Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
There was an interview about his father in the local newspaper.
About his generosity and kindness.
So in a twisted way, it all worked out for him in the end and I hate that so much.
I fucking hate his father.
“It was just what?” I prod him.
I watch the play of emotions on his bruised and battered face.
The anger, the frustration, the regret as he rasps, “I couldn’t take that chance. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t risk my father punishing you for something that wasn’t really your fault.” Then, “So however you wanna look at it, it was me who sent you there. My actions.”
A lump forms in my throat then.
A big and jagged lump.
I shake my head. “No, you saved me from going somewhere worse. You protected me. Even back then.”
Even when he hated me.
He doesn’t like that however. That I’m giving him credit.
So he growls, “No, I didn’t. I —”
I would’ve gladly argued with him all night till I’m blue in the face, but I don’t want to do that. Not right now.
I want to soothe him.
Talk to him. Somehow make him feel better.
So I interrupt him. “So your father has always been like this then?”
But that’s not all. I don’t just interrupt him with my words. I also do it with actions.
I rub my palms over the globes of his shoulders, my thumbs gently pressing on his tight muscles, and his eyes turn liquid. And molten.
As if he’s liking it, my impromptu and inexperienced massage.
“Yes,” he rasps.
I knead the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. “But only with you?”
“Yes.”
“N-not with Homer or…”
“No. Homer’s the good son. The obedient son. The kind of son my father always wanted.”
“And what were you?”
“The opposite. Bad. Disappointing. A rebel.” His lips quirk up in a small, humorless smirk. “I was the kind of son he didn’t want, didn’t know what to do with, so he had all his fun with me.”
“What… What kind of fun?”
He stares into my eyes, stares and stares and it feels like I’m this close to getting lost in them. “The kind where you sometimes end up with a split lip or a broken nose.” Then, licking the tiny drop of blood off his lip, he continues, “So as you can see, I am a fighter. Not just a soccer player.”
“He…” My fingers clutch him tightly, protectively, as my heart thuds. “He h-hit you?”
“Sometimes, yeah. When other things didn’t work.”
“What other things?”
“Things like locking me up in my room. Taking away my toys and all that crap.”
“Reign, that’s —”
“Every time he punished me, I did something worse to retaliate. And then, he’d punish me harder so I’d turn around and do even worse things, and so it went on and on. Until he gave up when I got older. I guess I grew taller than him, stronger. He knew he couldn’t take me, couldn’t hit me, couldn’t lock me up or scare me. So he sent me away to Connecticut.”
That boarding school.
That everyone said he was sent to because his father didn’t know what else to do.
His father, the mean, evil bully. Who picked on Reign, someone smaller than himself.
That’s where it comes from, doesn’t it?
Reign’s protective instincts. His urge to save people.
My Robin Hood.
I tighten my hold around his body. “I think your father was a horrible, horrible man.”
His lips twitch. “I thought that you thought that my father was a wonderful, wonderful man.”
“I didn’t know the truth.”
“And now that you do,” he rumbles tightly, “I don’t need you to pity me.”
Tears sting my eyes then.
But somehow I blink them away. I swallow them down.
I can’t break down just now. I can’t start sobbing and crying when he’s talking to me, when he’s telling me things. I can’t make it about myself when this is about him.
About this broken and bruised boy.
Both on the inside and out.
That I don’t pity at all but am in awe of. For surviving all that. For surviving and growing up to be someone who is capable of caring about others. Who understands the meaning of friendship and loyalty and protection.
My broken, beautiful, wonderful Bandit.
“I don’t pity you,” I tell him, my fingers resuming the kneading of his muscles. “Not after the way I saw you fight out there.”
He pulls a face, which with his numerous bruises must be very painful but he doesn’t let it show. “That guy was a moron.”
“He was bigger than you.”
“He was a fucking idiot.”
“Who was beating up on you.”
“I was letting him.”
“Why?”
“Because I was supposed to lose.”
“You were… What?” I frown. “Supposed to?”
His chest moves again, on a big breath, and he grits his teeth.
As if he just remembered it himself. That he was supposed to lose.
What does that even mean?
“Yes, supposed to.” He mutters a curse and stares at me belligerently. “Which you completely blew for me, by the way. With all the screaming as if I was dying and your world was ending.”