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“Well, had your father spent thirty-six hours on the flat of his back, trying to push all eight pounds twelve ounces of you out of his arse, he might feel different.”
“Are you going to kiss me or not?”
“Fuck it—”
“Shannon, I love you.” I stopped breathing. “You love me?” He nodded slowly, blue eyes locked on mine. “Like, a crazy fucking amount.” “Really?” “Really,” he confirmed. “And I’d ask your permission, but I didn’t even ask mine.”
“Are there any more Lynch children in my house, Jonathan?” “No,” I muttered, not meeting her eye. “I only took two.”
“It’s like a Great Dane and a Chihuahua trying to mate, but they somehow make it work.”
“But fair warning—you’re lying on the wet patch, lad.”
“Pregnant?” he seethed, voice rising in outrage. “I am fucking pregnant! I’m pregnant with despair, Johnny! I have a belly full of fucking disgust right now.”
“Boys?” Mam’s voice filled the air. “What’s the matter—Oh, Gerard, why are you in your underpants?” “Your son”—Gibsie paused to point an accusing finger at me before continuing—“ejaculated on me.” “He did?” Mam asked with a hopeful expression on her face. “Yes, he did!” Gibsie groaned, shuddering from head to toe.
“And next time, be tidier about it. Over the toilet bowl works for your father—less mess.” Fuck. My. Life.
“I’m not in your corner, Shannon,” Johnny replied in a gruff tone. “I’m standing right beside you.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m coming, Ma!” “That’s what I’m afraid of,” his mother shot back. “Now open up.”
“Yeah…so, this is my dick,”
