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Four
Aidan
Present Day - November
"Dipshit."
Finn’s voice rumbled over me, but I didn’t look up from the sofa, from the blanket fort my forty-two-year old ass had made this morning. Instead, I remained in my little cocoon, trying to avoid the aches and pains and the general misery that was detoxing.
People said junkies were weak, that addicts were no-hopers. If they knew what it took to come down from Oxy, never mind heroin, then they’d understand that this was a level of agony few could endure.
Fewwouldendure.
And to those people, in the future, I’d tell them to go fuck themselves.
Da included.
In fact, I’d get in his fucking face, and I’d ram my fist into his—
"Oy, fucker," Finn snapped, kicking my foot. "Why the fucking fuck didn’t you fucking tell me your motherfucking ass was at Conor’s?"
"Wasn’t that pure poetry?" Conor questioned, ambling over from a part of the room I couldn’t see within the confines of my blanket fort.
He had that stupid cat in his arms, the one with diamantés and now frozen custard covering it.
I didn’t think he took the creepy ass thing to bed, but Conor rarely surprised me.
Everyone thought he was batshit because he was a genius. That was because they didn’t know the truth. Would never know it either.
A shiver whipped its way down my spine making me feel like one of those eggs in the scramblers I’d been watching on TV—
"Jesus, is he having a seizure?" Finn rasped, his concern clear even if it wasn’t my priority right now.
If I looked like I was having a seizure, then that was nothing to how this personal earthquake felt.
"Nah, he’s getting better now. Just a little longer and he’ll stop looking like Stig of the Dump."
"Who’s that?"
"A character in a novel."
"Never heard of him."
"He's by Clive King, a British author."
"Clive King?" Finn queried. "Are you being irritating on purpose?"
"No," Conor said slowly. "I don’t think I am. I mean, it’s not my fault that all you read isPlayboy."
"Feck off, and don’t you dare tell Aoife that," he groused. "I read one fucking copy when I was sixteen and it wasyours—"
"Semantics," Conor disregarded, before he plunked himself down on the sofa.
Right on top of me.
"What are you doing?" Finn spluttered.
"It stops the tremors," Conor replied easily. "Pass me the marshmallows."
