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“Breaking her back over you!” Dad roared. “Working herself to the bone because you’re a spoiled little cunt who thinks she’s better than everyone.”
“I don’t think I’m better than anyone,” I mumbled, and then immediately regretted throwing verbal petrol on his already burning temper.
“Look at you,” Dad sneered, waving a hand at me. “In your fancy fucking private school uniform. Coming home late. Thinking you are God’s fucking gift. Were you whoring yourself around?” he demanded, taking a few staggering steps toward me. “Is that why you’re late again? Got yourself a little boyfriend?”
I immediately recoiled but didn’t dare open my mouth to defend myself. He wouldn’t believe me either way. Nine times out of ten, it made it worse.
And ten times out of ten, answering him back resulted in a stinging cheek.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve been messing around with one of those posh rugby pricks with Daddy’s money at your precious Tommen,” he sneered. “Spreading your legs like the dirty little tramp you are!”
“I don’t have a boyfriend, Dad,” I strangled out.
Swinging his arm back, he whacked me across the face with the rolled-up paper. “Don’t fucking lie to me, girl!”
“I’m not lying,” I sobbed, clutching my burning cheek.
Being slapped across the face with a rolled-up newspaper might not sound like a painful thing, but when the man yielding the weapon weighed three times what I did, it hurt.
“Explain this, then,” my father demanded. Tearing open the newspaper, he roughly flicked through the pages until stopping on the sports section. “Explain him!”
Blinking away tears, I looked down at the page Dad was pointing at and immediately felt my blood run cold. There I was, in full Technicolor, smiling for the stupid photographer, with Johnny’s arm wrapped around my waist, all smiles and blushed cheeks.
I couldn’t think about the picture or question why it was printed in the biggest newspaper in Ireland because I was terrified.
I was so frightened that I could taste it.
You’re going to die, Shannon. This is the night he’s going to kill you…
“He’s the captain of the rugby team,” I hurried to say, trying to think up a lie to get myself out of the beating I knew full well I was about to receive. “They won some big match,” I rambled, desperately clutching at straws. “Mr. Twomey, the principal, had us all stand in for a picture with him… I don’t even know him, Dad, I swear!”
I knew I should have expected my father’s next move—he’d perfected it to a fine art down through the years—but when he clutched my throat and slammed me against the fridge, I was still caught off guard.
Squeezing tightly, he hissed, “You are lying to me—”
“I’m…not,” I strangled out, clawing at his hands. “Dad…please…I can’t…breathe—”
The sound of the front door opening and then quickly closing filled the air. Dad released my throat and I physically sagged in relief. Gasping for air, I scrambled away from him.
Seconds later, Joey appeared in the doorway, looking like a gift sent from God with a grease-stained face and oil-covered overalls. Joey patted Dad’s shoulder and then pushed him aside with ease before strolling into the kitchen, swinging a set of keys around his fingers. “How’s it going, family?”
He looked relaxed and sounded cheerful, but the tightness around his eyes assured me that he was anything but. Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world was Joey’s coping mechanism.
Mine was turning mute.
“Joey,” Dad acknowledged, looking slightly more alert now at the presence of the more dominant alpha in the family.
Our father may be big and bitter, but Joey was bigger and faster.
“Boys up in bed?” Joey asked, grabbing a can of Coke from the fridge.
Dad nodded but didn’t take his eyes off me.
“Where’s Mam?” Joey asked, obviously trying to ease the tension. Cracking open the cap, he took a deep swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still at work?”
“Your mother’s at work and this one here is late home again,” our father barked. He pointed a finger at me and slurred, “Missed her fucking bus apparently.”
“I know,” Joey replied breezily, before turning his attention to me. “How’s it going, Shan?”
