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Too Good to Be True…or Safe
JOEY
After spending a grand total of seven minutes in front of the judge, John Kavanagh not only had my case thrown out, but had somehow managed to coerce a judge—a fucking judge—to take pity on me enough to apologize to me.
If I wasn’t drowning in the unbearable pain of my latest comedown, I would have been seriously impressed with the man’s powers of persuasion.
Completely fucking reeling, I sat in the passenger seat of his high-end Mercedes after court, too overwhelmed to argue when he took me back to the manor.
I needed something.
Anything to take the edge off.
The adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins earlier had long since deserted me, leaving my body cold to the bone and every muscle attached to me aching. It didn’t seem to matter how fiercely my mind protested or my heart resisted; the physical pain from withdrawals was too goddamn much for me to handle.
I hated myself for not being strong enough to push it down anymore, but it was too big for me.
It was too big of a fight.
I couldn’t win.
“Sit down, Joey love,” Edel instructed when I walked into her kitchen a little while later. Feeling like an intruder, I wanted to be just about anywhere else. “How are you feeling? How’s your face? How did court go? Oh, you poor love, you’re all battered and bruised.”
“Give the boy some breathing space, sweetheart,” John said, following me over to the island. “Sit down, Joey. We can talk.”
I didn’t want to sit down.
I wanted to talk even less.
But I owed the man my freedom.
If a conversation was all he wanted as payment for keeping my ass out of prison, then I would gladly give it to him.
Slumping down on a stool at the island, I had to resist the urge to lash out and react when his wife literally put her hands on my head.
“Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the donkey,” she strangled out, investigating my scalp like a mother would check their child’s hair for lice. “What happened to your skull?” she demanded, pushing clumps of my hair aside as she trailed her fingers over my head.
My father happened.
“Edel,” John said in a slightly sterner tone. “He’s not Johnny, sweetheart. You can’t touch the boy like that.”
“But he’s—”
“Sweetheart.”
“Right, right.” Thankfully, she removed her hands and took a step back, giving me some personal space. “Sorry, Joey love.”
“It’s grand,” I said, trying to appease her and wanting them to know that I was grateful for their weird intrusion on my life. Even if I couldn’t stop the full-body shudder that rolled through me. “I’m, ah, I just… I’m not a hugger.”
“Not a hugger,” she repeated, sounding like she was storing that piece of information safely away. “Got it, love. No hugs.”
“Relax,” John coaxed, giving his wife a wink. “Just be yourself, sweetheart.”
“I’m trying,” she replied as she buzzed around the kitchen like a tiny blond whirlwind, fetching cups and saucers. “I’m just nervous.”
“Why?” I asked, instantly on edge. My gaze flicked to John. “What’s going on?”
“Remember earlier, when I said that we would talk after court?” John answered, tone eerily calm.
