Redeeming 6: Boys of Tommen #4

JOEY

I KNEW I was walking into trouble before I stepped foot through the door after work. I could feel it in the air around me.

Everything was all wrong and out of kilter.

I was also achingly aware that today was children’s allowance day. A windfall day on the first Tuesday of every month, where our father got paid by the government for having children, and then drank every penny, before beating the living shit out of said children.

Sometimes, I thought that monthly allowance was the reason he continued to reproduce so many of us.

“How’s it going, family,” I said, tone laced with derisive sarcasm, when I stepped into the kitchen.

The minute I walked inside, I could smell the whiskey permeating off the old man, as he hovered unsteadily in the middle of the room.

“Joey,” he acknowledged warily.

“Boys in bed?”

Our father nodded, keeping his eyes on mine the entire time, watching me like I was some dangerous predator that would strike at any given minute.

He was dead on the fucking money.

I could feel the fear coming off my sister in waves as she cowered by the sink, with her small hand pressed to her neck.

Shannon’s face was all blotchy, and her eyes were blood shot.

I wasn’t stupid.

It was as clear as day that I’d walked in at the right time.

Trying to keep my head, I reached for a can of coke from the fridge, knowing that I had to be careful here. “Where’s Mam?” I asked, taking a swig. “Still at work?”

“Your mother’s at work and this one here is late home again,” Dad slurred, glaring at Shannon. “Missed her fucking bus, apparently.”

“I know,” I replied coolly, giving Shannon a wink. “How’s it going, Shan?”

“Hey, Joe.” She swallowed deeply and attempted to smile at me. “Nothing. Just hungry. I was getting a snack.”

Getting a smack more like.

Walking over to her, I playfully nudged her cheek with my knuckles, but it was only so that I could get a better look at the marks on her neck.

Bastard’s fingerprints were imbedded on her skin.

Fuck.

“Did Aoife stay long after she dropped you home?” I threw her a lifeline by asking.

“Uh, no.” Her eyes widened in awareness and gratitude as she hurried to say, “She just dropped me off and went straight home.”

Offering her a small wink of approval, I grabbed a packet of biscuits from the press and tossed them to her. “Here. No doubt they were what you were looking for.”

They weren’t.

She would never touch a thing on the top shelf that I stored my shit on, but he didn’t know that.

“It’s not a halfway house,” Dad snarled.

“This is my food, old man.” I turned back to glare at him. “Bought with my money. From my job.”

“This is my house.”

“Given to you by the government,” I drawled, unwilling to back down an inch from the piece of shit in front of me. “Because of us.”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy.”

“Shannon, why don’t you head on up to bed,” I told her, knowing that shit was about to go down, and needing her out of the firing line.

Shannon moved for the door, but he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “I’m not done talking to her.”

“Well, she’s done talking to you,” I said, tone deathly cold, as I shouldered him out of the way of the kitchen door, giving my sister an escape route. “So, get out of her way old man. Now.”

Thankfully, Shannon took the opportunity to bolt out of the room before he could catch ahold of her ponytail.

“Don’t fucking think about it,” I warned, blocking the doorway, when he made to move after her. “She’s not your fucking punching bag.”

“Did ya see this?” Grabbing a newspaper, he tossed it at me. “Did ya see this carrying on, boy!”

Smoothing out the page, I stared down at a picture of my sister with none other than Mister Rugby himself.

“Well, shit,” I mused, reluctantly smiling at the sight of my baby sister tucked under the arm of the rising star of Irish rugby. “Maybe he has notions.”

“You think this is funny?” Dad snarled, ripping the newspaper from my hands and tearing the page in half. “Your sister’s a fucking whore, and all you can do is smile about it?”

“Clearly, our definitions of the word whore are very different.”

“That doll you’re fucking around with is another one,” he told me. “Little blonde whore, prancing around my house with her tits and legs and hole on full show. She’s looking for it, that one. I’m telling ya, boy, she’s looking for a good seeing to—”

His words broke off when I leveled him with a fist to the face. “You keep your goddamn eyes off her!”

“Eyes?” He threw his head back and laughed. “I’ll put more than my eyes on her the next time I see her.”

And that was all it took to unravel months of hard work and preservation.

Losing my absolute shit there and then, I slammed into my father, both throwing and receiving punches, as we crashed into kitchen table, knocking chairs over as we brawled.

“Was she a virgin before ya broke her in, boy?” he continued to torment me by saying. “Did she bleed all over ya? What am I saying?” he laughed cruelly. “There’s nothing between your legs to break her in with.”

“I will kill you,” I roared, straining against the beefy hand he had wrapped around my throat, as he pummeled his fist into my face. “If you so much as think about putting a hand on her—” Breaking free of his hold, I threw my entire weight at him, propelling us both forward until his legs gave way beneath him and we crashed to the ground. “If you look at my girlfriend again,” I roared, fists flying with a flourish. “If you fucking breathe too close to her, they’ll have to take you out of this house in a body bag!”

“Joey!” Mam’s voice filled my ears, and I looked up to find her standing in the kitchen doorway, cradling her round stomach, and looking at me like I was the monster in our story. “Get off your father.”

The clever bastard beneath me let his hands fall to his sides, feigning innocence, as he groaned in pain. “He’s killing me, Marie.”

“Get off your father,” Mam repeated, tone hardening, as she staggered into the kitchen. “And get out of my sight before I say something we’ll both regret.”

Disgusted, I released my hold on his shirt and climbed to my feet.

With blood smeared on my knuckles, I pointed a finger at her and spat, “You’re a fool if you think you’re not next,” before stalking out of the kitchen.

Taking the staircase two steps at a time, I grabbed a wad of toilet paper from the bathroom before storming into my room, slamming the door shut behind me.

Stripping down to my jocks, because that man’s hands had touched my clothes, I sank down on the edge of my bed.

Resting my elbows on my thighs, I sagged forward, and pressed the tissue to my mouth.

If I could peel the skin from my bones in this moment, I would have.

I didn’t want his hands anywhere near my body.

I couldn’t fucking bear it.

“Joe?” My bedroom door opened inwards and I saw my sister standing in the doorway. “You okay?”

“I’m grand, Shan,” I bit out, wiping the blood from my mouth. “You should go to bed.”

“You’re bleeding.”

No shit.

“It’s just a busted lip.” Impatient, and just about done with the whole fucking lot of them, I grumbled, “Go back to your room.”

She didn’t move.

Instead, she continued to hover in the doorway, until I relented and patted the mattress beside me, giving her what she needed.

“I’m sorry,” she strangled out, hurrying towards me. “So sorry,” she continued to cry, as her small arms came around my shoulders, putting more weight on me than I could handle.

It felt like my life was on a constant loop of reruns, repeating the same scene, the same pain, day after day, year after year, until it broke me.

Still, I went through the motions of comforting my little sister, and assuring her that it wasn’t her fault, which was true.

Tonight wasn’t on Shannon.

None of the previous nights of our past were on Shannon.

It was all them.

All of it.

After reassuring her a couple of hundred times, I gave up on any hope of having some alone time.

The tremors rolling through her assured me that she wasn’t leaving my room.

Fuck my life.

Giving up my bed, I took the floor and settled down for the night, as the topic of conversation – and my sister’s focus – shifted from our father to a boy she was intent on feigning indifference towards.

Johnny Kavanagh.

When she told me that he was responsible for her concussion that first day, I felt something settle inside of me. Because I finally had the confirmation that what happened to her that day, had, in fact, been an accident. The lad was almost mechanical in his rigidity, with impeccable manners. The academy had him groomed into the perfect gentlemen.

No way would he risk a future as bright as his on a childish stunt.

I could smell the bullshit a mile off every time she denied her very obvious feelings, and smiled to myself as I listened to her ramble on about who I thought might be her very first crush.

Being one of those asshole older brothers I never wanted to be, I heard myself warn her off, but not because I didn’t want her to find someone.

I did.

I just didn’t want to see her get her hopes up on a fella with a future as bright as Johnny Kavanagh.

I had no doubt that she would be watching him from the television in a few months, and call me a protective asshole, but I didn’t want to see my sister get hurt.