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Grace.
He’s talking about Grace.
Asking if I’m going to make a move on her.
“Why?” I snarl at him. “You interested?” He’s not. I know he’s not. I’ve never in my life known a man as devoted to a woman as Con is to my sister.
“Not even a little bit.” He laughs like I make a real joke. “But you are.”
He’s right. I am. I’m interested. I’m more than interested. Not that I can do fuck all about it. “Drop it,” I say, my tone low and tight. “I mean it, Con. Let it go.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” He’s like a fucking toddler with all his goddamned questions. “I’m serious, fuckstain—drop it.”
That shuts his mouth for about five seconds before it opens again. “Just because you can’t fuck her doesn’t mean you can’t hang out with her. I mean, if you actually like her then maybe it’ll make a difference. Maybe if you spend some time with her, you’ll—” He’s concentrating on flipping his burgers. Doesn’t see me coming until we’re both on the ground and I’ve got him pinned under me. I throw a punch but it’s an awkward angle and ends up clipping his cheekbone instead of breaking it. Used to my hairpin trigger, Con recovers quickly. Using the momentum of the punch, he plants his knee in my stomach to roll me onto my back. The adrenaline dump masks the pain. Quiets it to a dull ache. “Goddamn it, you crazy bastard—” he barks down at me, his hands planted on my chest in an effort to keep me pinned. “you ruined my fucking sweatshirt.” He wants to hit me, but he won’t. He never does. I don’t know if it’s because he’s afraid he’ll hurt me or if he’s afraid that hitting me back will just escalate the situation.
“Fuck your sweatshirt,” I snarl at him through clenched teeth while I use a hammer fist to break the lock on his elbows. As soon as his arms are bent, I slip past his defenses and smash my fist into his jaw. “Fuck you.” Stunned from the blow, Con offers little protest when I roll him again. “I hate you. I hate your perfect family and your fucking perfect lives. Fuck all of you.” I don’t know where it comes from. Somewhere deep. Some place dark. The Gilroys have always been there for me, from the time I was nothing but a snot-nosed punk, running the neighborhood. They fed me. Let me sleep over when shit got bad at home. Never said a word when I turned up on their doorstep, night after night. Never turned me away either.
But none of that matters right now.
Because right now, I hate them.
Every last fucking one of them.
“That’s too bad, you miserable fuck,” he spits up at me. “Because we’re your family. We’re all you’ve got. If you’d just—”
“You should’ve let me die.” I say it quietly but it stops him cold. “You should’ve just—”
“Those men are saying lots of bad words, right mom?”
My muscles relax in an instant and I look over my shoulder to see a little girl with white blonde hair and blue eyes staring at us like we’re a freak show attraction. On one side of her is an older couple—a man and woman who look like they’re about two seconds away from grabbing the kid and taking off. On the other side of the little girl is Grace.
I don’t even remember what she looks like, but I know it’s her. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me.
Shit.