Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
“Because everyone loves a freak show, Ro.”
“That’s your theory, I suppose. I bet you’ve all had a fucking ball with this.” Bunch of wankers.
“You know By. He thinks you’re off navel gazing on some beach, a cocktail in one hand and a silicone double-D tit in the other. He reckons you’re probably suffering an existential crisis now that your life seems to be going somewhere.”
“Nice,” I mutter, sitting forward in my chair. “Glad he held back.”
“I told him big tits weren’t your thing. And Mum said—”
“I was the only one not breastfed.”
“Which accounts for a lot of your deficiencies.”
“Good talk, but I’m gonna go now.” I can’t believe I even contemplated telling this arsehole. “But while we’re on the subject, it’s hard enough being around you lot, so it’s unlikely I’d join an actual cult.”
“Story checks out,” he adds with a chuckle. “But you’ve gotta give me something concrete to report in.”
“How about you tell them to mind their own fuckin’ business,” I explode.
“Unbunch your knickers, precious. You know your business is our business. That’s the way this family works. Besides, I know you don’t want me to report a load of profanity to old Sal.”
Man, Kennedy is so not prepared to become part of this crowd. I wouldn’t blame her if she ran in the opposite direction. Maybe I could run after her.
“Look.” Pitching forward, I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I’m just not in the mood to tell stories, okay?”
“What?” he answers, disbelief dripping from that one word. “You’re Roman, the regular raconteur.”
“Not today, I’m not. Today I’m just the bit in the middle,” I mutter.
“Raconteur? Yeah, but you’re our cunt, and we love you. Come on, arsehole. A problem shared—”
“And a problem shared is a problem aired in this family.” My family is amazing. I’d die for any one of them, but Jesus, even their opinions have opinions.
“It doesn’t have to be. If something is bothering you, you could always just talk to me.”
“So you can report back to the mothership? No thanks.” Like my family, my mum is ace. But now is not the time for her to descend.
“Bro, this isn’t like you. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Nothing is going on, and there’s nothing wrong.” Even as I say the words, a different truth tickles my throat, a truth I’ve only been able to say to myself. And the words want out. Like, right now. “I have a seven-year-old.” The admission leaves my mouth like a hairball from one of Lyssa’s moggies.
“A seven-year-old what? Pair of shoes . . . undies? I can believe that. I reckon I’ve got some that old my—”
“A kid.” I steamroll over his waffling. “I have a seven-year-old kid.”
“Mate.” Tee pulls the form of address out some unnecessarily long syllables. “To pull my dick, you have to have better tits than yours.”
“I feel like a tit,” I concede, picking up my beer bottle, forgetting that it’s empty. “A total fuck up. I’ve been wandering around the world without even knowing. He’s seven, Tee, and I didn’t even know he existed.”
“You’re being serious?” I don’t answer him because I can’t find any pleasant words. “Jesus, Roman. How? When? How long have you known?”
It’s always in the timing, right? “He was conceived just after uni when I went on that road trip.”
“When you went to Vegas?”
“Yeah.” My response is a weary sigh as I wipe my hand down my face.
“I thought the cliché was getting hitched in Vegas.”
I let the silence speak for me, then listen as Rafferty barks out a laugh.
“You dark fucking horse,” he says almost gleefully. “You’ve had a wife and a kid this whole time?”
“It didn’t seem like the right time to tell anyone. Dad’s dead? Jeez, that’s too bad. But guess what? I married a stranger in Vegas.”
“You mean you didn’t know her? Are you off your fucking rocker?”
“I knew her well enough,” I retort, not willing to be drawn because he wouldn’t understand.
“Only you would marry a chick to fuck her.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I growl, “so knock that shit off.” It was more than sex—more than anything he’d understand.
“I’m glad to hear you like her, considering you married the girl. Hang on, is this the chick you told me about last year?”
“I haven’t told anyone about her.”
“Not that you remember. You were hammered, told me you’d met the love of your life. Went on and on about it like a sad sack. How she should be by your side, but she didn’t want you. How there was no one else in the world like her.”
“I don’t remember.” I don’t remember that night, but the sentiment rings true. Except now I know she wants me. I see it in her sighs and in her scowls. I’m gonna make her feel so good, make her want me so much, she can no longer deny it.