PROLOGUE
Logan
Age Eighteen
I catch my father’s fist before it hits my mom. He’s always been a violent, angry drunk, but he’s never been physically abusive. Not with her, anyway. His tough love with me and my younger brothers—Dylan and Austin—was apparently meant to make us men and separate us from the boys.
I have no fucking clue how this bastard and my beautiful mom managed to have three kids. Don’t get me wrong, Dad was a looker in his heyday, and Mom is pretty—feisty with a soft side—but my father has never been a man to look up to. He gave up providing for us years ago, preferring to drink himself into oblivion while my mom worked three jobs. I’ve been teaching my brothers all the things that he’s supposed to: tolerance, compassion, showing them love and encouragement, and yeah, a little self-defense because kids can be assholes. Dylan is the middle brother and he’s always been the protector. He never has much to say, because he usually lets his fists do the talking, especially when it comes to Austin. As much as I’vedrilled into him that there’s a time and a place for fist throwing, he just does his own thing. The playground can be a den of vipers, so I can’t say he’s completely in the wrong, he just hates injustice, even at the ripe age of thirteen.
In a way, I’m like their surrogate father, but I’m not exactly qualified for the job. I keep them in line to help Mom out. The last thing she needs to be doing is stressing over her youngest boys. I help out with the bills, making sure my dad gets no cash because he’ll just spend it on booze. But tonight? Tonight he’s crossed a line.
He swivels to look at me as I fold my palm around his fist. I can take him, even at my age. Dad is big, but I’m bigger, and solid. I’ve been working out in the gym the last few years, but I’ve always been stocky. Like him. That is the only comparison I have to him, but other than that, we’re nothing alike.
“Don’t do it,” my voice is a low growl. “Don’t you ever touch her, you fucking piece of shit.”
He shoves me off, but I don’t let go. I glance at my mom and she’s crying, wincing in fear as the blow she’s expecting never comes. I’ve never seen my dad hit her, but now I’m wondering what goes on behind closed doors. I can’t be here all the time, and the boys tell me when he’s having a really bad day.
“Who the fuck are you to talk to me like that?” he yells. I can smell the alcohol on him. He reeks.
I shove him and his back hits the wall. “Your son. Keep your hands off her.”
“Or you’ll what?”
“I’ll end you.”
He sneers. “She’s a whore.”
My nostrils flair. And here we go with the verbal abuse. “The fuck did you just say?”
“Bill, don’t, please,” Mom tries to interject, but Dad’s focus is on me.
“I said she’s a whore.”
I push him back again, harder this time. I try to remember everything I taught Dylan and Austin. Patience. Not opening your mouth when the time doesn’t call for it. The logistics of a fight: Are they bigger than you? If so, what’s their weak point, and are you quicker? But that all flies out the window because my mom may not be perfect, but she loves us. She’s never raised a hand to us in her life, and she never would. Mom is an angel, and angels must be protected.
I bring my arm back to my ear, and just as I sock Dad in the face, Mom screams. My dad yelps, his hands flying to his face.
“Momma?” Austin yells from the other room.
Oh, my brothers are used to the fights and screaming matches, but this is different. I also told them both to go up to their rooms until I came to get them, but I feel Dylan’s presence behind me before he even speaks. He has that way about him.
“Logan?” Dylan stammers.
“Go back to your room!” I tell him as my dad tries to stop the bleeding from his nose.
He’s a weak motherfucker. One fucking punch and he’s almost done. So pathetic.
“You fucking broke my nose!” he screams, lunging for me.
But I’m faster, dodging out of the way as he crashes into the counter. When he tries to grab Dylan, I yank him back by the scruff of his shirt, holding him in a headlock.
“Now, Daddy dearest, you’re gonna apologize, and then you’re gonna get the fuck outta here and you’re never coming back.”
This is long overdue.
“Y-you can’t,” he sputters.
“Yes, I can. I’ve been the man of the house for longer than I care to remember. I was sixteen when I started covering for your ass. I’ve worked after school to help Mom pay for food,I’ve given up my childhood so I can become an adult because you don’t act like one, and you’ve had more than enough chances.” I turn to my mom. “Has he hit you in private?”
