Series: Sean Moriarty
Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113805 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
It’s a stupid little saying. Overused and cliché.
But it’s what he always said about me.
The hurt, the anger, melts off his face, leaving behind an old man that simply looks tired.
Shaking his head and ruining part of his combover, he leans forward, reaching for his cigar again.
“Dammit,” he curses when he realizes what he’s doing.
Thumping back against the couch, he meets my eyes and tries to match my stare.
When I refuse to give in, refuse to look away, his shoulders slump with defeat.
“I can give you some money, Eden, but I don’t have any work for you.”
My pulse quickens a little and I try not to show it.
I never expected him to offer me money.
He’s notoriously cheap. So cheap, he didn’t even help my mother with my father’s funeral.
“How much?” I ask, hoping there’s no desperation in my voice.
Mickey lifts half his butt off the couch and pulls out his wallet. He makes a show of opening it and thumbing through the cash. “A couple hundred.”
That’s it? That’s all he can spare for me?
“A couple hundred?” I repeat incredulously.
That will last a week, maybe.
He shrugs and tosses the money on the coffee table. “Time’s are hard. The economy isn’t what it used to be.”
I scoff, my blood beginning to boil with anger. “Weren’t you supposed to pay my father a few bags for that last job?”
Uncle Mickey’s jaw tenses and he looks away from me for a moment before he says quietly, “You know that job didn’t get completed.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t get paid.”
Normally, I don’t consider myself a bitch. Nor do I consider myself entitled. If it was just me, I would walk out.
Fuck, I wouldn’t even be here.
I’d go hungry. I’d sleep on the streets until I could figure something out.
I’m used to suffering.
But Abel isn’t.
I don’t ever want him to go through even a fraction of what I’ve been through.
If there was another way, any other way to protect him, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t hand him over to family. Mickey and my mom are all that I have. And I sure as fuck can’t hand him over to the state. I can’t trust them to put him somewhere safe, with people who won’t hurt him.
I’m the only one in the world he has for protection.
If it means I have to become an uber bitch, so be it.
When Mickey jerks his chin at the money on the table, considering the matter done, I glare at him like I want to stab him.
“So?” I snap.
His eyes widen a fraction then his cheeks flush with color.
Flustered, he says, “It’s all I have.”
I shake my head again, not buying it.
Sure, this place is a shithole, but it’s intentional. I know for a fact he’s one of the richest men in Garden City. And he stays rich by looking so poor.
In his type of business, if he flaunted his wealth he would be quickly parted from it.
His face growing redder and his words angrier, Mickey insists, “I’m serious, Eden. I’ve been wiped out. That job with your dad—”
“Don’t!” I nearly shout to stop his excuse.
Abel freezes in my lap and my eyes start to burn with tears.
When Abel starts to cry, I’m tempted to start crying with him.
Sucking in a breath and holding it, I bend forward and press my forehead against Abel’s. Trying to get my shit together.
Trying not to fall apart.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper after a few moments, feeling like an utter piece of shit for upsetting him.
Kissing Abel’s head, I stroke his hair a few times then hug him to my chest.
Looking at Mickey over Abel’s head, I say quietly, “Don’t use my dad as an excuse.”
His death can’t be the reason for everything wrong in my life.
It can’t.
Uncle Mickey lets out yet another heavy sigh then nods his head. He looks down at the cash he left on the table until Abel settles down again.
Then he wipes a hand down his face and says, “Fuck, Eden. I don’t know what to do. I want to help you, believe me, I do. But that’s all I have to my name.”
I shake my head, still not believing him.
Mickey throws his hands up in the air. “What do you want from me? Do you want me to prove it to you? Do you want to see my bank accounts? They’re fucking empty! They fucking emptied them out for reparations when… Fuck!”
I calmly watch him reach for his cigar only to pull back and shout, “Where’s that fucking scotch?!”
The bald man bursts through the door so quickly I swear he was standing right outside it, listening in.
“Right here, boss!” he says and carries a tray over to my uncle.
“’Bout fucking time,” Mickey grumbles and snatches the glass off the tray.
The bald man watches Mickey throw his head back and down the glass in one gulp. Then he nudges the tray at him.