Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101764 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
We never discussed it beyond her apologizing for burdening me and my refutation of the claim. Neither of us were skilled at delving into our feelings and discussing them. Perhaps it had something to do with growing up without a father and a mother who had to spend most of her energy on simply getting through the day. Or perhaps we had a genetic deficiency—a missing piece of the puzzle that didn’t allow us to share our emotions.
Ugh, even thinking about it gave me the ick.
“So what’s up? Need some help getting breakfast?”
“No, I’m not hungry yet.”
I frowned. One of her newer medications killed her appetite. She’d already lost ten pounds over the last month. I’d have to talk to her doctor about it because she didn’t have extra to spare.
“Your brother is sleeping on the couch.”
“Okay…” I tilted my head. “At least he came home, right? Why don’t you wake his ass up and tell him to move to his bed?”
“Well, because he’s completely naked.”
Of course he was.
She leaned closer. “And he’s not alone,” she whispered.
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“There’s some woman with him.”
Oh, hell no.
“And there is… stuff on the coffee table.”
Stuff? Christ, if I had to see his congealed spunk where I liked to eat my dinner, I’d fucking castrate him.
“I didn’t want to wake him up and embarrass him. What should we do?”
Embarrass him? I snorted like a bull about to charge. Embarrassment was the least of what I planned to do to his disrespectful ass.
My mom’s eyes, the same shape and color as mine, practically overflowed with anxiety. Why? Why did she treat Kenny with kid gloves, like he was a cute, helpless puppy instead of a man old enough to go to war? Why had I never received the same blasé treatment? I loved my mother with all my heart but didn’t understand her. The only thing I could think was that she went so easy on Kenny because she carried extra guilt over becoming sick when he was so young. At least I had a decade with a healthy mother. I could remember the effort she put into Christmas morning, the way she loved to bake us homemade chocolate chip cookies, and how she never missed an event at school. Kenny never even had that much, and what he did have, he’d been too young to recall. To make up for it, she allowed him to do whatever the hell he wanted, leaving me to be the bad guy.
I tried to exhale my fury but only managed to bring it down to severe annoyance. “I’ll take care of it, Mom. Why don’t you go get ready for church?” I didn’t attend, but a neighbor always accompanied Mom to Mass every Sunday.
Her gaze shifted toward our living room. “All right, but try not to make him feel bad.”
Heaven forbid he feel a moment of remorse for his actions.
She patted my hand. “We all make mistakes.”
“Some more than others,” I muttered.
“What’s that, honey?”
“Nothing.” I grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and rolled her to her room. “You just worry about what you’re going to wear to church, okay? And holler for me if you need some help.”
“You’re such a good boy, Alex. Thank you.”
“Sure, Mom.” I kept my lips curled upward until I shut the door behind me. Then the smile flipped. This bullshit ended today. I spun toward the mouth of the hallway, bumping my shoulder against the white stucco wall. Why on earth would anyone ever put a wall with hard, pointy lumps in a house? That damn stucco had been responsible for dozens of injuries throughout my childhood. I still had a scar on my elbow from where I’d busted the skin open when I was nine, so I knew how the spurs would dig into my palm as I pressed it against the wall as hard as possible to release some frustrated energy, but I did it anyway. It was either that or punch a hole through the wall, and that would not only alert my mom to my anger but also destroy my knuckles. Not something I had time for. I couldn’t carry trays of alcohol all night with bruised and bloodied hands.
As the pain registered in my palm, I blew out a breath. It didn’t work. I still wanted to murder Kenny. My pounding footsteps down the hall would have woken the dead, but when I reached the living room, there slept Kenny prone on the couch with his pale ass on full display. “Lovely,” I muttered. A second later, I noticed the sleeping female curled up on one end of the couch. Thankfully, whoever she was, she had a blanket over her because the bare shoulder peeking out didn’t lead me to believe she wore clothes either.
Waking Kenny would suck. Dread filled my gut. Who wanted to start their Sunday with an epic battle? As I bent to retrieve a tattered sofa pillow to whack my brother, I caught sight of something on the coffee table. Mom’s warning about stuff came back to me.