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Opening the vanity drawer, I reach for the swab and rub over the rim to collect as much of Connor’s saliva as I can. Once done, I drop the swab into the specimen jar and screw the lid on tight. One down, two to go.
Leaving the glass on the vanity, I open the door and what I see has me wishing I didn’t leave it behind as I’d have used it to gouge out the eyeball of the fucker who has his hands all over Babydoll.
“What’s goin’ on here?” I coolly ask, walking toward the ballbag who is definitely a peeler.
“Mind yer business,” he snaps, looking over Babydoll’s head to address me.
“Thisismy business,” I contest. “And soon it’ll be yer hand I’ll be breakin’ if ya don’t let her go.”
Babydoll turns over her shoulder to look at me as the fucker has a hold of her wrist. She looks worried, but not scared as she yanks herself free.
“Do ya know who I am, ya dirty wee hallion?” he threatens, puffing out his chest.
“I don’t give a fuck who ya are. Touch her again and y’ll know who I am.”
“I know who ye are, ya wee blurt.”
“Dead-on,” I mock. “Then we don’t need any introductions.”
Babydoll looks between us, chewing her lip.
I stand my ground, daring this bastard to fight me, but he realizes the consequences are not worth it. “Ack, have yer slut. Yer welcome to her.”
He shoves her into the wall, and just as she’s about to advance and give him an earful, I beat her to the punch—literally. I elbow him in the nose before making good on my promise of breaking his hand.
He howls, his bravado quick to break, like his nose and hand.
Taking a hold of Babydoll’s hand, I quickly lead us down the hallway and through the kitchen so we can exit out the back door. Once outside, I let her go.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” she replies, catching her breath. “Just a sleazy old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can take care of myself.”
“Ach, it sure looked that way,” I sarcastically state, shaking my head.
“I don’t understand you,” she reveals sincerely.
“I don’t understand myself either.”
She mulls over my comment, her anger toward me simmering when she reads the truth behind my admission.
“I’m sorry for insultin’ ya.”
“Which time?” she quips, folding her arms.
She isn’t making this easy for me, and she shouldn’t. I did a shitty thing. Well, many shitty things.
“I don’t know what it is about ye, I just…ya make me…feel.”
“Feel what?” she questions, but she’s misunderstood.
“Make me feel…full stop,” I clarify. “I can’t get my head around it. I was taught feelin’s make ya weak. And they do. I was full of feelin’ when—”
“When what?” she coaxes as I pause, realizing what I almost shared.
But what would happen if I did share my darkest secret with her? Would it change anything? The answer is no.
“When I watched my ma being killed. I was so full of feelin’ that I didn’t do anythin’ when I should have done more.”
