Padraig: All good. Coast’s clear if you take the front stairs.
I nod at Curtis-Callum, who’s mostly dressed. He doesn’t say much, which is preferable. He was good with his hands and generous with his mouth. Better than I usually get in the small bum-fuck town where I go to college. I slip on my T-shirt as we leave the room. I motion toward the front stairs. “Thisway.”
We step into the hall. The floorboards creak so fucking loud I swear they’re trying to sell me out. I wince and hurry him forward.
Curtis-Callum tries to slip on his hoodie, then freezes at a drunken voice behind us.
“Who the fuck’s are youse?”
My da’s voice slices through the air like a rusted knife. Slurred. Furious. Full of whiskey before it’s even breakfast.
I close my eyes.Shit. “Leave it, Da. It’s my business.”
I hear the scraping of his plastic knee brace dragging across the floor. Curtis-Callum stiffens behind me, hoodie half-on, shrinking toward the staircase like he could disappear if he moves slow enough.
I step forward, planting myself in front of him. Protecting him? Or baiting Da?
I don’t even fucking know.
“This is my feckin’ house, you wee bastard,” Da bellows. “Your business is my business. Who is he?”
Curtis-Callum retreats a step. I stand taller.
“Leave him be. Let’s go.”
He starts to descend.
“Jesus, Mary, and feckin’ Joseph, my son’s a feckin’ poof.”
I bite back bile.
Curtis-Callum leaps down the stairs two at a time and bolts out the front door, squawking, “Jesus, is your dad homophobic?!”
No time to answer. Da’s hand hits my shoulder. Clamps down like a trap.
I lock up. Since the accident, every bottle turns him mean. His Irish lilt is full of venom, scarily prejudicial. I swear to fuck he wants to purge me from his bloodline.
No matter how much I try to ignore him, his words hit bone every time. No lead-up. No signal. Only impact.
“You dirty wee pansy,” he hisses into my ear. “Is this what you are now, a faggot? Bringin’ men into my house? Under your ma’s roof? Corrupting your wee brothers?”
Yup. His words eviscerate me more than his fists ever could. But I don’t flinch.
I won’t.
Instead I give it back to the bastard. “Go back to your room and pass out, you useless cunt.”
He moves fast. Reeking of whiskey, sweat, and rot. His eyes are yellowed. Wild.
“You fuckin’ shame me,” he snarls. “I break my back for this family, and you’re in my house suckin’ cock like it’s a badge of pride?!”
Suddenly I see a flash of movement behind me.
“Stop.” Padraig’s climbing the stairs. “Let him leave. You’re drunk. You don’t mean it.”
Da turns. His gaze locks on Padraig. His rage deepens.
“Don’t you feckin’ defend him.”
