Would the Allendales believe me about him now? As a child, I told our parents he punched me and shoved me down the two-step landing. He claimed I’d tripped and was blaming him because he wouldn’t give me some toy I wanted. They believed him, making it clear I hadn’t lived down the lies I’d told when I first arrived as a desperate foster kid. I’d been branded a liar, and he was not.
Worse than our parents sweeping aside my plea for help against a much bigger brother was that the Allendale grandparents were outraged I’d accused Brad of anything. They told my parents it was dangerous to keep me in the house, as though I were a dog who’d bitten someone and clearly needed to be dropped off at the pound to be put down.
When Mom and Dad didn’t immediately toss nine-year-old me out, the Allendale grandparents waited for an opportunity to talk to me privately. I remember standing in the corner of their library with the enormous Christmas tree’s bows and shelves of leather-bound books looming above. They said if I ever made up another damaging story about their grandson, they’d see me “exiled.” They reminded me my dad hadn’t adopted me because they forbade it and claimed my mom could be pressured to return me. They were her most important financial backers, so she’d lose her political career without them and their friends.
I knew my mom’s career was the most important thing to her. If they could ruin that, she’d never be able to stand up to them. Their words haunted me for a long time. “You’ll be sent back into the foster care system where you belong.” The sting of their disgust and the threat of being cast out paralyzed me.
For a while, I didn’t stand up to Brad. If he took something from my room, I let him. If he broke something of mine, I accepted it. When he belittled me, I swallowed it. My goal was simple. Withstand him. Persevere. Keep his parents as my own. That was the best way to beat him.
As we grew up, his anger at my presence in the house seemed to lessen. His focus was elsewhere, and my life got easier. Until now.
At the front door, Ash lets me walk out first and remains just behind me in the open doorway.
Brad’s red-faced from anger and the cold. One eye is swollen nearly shut. I recall Jamie’s words.Slow his roll.Was that a suggestion to the other bouncers to beat Brad up? If so, I have mixed feelings about it. I don’t care if Brad gets hurt. He hurt me plenty of times when we were young. But humiliating him will make him more determined to get the upper hand. And I’m the one who has to be in the same house with him over the holidays.
Brad’s angular features are so pinched even his good eye is a slit. The weight of his hatred makes me want to draw back, but I don’t move. He shoves limp strands of brown hair back from his forehead. “You're nothing,” he spits, his voice dripping with disgust. “And if you keep pushing me, I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”
Why his fury has flared again so darkly isn’t clear. I suspect it’s because I’m not trying to make myself small at the moment. Plus, I’m keeping company with a girl who openly despises him. Women disrespecting him—or taking up space in a big way—isn’t something he can stand.
“Here,” I say, tossing the phone the few feet to him.
He catches it with a glare and checks it.
While he’s distracted, I backtrack to the door. I tap my ID against the security pad. At the sound of the doors sliding open, Brad looks up at me with an expression that implies he’ll be eviscerating me at the earliest opportunity.
“Listen—” I start, in a conciliatory tone.
“No,” Ash says, dragging me inside.
The doors close, ending the possibility of any more conversation with Brad. Glancing over her shoulder, Ash raises her middle finger at my brother.
A part of me likes that she does it.
Another part winces.
19
JAMIE
When I wake around four in the afternoon the day after the rave, my first thoughts are of Cranberry Sauce in her delicious disguise. Satin nightgowns are the only thing I should ever let her wear.
Grabbing my phone, I review the blurry snaps I took of her. Fake sable hair spills down her incredible body. She would look good with dark hair. Or any color, I reckon.
My fingers enlarge the picture so I can admire the way her nipples tent the fabric. That body. She’s too fucking gorgeous.
Licking my lips, I draw in a slow breath. I want her in my bed right now.
Then, I remind myself she’s already distracted me way too much.
Setting my phone on the nightstand, I ignore my sexual urges. After a moment of rubbing my eyes, I tell myself,Work first, then you can have the girl.
Rolling onto my side, I open the nightstand’s drawer and retrieve the envelope from Ireland.
Sitting up, I brace myself. At times, I can maintain the detachment I need when facing the facts surrounding Jude’s case. Others, the details hit me as though I’m still a broken-hearted lad who couldn’t save his brother.
Tugging the papers from the envelope, I drop them on my lap.
Here we go.
