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Twenty-One
Brennan
By the timemy prick of a younger brother let me into his apartment, I was already regretting leaving things the way I had with Camille.
Mostly because my dick was aching, but also because she wasn’t my fucking lap dog and I’d just bossed her about like she was a prize poodle.
If that made me grouchier than I usually was, then, sue me.
One of Conor’s crew, a friend of the family, Callum O’Reilly opened the door for me, which told me he was on his way out.
We bumped fists asnoxxious, Kid’s favorite band, bellowed through the speakers—Conor had a real boner for 80’s hair bands.
Grimacing because I hated this kind of shit, I yelled over the music, “You doing okay, man? Haven’t seen you in fucking ages.”
“Couldn’t be better.” Callum shot me a grin. “Priestley’s pregnant.”
“Congrats.” I shoved his shoulder. “Who the fuck would have imagined you as a dad?”
“Trust me, Conor’s giving me enough shit about it.” His grin turned from pleased to wry. “I can’t believe it myself to be fair.” He cast a look at the door. “Then, you see shit like this, and you remember the crap we got up to when we were kids. That part I’m not looking forward to.”
“What’s happened?”
Callum’s nose wrinkled. “You’ll find out soon enough. I’d stick around for the fireworks, but Priestley’s got her first ultrasound. Had to pay her bitch of a doctor a fucking fortune to see us this late at night.”
“Give her my best, Cal, won’t ya?”
“Cheers, Bren. I will.” He clapped me on the shoulder and said, “We need to catch up. You’re right, it’s been ages.” He pulled a face. “Moving to Staten Island has really messed with my social life.”
“Lucky you.” I grinned. “Message me when my prick of a brother gives you some time off, and we’ll meet up for drinks.”
“Sounds great.” He waved at me, and left me to lock up behind him.
Being forewarned, in my family, wasn’t necessarily forearmed, so I girded my goddamn loins as I headed down the corridor, toward Conor’s living room.
The second I breached the doorway, I hollered, “Turn this fucking shit down.”
Conor accommodated me quickly, meaning I could hear myself think, but when I entered the room, I found Shay, our nephew, standing there awkwardly, sporting two shiners, and my thoughts jammed to a halt.
“What the fuck?” I demanded, watching as Shay straightened his shoulders while Conor slumped back on one of his sofas. Striding over to him, I grabbed his chin, tipped his head up and snapped, “Who do I need to kill?”
Conor hummed. “Let’s not frighten the kid just yet, hmm?”
“Little man’s seen more shit than most his age,” I disregarded, seeing Shay’s fear and nerves unlocking before my eyes. “He has to know he’s an O’Donnelly now. That means we’ll fight his battles for him.”
“But I don’t want you to!” Shay snapped, his hands balling into fists.
After a day, barely even that, it was almost second nature to snap at him to unfurl his fingers like I was doing with Camille whenever I saw her do that, but Shay wasn’t self-harming.
Thank Christ.
“Dude wants to protect himself,” Conor told me, lifting his legs and crossing them at the ankle as he rested them on this weird cat ornament he’d bought a while ago. It was five feet tall, two feet wide, studded in diamantes, and was enough to give any bastard nightmares if they stubbed their toe on it in the middle of the night.
“Yeah, I do. Conor said if I wanted that then you’d be the one to teach me.”
I shook my head. “Declan’s a nasty fighter.”
“You’re nastier.” Conor smirked. “Plus, he’s a dad now. He can’t be teaching his kid that kind of shit, can he?”
