Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Brianne, if you need a place to stay—”
“No, thanks.” I glare back at him. “Those are my conditions.”
“Whatever you want,” he says gently, head tilted to the side, a serious frown on his face. I know what he’s thinking: another Irish girl with a shitty drunk father looking for a way out of her miserable situation. I’m practically a cliché at this point, but Ronan doesn’t know me and he has no clue what I’ve been through. And I don’t plan on telling him anytime soon.
I get out of there before his confusion turns to pity.
The TV’s on so loud I can hear it from the basement. Another load of laundry moved from the washer to the dryer, and it’s all my father’s stuff: soiled shirts, gross underwear, stained pants. The guy doesn’t have a real job and he still somehow makes a mess of himself every day.
“Brianne!” His shout drifts down the steps like daggers into my skull. “Brianne, I need another fucking beer! Where the fuck are you?” I hear him stomping around the kitchen, which means he got his lazy ass up off the couch when he realized I couldn’t hear him.
I wait until the creaking of the floorboards fades away. The basement is cool and quiet, though it smells a little musty. In the corner is a plastic tub filled with my old gymnastics medals and ribbons, and sometimes I like to pick them up and look through them, just to remind myself that I wasn’t always such a useless sack of garbage.
Tonight’s not that kind of night though. I have another load to put in the wash—my own stuff this time—and dishes to clean upstairs. My back hurts and my wrists ache, but at least I don’t have Cormac’s crap to do anymore.
That’s the best part of my brother getting himself killed: there’s less housework for me to do.
I should be a better sister. I should be a better daughter. But I’ve lived in this house my entire life and there hasn’t been a single day where either of those assholes ever tried to be better brothers and fathers.
“Brianne, what the fucking fuck are you doing?”
I flinch at the sound of my father’s voice. He’s standing at the top of the basement steps. His shadow grows long and thick across the concrete floor.
“Laundry,” I call back. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
“I was yelling for you. And the kitchen’s a fucking wreck.”
You’re the one that demanded a freaking lasagna, did you think it was going to be easy and simple? “I’ll be up in a second.”
“Better fucking be.” His shadow lingers for another minute before he turns away and leaves me alone.
I stay in the basement, leaning up against the washing machine, looking at my phone. I’m so close to getting out of this place. All I have to do is keep moving forward with my plan. Dad’s on his seventh beer, which means he’s past the hitting stage—he only ever tries to slap me around between beers four and six—and I should be safe for the night. He’ll still yell at me and call me a worthless cunt and all that good stuff, but at least I won’t have bruises tomorrow.
Which is rare these days. After Cormac died and smeared our family’s reputation into the mud, Dad’s been on the warpath. Anything I do wrong, he jumps down my throat, and if he’s in a rotten mood, he’s not shy about punching me in the ribs or knocking me down and kicking me in the thighs. Afterwards, he usually hides himself in his room almost like he’s aware that he’s a monster and can’t face his victim, and I don’t feel sorry for the old, worthless shit.
Before Cormac died, things weren’t so bad. Dad was a controlling prick, but he rarely hit me. Cormac was an up-and-coming member of the Group with a thousand different plans, and Dad thought my brother was going to make sure we were all set for life. All his hopes were pinned on Cormac, and now he’s faced with a miserable existence for the remainder of his days, treated like a social pariah and forgotten about anything that he used to care about.
All thanks to Cormac.
I thought Dad would understand that it was Cormac’s fault. All of that shit was my dumb older brother’s obsessive need to be the best at everything. But instead, it’s like Dad blames me instead, as if I had anything to do with it.
I don’t know why I pull up Julien’s number. Maybe I’m in a worse mood than I realized; maybe I’m even more sad and pathetic than I thought.
Brianne: You need to come up with a new nickname for me before I’ll marry you.
I don’t know why I send it. It’s not even flirty, just a blatant cry for attention, and I hate myself the second I hit the little blue arrow. I shove my phone away in disgust and start to head upstairs to fold Dad’s clothes before doing all the dishes when my phone buzzes.