Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(27)

“Your life is shit.”

I nod. “Thanks. I’m glad we had this talk.”

The corners of her mouth curve just a little. “Believe it or not, I’m not done.”

I fall back on my bed. “I have no doubt.”

She swivels so that her dark hair swoops against her thin shoulders. “The thing is, Finnie, your life doesn’t have to be shit. It’s only like that because you continue to mess up.”

My arm falls over to drape over my eyes. I know what she means. The thing is, it’s not as easy as that. “It’s one appointment, Wren. Back off, will ya?”

“But that’s how everything starts with you―that’s what you don’t get.” She pauses. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

She bumps my leg with her knee. “I’m serious, Finn. No more drinking, no getting high.”

I drop my arm away. “I haven’t been high in years. What?” I ask when all I see on her face is disappointment. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“I want to, I do.”

“So then why don’t you?” I challenge, frowning. “I missed one f*cking appointment.”

“It’s not just that. It’s like ever since that day, a part of you has been dying.”

My eyes widen. She doesn’t need to tell me which day she means. She and Kill were the ones who saw me immediately afterward, the ones who realized what happened. They were the ones who took care of me, and made it as right as they could. We don’t talk about “that day” ever. For her to bring it up now . . . it pisses me off. She didn’t hurt that day, she didn’t beg Norman to stop―

I jerk out of bed, rage searing through my body like it’s burning me alive. I don’t think of him―or his name. It gives him power over me, just like he had that day.

“Shut the f*ck up!” I snap.

You want to know something about me, I don’t talk to my sister this way―I don’t talk to any woman this way. So I expect her to start screaming at me, start cursing me out. Instead her eyes soften in a way that they do those rare times I’ve seen her cry, adding to my already mounting fury.

“Finnie,” she says, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry―”

I wrench away from her when she tries to squeeze my arm, my feet stomping toward the bathroom. I’m in my boxers and didn’t bother grabbing any clothes. With a crash, I slam the door behind me, hard enough to splinter the wood frame. I whip off my shorts and blast the water, swearing as I jump into the shower and cold water drenches my skin.

I hurry to adjust the temperature, cursing again when I snag the bottle of shampoo and drop it at my feet. I bend down to retrieve it and drop it, again, my hands shaking so badly I can’t keep my hold on it. “God damn it!”

The water is scalding hot now, and still I shake. Not from cold. Right then I’m all rage. Right then, I’m that scared little kid taken by some evil bastard who’s now burning in hell. He’s dead. Norman’s dead. The brain-injured f*cker died last summer after battling pneumonia.

His death should have given me peace. It should have―I don’t know―made me feel safe, free―something. But as crazy as it sounds all I can think is that he got off easy. All those boys he hurt before me, all those lives he destroyed―all the fear he caused, instilled, scarred people with, he deserved more.

For years, as sick as it sounds, I fantasized about getting him alone. More than once I envisioned myself pouring gasoline over his body, lighting a match, and watching him burn. Pneumonia? Seriously? Dying the way good, old, decent people do. It’s not right, not fair. Not after what he did.

But did I ever get him alone? Did I ever take him out to that imaginary field that only exists in my mind? Did I ever light that match that cooked his body?

I didn’t.

But I should have.

I wanted to more than once.

And I would have, had it been Wren he hurt.

I lower myself to the bathtub floor, bending my long legs so they fit. All those years I could have acted, I never came close. Never jumped into my ride to find him. Never tried to figure out a way to actually do it.

Norman Kessler was nothing more than a vegetable after my brother found him and made him pay. For more than a decade, he was under complete care, incapable of walking or feeding himself. He was a drooling, scrawny bastard in adult diapers, who ate his calories through a f*cking straw.

Yet I was scared to death of him. Me. The same guy built like a wrecking machine who kicks ass, takes names, and who people fear. Around him I was that same terrified little kid who he hurt.

Like I said. He’s the one who got off easy.

Way easier than me.





CHAPTER 12


Sol



I shouldn’t be doing this, I think to myself. I think it’s my voice of reason speaking. But that other part―the one who likes the way Finn is kissing my neck tells reason to shut up, that we deserve a little fun, and reminds me how sexy his tongue feels dragging along my skin.

Our lips crash against each other, his hips jerking as he fumbles to remove his seatbelt. The moment he’s free, he pounces, pressing his body against mine so my back is shoved against the side door. “I have to get inside,” I say, between breaths.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, giving my earlobe a nibble. “Come back to my place. Sleep there. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”