevent anything like this from happening again. It wouldn’t happen again. Not on my goddamn watch.