Page 6

SIX

GRáINNE

Six Years Ago

Age Seventeen

My ribs are smarting. They have been for the past two weeks. God, my dad really is a bastard. The sooner I turn eighteen the better. I can’t wait to get out of the house. Go somewhere where he can get to me.

“Get me a drink, bitch,” Dad snarls, his words slurred. He’s been drunk as a skunk for the past ten years. Hell, even longer. He’s a sorry bastard who gets drunk to block the pain and the memories. It’s a way to mask his guilt. Ten years ago, Dad was driving home from my aunt’s wedding, and Mam was in the front passenger's seat. I’ve only come to find out that Dad crashed the car into a wall. He’d had too much to drink. Mam never survived the crash. She died on impact. He admitted it to me whilst drunk a week ago and I’m still struggling to come to terms with it.

That’s something he hasn’t been able to live with, and he has been a drunken asshole ever since.

I shuffle to the kitchen, wincing with each step. The fridge light flickers as I grab a can of beer. I realize that he’s forgotten to order food shopping. There’s nothing in here, not even a beer. This is his last one, which means he’s going to get even angrier.

"Hurry up!" he bellows from the living room.

My hands shake as I pop the tab, foam spilling over onto my fingers.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. As I round the corner, I see him sprawled on the couch, eyes focused on the TV, which is blaring as he watches some game show. His eyes are bloodshot. I can barely see any white.

"Here," I mutter, thrusting the can at him.

He snatches it, sloshing beer onto the already-stained carpet. "Took you long enough," he grumbles.

I turn to leave, but his meaty hand clamps onto my wrist. "Where do you think you're going?"

My heart races. "I-I have homework," I stammer.

He yanks me closer, his boozy breath hot on my face. "Sit down and watch TV with your old man."

I sink onto the edge of the couch, as far from him as possible. Just a few more months, I remind myself. Just a few more months, and I'll be free.

I’m going to become a doctor. I want to help people, like no one has been able to help me.

Dad grunts and curses at the contestants whenever they get a question wrong, not that he’s gotten any right. I sit rigid, barely breathing, hoping he'll forget I'm here.

My mind wanders to the college applications hidden under my mattress. I've been working on them in secret, staying late at the library to use their computers. Ms. Johnson, my guidance counselor, has been helping me look for scholarships. She has no idea how bad things are at home. Hell, no one does, not even Connor.

My best friend is the best man I know. His mam died last year, and he did what he always wanted to do. He escaped his father—something I want to do too, but until I hit eighteen, I can’t, especially as I have no money and nowhere to go. Connor’s been gone for months, working for Lorcan Black. He’s paid off his dad’s debt and is currently earning money as he plays for Lorcan. I don’t begrudge him his happiness. He’s finally got what he wanted, and I’m so proud that he’s done it. But I miss him.

I’m pulled from my thoughts as Dad's empty can clatters to the floor. "Get me another," he demands, not even looking at me.

I hesitate, knowing what's coming. "That was the last one," I say softly.

His bloodshot eyes snap to me, narrowing dangerously. "What did you say?"

"There's no more beer," I repeat, my voice trembling. "You forgot to buy more."

He lurches to his feet, swaying slightly. "You useless piece of shit," he snarls. "You should've reminded me!"

I scramble backwards, but I'm not fast enough. His fist connects with my jaw, sending me sprawling. Pain explodes through my face as I taste blood.

"I'm sorry," I whimper, curling into a ball as he looms over me. "I'm sorry. I'll go get some now."

He kicks me in the ribs, right where they're already bruised. I gasp, tears springing to my eyes as white-hot pain lances through me.

"Damn right you will," he growls. "And don't you dare come back without my beer, or you'll really be sorry."

I struggle to my feet, clutching my side. The room spins as I stumble to the door, fumbling for my shoes. I can feel his eyes boring into my back as I slip out into the chilly night air.

This late at night, the nearest convenience store is almost a mile away. I start walking, each step sending jolts of pain through my body.

As I trudge along the dimly lit footpath, I imagine what it would be like to just keep walking; to never go back to that house; to disappear into the night and start a new life somewhere else. But I know it's just a fantasy. I have nowhere to go, no money, no one to turn to. It would be useless for me to run. I’d only end up on the streets. So right now, it’s better the devil you know.

The neon lights of the store come into view. I pause outside, taking a deep breath to compose myself. The bell jingles as I push open the door. The bored-looking cashier barely glances up from his phone.

I make my way to the fridges at the back, grabbing a six-pack of the cheap beer Dad likes. As I head to the register, I pray that the cashier doesn’t ask for ID. I'm not old enough to buy this, but I need to purchase it. If I don’t… I swallow hard.

God, no, don’t think about what could happen. Not now, I tell myself.

Thankfully, the cashier doesn’t even glance at me as he rings up the beer. I quickly pay and get the hell out of there.

My cell rings and I answer it as I begin to walk back home. “Hello?” I answer.

“Guess where I am?” My spirits are instantly lifted when I hear Connor’s voice.

“Where?” I ask, unable to keep the smile off my face. God, it’s so good to hear his voice.

“Home,” he replies simply, and my heart speeds up. “Where are you?”

I sigh. “Dad needed beer. I’m walking home. I’m glad you’re home though. It’s been too long.”

"Wait, what? You're out getting beer at this time of night?" Connor's voice is laced with anger and concern. "Are you okay?"

I hesitate, not wanting to worry him. If he finds out what’s really happening, he’ll lose his mind. "Yeah, I'm fine. You know how he gets."

There's a long pause. "I'm coming to get you. Where are you exactly?"

"No, Con, it's okay. I'm almost home anyway," I lie, my pace quickening despite the pain in my side.

"Bullshit," he says flatly. "I know you, and I know that tone. Something's wrong. Just tell me where you are."

I sigh, knowing he won't let this go. I quickly give him the address.

"Stay there. I'm on my way."

Before I can protest, he hangs up. I slow my pace, torn between relief at seeing my best friend and dread at what Dad will do if I'm not back soon.

Ten minutes later, headlights appear in the distance. Connor's brand new SUV pulls up beside me, and he leans across to open the passenger door.

"Get in," he says, his eyes scanning me with worry.

I slide into the seat, wincing as the movement jars my ribs. Connor notices, his jaw tightening. I pull on my seatbelt and breathe a sigh of relief that he’s here.

"What happened?" he asks quietly as he pulls away from the curb.

"Nothing," I mutter, staring out the window. "Just tripped.”

Connor scoffs, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Don't lie to me, Grá. I know you better than that."

I remain silent, unsure what to say. Part of me wants to tell him everything, to finally let someone know the hell I've been living in since he’s been gone. But another part of me is terrified of what might happen if I do.

"Look," Connor says softly, "I know things have been rough since your ma died. Why haven’t you told me that he’s gotten worse? You should have told me, Grá. You could have stayed at my place."

I turn to look at him, really look at him for the first time. He's changed in the months he's been gone. There's a hardness to his eyes that wasn't there before, a confidence in the set of his shoulders. But underneath it all, I can still see my best friend.

"It's not that simple," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm not eighteen yet. I can't just leave."

Connor's eyes flash with anger. "Like hell you can't. We'll figure something out. I'm not letting you go back there."

As we approach my street, panic rises in my chest. "Con, you have to take me home. If I don't bring him the beer?—"

He cuts me off. "No way. You're coming with me. We'll deal with your dad later."

I shake my head, my entire body trembling. “Please,” I whimper. “God, Con, please. I need to go home.”

He watches me. “Fuck,” he snarls. “Fine, but I’m coming in too. I’m not leaving you alone with that piece of shit.”

Connor pulls up in front of my house, his jaw clenched tight. I can see the tension radiating off him as he kills the engine.

"You don't have to do this," I say softly, clutching the six-pack to my chest like a shield.

He turns to me, his eyes blazing with determination. "Yes, I do. I'm not leaving you alone with him again."

We get out of the car, Connor staying close to my side as we approach the front door. My hand shakes as I reach for the knob, dreading what awaits us inside.

The living room is dark except for the flickering light of the TV. Dad is sprawled on the couch, snoring loudly. Empty cans litter the floor around him.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe we can just slip past him...

But as I take a step forward, my foot catches on an empty can. It skitters across the floor with a loud clatter.

Dad's eyes snap open. He lurches to his feet, swaying dangerously. "Where the hell have you been?" he slurs, stumbling toward us.

I shrink back instinctively, but Connor steps in front of me. "Back off," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Dad's bloodshot eyes narrow as he focuses on Connor. "What the fuck are you doing back?" he slurs.

"You’re lucky your daughter hasn’t called me before now. You touch her again, Joe, and we’re going to have a bigger problem than we already do. I’m not letting you hurt Grá again," Connor says, his fists clenched at his sides. He’s geared up for a fight, but I don’t want anything to happen to him, and stupidly, I don’t want my dad to get hurt either.

Dad's face contorts with rage. "You little shit," he snarls, lunging forward. But his drunken state makes him clumsy, and Connor easily sidesteps him.

"Grá, go pack a bag," Connor says, his eyes never leaving my father. "You're not staying here tonight."

I hesitate, torn between fear of my father's wrath and the desperate desire to escape. Dad turns his furious gaze on me. "You're not going anywhere," he growls.

Connor steps between us again. "Yes, she is. And if you try to stop her, I'll call the cops. How do you think they'll react to seeing those bruises?"

Dad's face pales slightly, but his anger doesn't subside. "You can't take her," he spits. "She's my daughter."

"Some dad you are," Connor retorts, his voice dripping with disgust. "Grá, go. Now."

I don't wait for another word. I dart past them, racing up the stairs to my room, ignoring the pain that radiates throughout my body. With shaking hands, I grab a duffel bag and start shoving clothes into it. I can hear muffled shouting from downstairs, but I try to block it out.

As I'm zipping up the bag, I hear a crash followed by a pained grunt. My heart leaps into my throat. I rush back downstairs to find Connor standing over my father, who's sprawled on the floor, clutching his jaw.

"Let's go," Connor says firmly, grabbing my arm and steering me toward the door. I cast one last glance at my father, a mixture of fear and pity churning in my stomach.

As we step out into the darkness, I hear my dad's slurred voice behind us. "You'll be back," he calls out. "You've got nowhere else to go."

Connor's grip on my arm tightens as he leads me to his car. "Don't listen to him," he mutters. "You're never going back there."

We drive in silence for a while, the streetlights casting intermittent shadows across Connor's face. I can see the tension in his jaw; his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Connor glances at me, his expression softening slightly. "My place. It's safe there."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and the pain in my ribs is becoming more pronounced. I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

Connor notices my pain. "We should get you checked out," he says, concern evident in his voice. "Those ribs could be broken."

I shake my head vehemently. "No hospitals," I insist. "They'll ask questions."

He sighs but doesn't argue. "I know someone who’ll help you be seen without questions.”

I close my eyes, knowing there’s no point in arguing.

“Hey, Grá,” Connor says softly, gently pushing me awake. “We’re here.”

I blink awake. “Where are we?”

“Jerry Houlihan’s home,” he says nonchalantly.

My eyes widen at his words. “You’re not serious?” I hiss. “Jerry Houlihan?”

“I know what you think, Grá. Trust me, I know. But Jer’s not the man you think he is. Trust me.”

I grit my teeth and nod. There’s nothing I can do right now. We’re here.

Jerry Houlihan is the head of the Houlihan Gang here in Ireland. The man is a cold-blooded killer, not to mention one of the biggest drug dealers in the country.

Connor helps me out of the car, his arm gentle around my waist as we approach the imposing mansion. My heart races as we reach the huge red front door. Connor knocks, and moments later it swings open to reveal a burly man with a shaved head.

He nods at Connor. "Boss is expecting you," he grunts, stepping aside to let us in.

The opulent interior takes my breath away. It’s huge. There’s glass everywhere, paintings hanging on the walls, and sculptures dotted around the place. It's a far cry from the dingy house I've been calling home.

We're led to a study where a man sits behind an enormous mahogany desk. Jerry Houlihan looks every bit the crime boss—expensive suit, gold rings on his fingers, an air of danger about him. But when he sees us, his face breaks into a warm smile.

"Connor," he says, rising to clasp Connor's hand. "And this must be the famous Grá I've heard so much about."

I'm too stunned to speak. Connor squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. "Jer, we need your help. Grá's been hurt. Can you get Doc Murphy to take a look at her?"

Jerry's expression darkens as he takes in my bruised face. "Of course. I'll call him right away." He picks up a phone on his desk. "Murphy? Get over here now. And bring your medical bag."

As we wait for the doctor, Jerry insists I sit in a plush armchair. Connor hovers nearby, his eyes constantly darting to me with concern.

"Can I get you anything, loveen?" Jerry asks, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Water? Tea?"

I shake my head, still too overwhelmed to speak. The reality of the situation is starting to hit me. I'm sitting in the home of one of Ireland's most notorious gangsters, waiting for a doctor to treat injuries inflicted by my own father.

How did my life come to this?

A few minutes later, there's a knock at the door. An older man with salt-and-pepper hair enters, carrying a black medical bag.

"This is Doc Murphy," Jerry introduces. "He'll take good care of you, Grá."

The doctor's eyes are kind as he approaches me. "Let's have a look at you, shall we?"

Connor moves to leave the room, but I grab his hand. "Stay," I whisper. He nods, squeezing my hand gently.

Dr. Murphy's examination is thorough but gentle. He frowns as he probes my ribs, causing me to wince.

"Two cracked ribs," he announces. "And some nasty bruising. Nothing life-threatening, but you'll need to take it easy for a few weeks."

He turns to Jerry. "She needs rest and pain management. I'll leave some medication, but she should be monitored for the next twenty-four hours.”

Jerry nods solemnly. "She can stay here as long as she needs. I'll have a room prepared."

I open my mouth to protest, but Connor squeezes my hand, silencing me. "Thanks, Jer," he says. "We really appreciate it."

Dr. Murphy hands Jerry a bottle of pills. "For the pain," he explains. "Two every four hours. And make sure she gets plenty of rest."

As the doctor packs up his bag, I take two of the pain pills as Jerry turns to me. "You're safe here, Gráinne. No one will hurt you under my roof."

I nod, unable to find words. The events of the night are catching up with me, and exhaustion is setting in.

Connor helps me to my feet. "Let's get you to bed," he says softly.

Jerry leads us upstairs to a guest room that's bigger than my entire house. The bed looks so soft, and I sink into it gratefully.

"I'll be right next door if you need anything," Connor says, tucking the blankets around me.

As he turns to leave, I grab his wrist. "Con," I whisper. "Thank you. For everything."

He gives me a sad, gentle smile. "Get some rest, Grá. We'll figure everything out in the morning."

As the door closes behind him, I'm left alone with my thoughts. The pain medication is starting to kick in, dulling the ache in my ribs and making my eyelids heavy. I drift off to sleep, my mind swirling with questions about what the future holds.

I awake to sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, I'm disoriented, not recognizing my surroundings. Then everything that happened last night comes rushing back.

I sit up gingerly, wincing at the pain in my ribs. There's a soft knock at the door.

"Come in," I call out.

Connor enters, carrying a tray laden with food. "Morning," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck," I admit, managing a weak smile.

He sets the tray on the bedside table and sits on the edge of the bed. "Jer sent up some breakfast. You should try to eat something."

I nod, suddenly realizing how hungry I am. As I pick at the toast and eggs, Connor watches me intently.

"We need to talk about what happens next," he says finally.

I swallow hard, setting down my fork. "I can't go back there, Con. I just can't."

He nods. "You won't have to. But we need to figure out a plan. You're still underage, and your dad could cause trouble if he wanted to."

"What are my options?" I ask, fear creeping into my voice.

Connor runs a hand through his hair. "Well, Jer's offered to let you stay here as long as you need. He's got connections, so your dad won’t go against him.”

I stare at him, hardly believing my ears. “And what does he want in return?” I ask. I’m not stupid; people like Jerry Houlihan don’t do anything for free.

He grins. “Always so trusting,” he quips. “Jerry has a proposition for you,” he says. “He wants to pay for your school, for you to become a doctor, and in return, whenever he calls you, you’ll come help him. No questions asked.”

I blink, trying to process Connor's words. "He wants to pay for my education? And all I have to do is help him sometimes?"

Connor nods, his expression serious. "Look, I know it sounds too good to be true. But Jer's not what you think. He takes care of his own."

I chew my lip, considering. The offer is tempting; a chance to escape my father and to pursue my dream of becoming a doctor. But at what cost?

"What kind of help would I be expected to provide?" I ask cautiously.

Connor sighs. "Honestly? Probably patching up his men when they can't go to a hospital. Maybe some discreet house calls like Dr. Murphy did last night with you. Nothing illegal, Grá. He knows you want to be a doctor to help people. He won't ask you to compromise that."

I nod slowly, still processing. "And what about you, Con? How did you get mixed up in all this?"

He grins. “Nothing nefarious, Grá. I’ve met Jer a few times at poker tables. I helped him out a time or two, and I knew that he’d help me if the time came, which it did last night.

I reach out and take his hand, giving it a grateful squeeze. “Thank you,” I whisper, so fucking grateful that he came home and came back to me.

“So, what do you say to Jer’s offer?”

I take a deep breath. I’m unsure if I’m making the right choice or not, but it’s the one that feels right to me. “Yes,” I say, my voice a little hesitant. “I’m saying yes.”

I really hope I’ve made the right decision.