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Owww.
I reach up and touch my cheek that’s burning from the smack. The tears I’d been holding onto all night escape their confines and race down my cheeks. I can’t help but snap my head up, shooting him a horrified, accusatory look.
Whatever hateful alcohol-induced fury had been possessing him melts away and his features pinch in a pained way, like he suddenly realizes what he’s just done. He takes a step toward me and I cower in response.
“D-Dad,” I croak out. “Y-You hit me.”
He grabs hold of my shoulders, hauling me to my feet. I yelp when I’m dragged into his forceful hug.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Dammit, I’m sorry.” He strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head. “I drank too much and you know what that does to me.”
A sob that won’t be quieted garbles its way out. I shudder in his grip. He strokes my back, clearly attempting to calm me.
Why is this my life?
At least it was me and not her this time.
But when he hurts me, it’s different. It’s worse.
“Please forgive me,” he begs. “Please.”
Never. I’ll never forgive him.
“I forgive you,” I lie.
“That’s my good girl. My sweet, sweet girl.”
Chapter Ten
Scout
Wednesday
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The second hand on my black BLVGARI Octo Finissimo skeleton watch—one of the last gifts from my mother before she went to prison—moves silently, only the slightest jerk as it moves from second to second.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I supply the ticking sound inside my head. Just like when I was a child. We’d had an antique grandfather clock I used to sit and watch for a full hour straight just to hear it chime when it hit the top of the hour. It was even more spectacular whenever it’d turn noon or midnight, the sounds going on for what seemed like an eternity. Those audible, constant ticks were soothing to me. Warm and comforting.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
These days, not much soothes or warms me. The cold darkness I’d been afraid would consume me when I was a child has slowly crept its way inside me as time wanes on. I’m barely able keep it out anymore. If it weren’t for the constant nearness of my brothers, it’d probably swallow me whole.
I suppress a shudder at that thought. Being separated from my brothers would be my ultimate demise.
They probably think I hate them. Worse yet, don’t feel anything for them. It couldn’t be further from the truth. My brothers have always been in the center of my world, no matter how dark and demented it gets.
Dark and demented is an understatement. Sometimes, I lose control. Completely. My anger is like a flame on a matchstick, seemingly harmless and not at all bright. But it always explodes. Hits gasoline and spreads until it consumes…everything. I don’t actively set out to destroy everything in our lives.
It. Just. Happens.
The gun last night was an example. I saw Sully and Sparrow have their silent “he’s fucking crazy” talks about me. They forget I can hear. I’m in on the whole triplet mental communication.
I honestly thought it was some asshole I beat the shit out of for Bryant. The prick said he’d find out where I lived and pop a cap in me when I least expected it. Since we’re hidden from anyone actively searching from us, I wasn’t too worried. Yet, when I heard the banging, I had this awful fear that spineless prick was going to shoot one of my brothers in the damn face.
I lost it.
It turned out to be nothing and now my brothers think I’m even more of a head case than I already am.
The darkness that thrives inside me can fuck off if it thinks it’s going to scare my brothers off. I’ll keep it at bay in order to keep them. I have to.
My phone buzzes, tugging on the tether I’ve managed to keep my hold on of reality, and drags me to the present. The murky darkness fades and the interior of my car sharpens into view. I inhale a deep breath, letting the scent of new leather ground me before picking my phone up from the cupholder and checking my messages. It’s the group text with my brothers.
Sparrow: Your cat’s a bitch, Sull.
Sully: I know, but so are you, so I guess you’re both even.
Smirking, I add in my own two cents.
Me: She’s my cat now.
Sparrow: Are cats allowed in Hell?
I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself when I see movement from my periphery. I settle for a quick middle finger emoji before shoving my phone in my pocket and sliding out of my vehicle.
This morning I feel like Sparrow—donning a bespoke Tom Ford suit and looking like a million bucks. I prefer when I can dress how I want, but this new job Bryant has us on requires a little more than the usual from each of us. We’re no longer fists and muscles and terror. We’re sly and sneaky and manipulative. It’s not what I prefer to be doing, but it keeps things interesting.
