Page 33 of Crave

That part I fucking hated.

I stared him down, then yanked open the wardrobe. Nothing but Keeley’s Primark leggings and baggy jumpers, a Sports Direct bag spilling with Darren’s trackies, and a pile of baby clothes.

“Where’s my gear?” I slammed the doors shut, the hinges whining.

Darren didn’t look up. “I don’t fucking know, do I?” His voice was small but shaking with attitude he didn’t own.

“What did you enrol on?”

He frowned. “What?” He kept scrolling.

“College. What course did you enrol on?”

“Construction.” He didn’t look up from his phone. “Was the only one left. Gotta do Maths and English with it too.”

“Good. Maybe I can get Lennon to see if there’s any labouring jobs with his crew.” I waited to see if he’d look at me. He didn’t.

So I snatched the phone from his hands, towel slipping as I held it tight with one hand. Kid didn’t need to be seeing what a real man looked like, that was for sure.

“Oi!” he snapped, sitting up.

I glanced at the screen. A dirty site, all tits and filters. My blood boiled. So I slapped him across the head. Hard. He jerked back, hands and knees flying up to protect his stupid mug.

“You’re in my house.” I grabbed his ear, dragging him close. “Sleeping in my sister’s bed. Put your skanky DNA in my blood and made a baby, and you’ve got the fucking balls to sit here scrolling porn? Using my Wi-Fi? While she’s in the kitchen feeding your princess?”

“I was just looking.”

“You made your choice, bruv.” I tightened my grip on his hair. “The second you put that little thing inside her, you chose her and this. You live by my rules now. That clear?”

“Yeah… yeah. Sorry.”

I let go, the sting of control burning off my palm. “I’ll be taking this.” I waved his phone.

“I need a phone, Razor. What if Keeley needs me?”

“Why the fuck would she need you?” I crouched, pulled my bag from under the bed, found my gear inside, and shoved his phone in with it.

Keeley appeared in the doorway, bottle in one hand, baby tucked under the other arm. “He comes in useful sometimes.”

I pulled on my hoodie. “Yeah? Like when?”

“Like getting up at three a.m. when she’s crying. Running to the shop when I’m outta nappies. Not bolting.” Keeley eased the bottle into Maisie’s mouth. “No one ever knows where you are, do they?”

No. They fucking shouldn’t.

Still, low blow for defending a cretin.

“Don’t defend him.” I yanked on a pair of boxers under the towel.

“I’m not.” Her voice came softer now, tired. “But he’s here, Rich. That’s more than I can say for our dad.”

That hit. A clean shot, straight under the ribs.

I looked at Maisie, milk-drunk and half-asleep, one tiny hand curled in Keeley’s hoodie, quietly suckling. The little thing didn’t ask for any of this. The estate. The noise. A father who was a kid himself and an uncle like me, whose presence meant trouble.

Keeley must’ve seen it in my face because she said softly, “You don’t have to fix everything, y’know.”

I ripped off the towel and dragged on a pair of jeans. “Someone’s got to.”