“I don’t blame Reeve. I blame you.”
Wow, this dick doesn’t hold back. I stare straight ahead, unable to process all this. I’m only now realizing the driver didn’t get in the car. He’s outside on purpose, I’m betting, so he’s not privy to this disgusting conversation.
“No.” I swivel to face him, the leather squelching underneath me with the motion. “You can take your money and shove it up your ass. I’m signing nothing.”
“That would be a big mistake, Dillon.” He flips the document to the last page and removes a shiny silver pen from the outside pocket of his jacket, handing it to me. “Sign it, and let’s be done with this.”
“Fuck you.” I swat his hand away, and the pen drops to the floor.
“You don’t want to make an enemy of me, boy. I’m very powerful, and I can make your life hell.”
“Do your worst. I don’t care.”
“Sign the NDA, Dillon.”
“No, screw you.” I open the door and get out. If I stay in that car for much longer, I’ll choke the life from his pathetic body. I lean back in and fix him with my most hateful expression. “I’m signing nothing. Fuck off back to America, you evil piece of shit.” I’m not giving him what he wants, tempting and all as the money is. I want nothing from this wanker or my self-centered twin. The two of them can rot in hell for all I care.
“One million.” He stares me straight in the eye, looking unruffled. “I’ll double it to one million.”
I’m sensing people rarely refuse him, and he’s used to writing a check to get what he wants.
Not this time, dickhead. “I’m not for sale.”
Slamming the door shut, I storm off in the direction of the bus stop. With every step, the horror of what just transpired sinks deeper into my skin, pushing through sinew and muscle, brushing past bone, and attaching itself to my very soul. I’m shaking and shivering by the time I reach the bus shelter, and the icy chill clings to my body even after I’ve gotten home, crept up the stairs, and taken a long hot shower.
13
AGE 17
Red-hot anger is my constant companion in the days that follow. Along with a bottle of JD. I don’t even attempt to hide my drinking from my parents. Bitterness and resentment replace the blood flowing through my veins as I attempt to drown my spiraling emotions at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
I completely lose the plot when an envelope arrives with an updated NDA and my birth cert, throwing shit around my room as my pain runs free. I’m panting and sweating by the time I’ve finished rearranging my room. I’m surprised Ma didn’t barge in when she heard all the noise.
Everyone is asking me what’s wrong, but I can’t tell them. Vocalizing it will only confirm how worthless and rejected I feel. If I say it out loud, who’s to say my family won’t draw the same conclusion? I have brought nothing but trouble into their lives. If they aren’t already regretting taking me in, they would after I tell them. The two people who should love me most hate my guts, and they want me to disappear and pretend like I don’t exist. Knowing I’m that inconsequential is a hard pill to swallow. It hurts real fucking bad. I’ve tried telling myself what they think doesn’t fucking matter, but it’s not helping. Inside, I’mconsumed with pain and anger, and it’s eating me up. It’s bad enough I’m having to deal with all of this. No sense in letting everyone else suffer along with me.
I’m seconds away from shredding the NDA when I think better of it. This is evidence of who Simon and Reeve Lancaster are to me. It’s leverage. Perhaps it’ll come in handy at some point. If Reeve is going to be as big of a star as the dickhead thinks, maybe I’ll go to the press. If my darling twin brother becomes Hollywood’s next golden boy, my revelation could be worth a lot. It might be a way to pocket some easy money and stick the knife into the Lancasters’ backs at the same time. Of course, I’d also be outing myself, and I’m not sure I want to do that either. But at least it gives me options. Ha! Bet that asshole didn’t consider this before he posted the paperwork to me.
Sliding the papers back in the envelope, I tuck it into the shoebox I keep at the top of my wardrobe, hidden behind a bunch of oldRolling Stonemagazines.
I receive the first text message that same day. It’s sent from a different phone number to the one listed with the paperwork, but I know it’s fromhim.
Sign the NDA.
Keep your mouth shut.
If you speak out, the O’Donoghues will pay the price for your selfishness.
He doesn’t need to elaborate for me to imagine what he might do. He’s rich and powerful, and my parents are no match forthe likes of him. Knowing he’s tied my hands is so frustrating. I wonder why he’s offering me money at all. Surely, he knows all he has to do is threaten my family and I won’t breathe a word. I would never risk it. I’m beyond frustrated he has the upper hand, but I will find a way to get him back even if it takes me years.
Receiving the paperwork and the text only adds to my torment, and I spiral deeper. Dark emotions stab me from the inside until I’m nothing but a shredded, bloody mess of organs, tissues, and cells. The hollow ache that has always lived inside me expands, threatening to smother me completely. The pain is like a thousand tiny daggers constantly stabbing me all over. My head and my heart are so fucked up, and I’m falling apart at the seams.
I lash out at everyone, just wanting the world to fuck off and leave me alone.
Jamie is worried when I’m a no-show for our Friday and Saturday night gigs. Aaron is pissed, and Conor is zoned out as usual. I finally drag my arse out of bed on Monday to practice with the band, and it’s the only bit of peace I’ve found since the dickhead flipped my world upside down. I vent my emotions through music, passing out on the sofa in the outbuilding a couple of nights.
The next Friday, I’m completely fucking locked when I take to the stage for our regular gig in Bray Harbor. Ironically, it’s my best performance to date, and the crowd are going wild by the time we finish our set. Girls crawl all over me as I make my way to the bar to grab another beer. I’m starting to sober up and fuck that shit. I don’t want reality to come crawling back in, kicking and screaming. So, I down a beer, gratefully accept the tequila shots Phoebe and her friend Sammie buy me, and then I take them both around the back of the building and take turns fucking them.
That becomes a regular pattern as July turns into August. When I’m not asleep, I’m either drunk or stoned. Conor and I spend a couple nights up at Killiney Hill, completely off our faces, and if I could get away with smoking weed every day, I’d happily stay stoned forever. But Catherine O’Donoghue would never let me get away with it.
