Page 16 of Last Round

Bex: *GIF of people celebrating*

Bex: I knew it.

Me: Stop it. You know better than anyone. I’m the last girl Killian would ever think about in that way.

Bex: Test him.

Bex: Come over tonight. I’ve got a plan.

Me: What?

Bex: Do you trust me?

Me: With this? No…

Punishment

Killian

WouldIsayI’ma good guy? By Ma’s definition, that would be a resoundingno.

For starters, I quit going to church the instant I moved out of the house, and she couldn’t force me to attend anymore. The threat ofif you’re not dressed and in the car in five minutes, then you can pack your bagsdidn’t quite hit the same once I was paying my own rent.

Not to say getting out of church was the only reason I moved out, but it sure helped sway me to accept Sean’s offer to live with him. His invitation was less about getting me out from under Ma’s thumb, and more about him needing help after his dad passed.

I never missed a service before. Not even when I had chicken pox or that time I had mono. Ma insisted on extra bible studies when I got sick with thekissing disease. Let’s just say after that first Saturday night mass I skipped, I waited anxiously for a higher power to smite me down. The only smiting happened when Ma called and told me all the ways I’d disappointed her and how they would continue to pray for my damned soul in her group.

There was a time I was pissed at my brother Cian for enlisting in the Army the second he turned eighteen and determined Cassie and I were old enough to manage on our own. Ma had always been a bit eccentric, but she kicked it up several notches when he shipped out. At first, I understood. We were all scared. Except it never mellowed.

Although I might not be the devoted Catholic my mother is, guilt over my poor attendance still ate away at me. Not that I lacked faith, just wanted to explore it my own way.

To help alleviate my guilt, keep the nightmares at bay, and hopefully save my soul, I made sure to do good with the bad. In hopes it would outweigh or at least neutralize some of my miscreant ways.

Take the Lord’s name in vain: donate to charity.

Have premarital sex: drop nonperishables at the shelter.

Skip church: go to the local youth center and host a self-defense class.

Even when I’m not making up for my indiscretions, I’ve always been a charitable guy. Helping someone whenever I can, looking out for our neighborhood, protecting those in need. Not trying to be Batman or anything. We’ve just always been a tight-knit community and we look out for our own, how ever we can. It’s not always about beating up some asshole who got too handsy. Sometimes it’s about helping Mrs. Watson mow her lawn because she’s a ninety-year-old widow on a fixed income. Not that I do it myself. Instead, I pay Connor, the thirteen-year-old son of an overworked single mom. I got him set up to help Mrs. Watson. Now he has half the neighborhood hiring him and has started a small enterprise.

I understand none of this is exactly in line with the lessons Father Flannigan hoped to bestow upon me. But it has to count for something? Doesn’t it?

I used to believe it did. But now I’m not so sure.

Because, more recently, I can’t help but wonder if God is punishing me or the devil is tempting me to commit the ultimate sin…

Ma might have written off my soul long ago—granted, after her own indiscretions came to light last year, her holier-than-thoucomments don’t deliver the same punch—but there are some lines I never dreamed of crossing. Considering my reputation, that line is a brick wall buried in the darkest of forests. So high the top is lost in the stormy clouds. There ain’t much I won’t do. So, the things I deem wrong are the worst of the worst.

Yet I can’t look away. Every day the material of her skirt seems to disappear, and the tiny shirts she wears become impossibly smaller. Making her peaked nipples painfully visible each time she passes under the AC vent. I’ve started to contemplate how long it will take me to scale that impenetrable barrier I put around all those dirty deeds I think about doing to her.

This is cruel. It’s unusual. And for fuck’s sake, it’s a karmic punishment if I’ve ever seen one.

It’s been almost twenty years since I last stepped foot into good old Saint Pete’s, and each night for the past week, ever since I made that dumb comment about the uniforms, I’ve considered going and confessing all my sins. Spill every sordid detail. Seek my penance and pray for mercy because I’m about to break. Except even I doubt there are enough “Hail Marys” to save me from my eternal damnation.

As if the devil’s listening, Molly bends over the table, wiping it down. The six-inch strappy heels she’s wearing today mixed with the micro skirt give me—and every other asshole in here—a prime view of her lacy crimson panties.Fuck me.

She’s definitely not little Molly anymore.

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