Page 91 of Love What's Left
“You reek of a distillery.” She guided my face back to point at hers, and I blinked blearily as she popped in and out of focus.
“Your little sister built a youth center, teaches self-defense classes, and volunteers at a hospital. Your brother has at least a dozen charities he manages. Your parents do the same. Then. There’s. You.”
She paused, but I had nothing to say to fill the silence. We both knew it. The paparazzi loved me as much as they loved the birth mother I don’t remember because she died from a combination of pills and alcohol when I was three months old.
Maybe I never knew Ariana McRae, but I understood her. People called her a “party girl” as if any of it was about having a good time. I drank and fucked to escape.
“I pity anyone who makes the mistake of loving you or counting on you or believing a word out of your mouth.”
Guilt burned through me before the bourbon had a chance to smother the flames. Then a memory worked its way to the front of my mind, and I laughed. “You’re pissed I didn’t fly Bronwyn back for your graduation? That’s what’s got your panties in a twist?”
Her eyesnarrowed and her hand tightened.
I snorted. “I have news for you, sweetheart. You hafta learn to be a little flexible, or you’re in for a rough life,” I slurred.
“You, who have never worked for anything, tell me about a rough life.”
“You had one less person there to clap for you and listen to boring-ass speeches, and you’re crashing out. Yeah, I’m telling you to calm the fuck down. What kind of person expects their friends to sit through that shit, anyway? That’s what your family is for.”
She flinched like I slapped her.
“Overdramatic much?” I sneered.
Her jaw flexed. “Bronwyn could’ve been coming back to watch paint dry. The point is that you broke a promise that was important to your sister because you’re an alcoholic prick,” she hissed.
“If you think you’re perfect, you’re full of shit.”
“Forget perfect. Name one thing you’ve done to make this world a better place.”
I scoffed, offended and resentful and determined to make this waspish little prude eat her words. “You don’t know me at all. All those kids on the news rescued off that yacht two weeks ago? A ship full of pedophiles?” I mimed an explosion with my right hand. “Ask those trafficking victims if my contribution to the world means nothing.”
She released my jaw and stared. “You . . . There were people on that ship.Youkilledthose people on the boat. The senator and the general and the—”
“Pedophiles.” I over-enunciated the word.
Then I stared back at her blankly as I realized what I’d just admitted.Holy. Shit.I faked a laugh. “Gotcha. You should see your face.”
She took another step backward. “No. This isn’t a joke. I’ve seen Bronwyn slam a guy more than twice her weight into the sidewalk when he harassed us,and she didn’t break a sweat. All the security guards you guys have are ex-military. You have the money. The helicopters and boats and warehouses. Your family has the shipping companies, the labs, and tech developers. Your dad has all the law enforcement connections. Your family has everything you need to pull it off.”
“I thought I was the one who was drinking.” It was a last ditch, pathetic attempt to gaslight her, my mind too muddled with alcohol to think clearly enough to be clever. I didn’t want to imagine what it would take to silence a self-righteous little thing like her. Would money be enough to shut her up?
How could I face my family and admit that I’d fucking confessed to vigilante justice and brought an investigation down on us? How could I control this situation?
She sneered. “Uh-huh. So, if I called the FBI right now—”
My tumbler of bourbon crashed to the floor of the porch, and I stalked toward her. She scrambled backward, her steps matching my own. I had just enough awareness to catch the back of her skull in my palm so my knuckles took the brunt of the impact when she made hard contact with the fieldstone exterior of the house.
Breath whooshed from her lungs. I crowded against her, and it was my turn to hold her face in my hand, my touch and tone gentle. I tipped her head back, and she struggled ineffectually, attempting to knee me in the balls.
Even inebriated, I controlled her easily. I was trained for combat before I was old enough to write my own name, after all. “I was wrong. You’re not smart at all, are you, Walsh?”
How far would I have to go to protect my family from a danger I’d created? Would I coerce an innocent woman? Destroy her reputation and credibility?Something much, much worse? How far before there was no line left between me and the demons I battled? Until Iwasthe demon?
A hot wash of fear turned the blood in my veins to acid. Not of her. Of me.
People talked about hitting rock bottom. If I’d ever tried to visualize it, it would have been me dying somewhere on a filthy bathroom floor. Never, ever, had I pictured it as a sunny day and a pretty girl.
She glared up at me, her brown eyes hot with rage. Or maybe that’s how Sydney Walsh processed fear. By snarling and snapping and making everything harder than it had to be.
