Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(2)

“I’m worried about you, Finnie,” Kill says when everyone piles out.

“Don’t. I’m not drinking tonight. I’m headed home,” I assure him.

“That’s not what I mean,” he says. He’s sitting in a fold out chair, his arms resting against his muscular legs. “I think you need to talk to someone.”

I stretch out my arms. By now they’re so tight, they pull against the bones. “I am. I’m talking to you.”

I don’t have to see him to know he’s shaking his head, or that he’s looking sad, disappointed, and maybe something else, too. “I’m not who you should be speaking to,” he says. “Not for what’s going on in your head.”

“You’re enough,” I say, even though I know it’s no longer true.

“Finn,” he begins.

I don’t wait for him to finish, leaving the changing area and heading toward the showers. “Go find Sofia and Wren,” I call over my shoulder as I strip out my shirt. “See if they’re up for some dinner.”

I don’t remember peeling the rest of my clothes off. That numbness I’ve been feeling too much lately claiming me like a mist until it fully engulfs me. Fuck. It’s like I’ve stopped living even though for the most part I think I’m still alive.

I lean against the tile with my arms spread, allowing the water to beat against my back. It’s too hot. I should turn it down, but I don’t bother. Eventually, like everything else, the sensation fades.

I’m not sure how long I’m in that position. A few seconds? A few minutes? But then Easton and his trainer Yefim are suddenly there. “You got lucky, O’Brien,” Yefim calls out, taunting me with his thick eastern European accent.

Shit. Like all the trash talk before the fight wasn’t enough.

“Did you hear me, you *?” he fires back when I don’t answer. “Did you hear me, you goddamn coward?”

Coward? Fuck you. It’s what I think, but not what I say, focusing instead on the streams of water that gather along my feet before they swirl into the drain.

It doesn’t help. The rage that’s building, the one I only manage to barely keep in? It stirs in my gut like a heavy pot filled with hate, sin, and all the curses my Ma would still beat my ass for saying.

“What’re you doing?” Yefim asks.

His voice is closer, he’s drawing near. I doesn’t matter that I’m standing here naked. He wants to be next to me. I shudder, that feeling I keep buried drilling its way up.

“I know about you,” Yefim says, not bothering to keep his voice low. “But everyone knows, don’t they? Even if you don’t want them to.”

My body shakes a little more, but it’s not from the cooling water. It’s from his words and all that anger they trigger. Don’t do it. Don’t go there.

“You like to keep it a secret. Don’t you, *?”

Yefim laughs when I keep my trap shut. He thinks I’m backing down, just like Easton did before his face met the mat. “He’s crying,” he calls out to Easton. “What? Not so tough now?”

That’s where he’s dead wrong. Every muscle I’ve conditioned serves a purpose―to take down those who f*ck with me. And right now, Yefim is seriously f*cking with me.

“You like to pretend that it’s girls you like, don’t you?” he says. “But that’s not true, is it? Oh, no, that’s not true at all . . .”

I raise my chin, knowing that someone’s not leaving without bleeding, and I’ve bled enough tonight.

Yefim kicks at my calf. “What? Nothing to say? Can’t speak without your boyfriend here?”

“Boyfriend?” Easton asks, laughing. “No f*cking way.”

“Yes. Way,” Yefim insists. “Didn’t you know this little * takes it up the ass―”

I punch him so hard, I feel his teeth crack against my knuckles. For someone with decades of boxing experience he never saw me coming. But I see Easton flying at me out of the corner of my eye. I toss him over my shoulder, slamming him hard onto the ceramic tile floor. Like in the octagon, I throw myself on top of him, my fists colliding against his skin.

Voices rush forward, telling me to stop. A woman screams, but I don’t stop fighting off the bodies trying to grab me, breaking through the arms wrenching me back. I need to hit him―I need to feel my fists meeting his face―I need to feel something.

God damn it. I need to feel alive.

I don’t want the pain.

I don’t want the terror.

But once more, it’s all I feel.





CHAPTER 2


Sol



“How did you do this weekend?” I ask.

Loretta nods her head, like I’m still talking, but I know she’s thinking through how best to answer. “Not great.”

I adjust my position on the couch we’re sitting on, trying to give the very false impression that I’m cool, confident, and refined, even though I’m anything but.

On paper, my achievements appear impressive. Come May, I’ll have my master’s degree in psychology. And once this internship finishes, I’ll have the clinical hours I need to continue working toward my doctorate. But I’ve learned quickly that the transition from the classroom to the counseling arena is hard!