Taming 7 (Boys of Tommen, #5)

by Chloe Walsh

Moments before the pain in my lungs exploded and everything went dark, I saw it. A halo of light. An orb of pure sunshine. Her. I saw her. And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew …

“I think they wanted your dad to save Bethany.” “I didn’t,” I admitted honestly. “I wanted to keep you most of all.”

“But your hugs feel like sunshine.” “Like sunshine?” I frowned in confusion. “How?” “Because you are sunshine, silly.”

“I can’t lose another person I love.” “You love me?” He nodded sadly, as another tear trickled down his check. “I love you most of all.”

“I don’t see anyone.” His lips tipped up in the smallest of smiles before he added, “Except for you.”

Claire Biggs had a lot of things. My back. My attention. My heart. My soul. Yeah, she had all of me and that wasn’t an exaggeration.

It couldn’t hurt when I was Gibsie, because Gibsie was my armor, and humor was my sword.

If drugs were to Joey Lynch what Claire Biggs was to me, then there was no amount of rehab that could sway me to kick the habit. Because she was the habit of my lifetime.

One: Hugh was my brother. Two: Bethany was my sister. Three: Claire was mine.

Gibsie belonged to the rest of the world. Gerard belonged just to me.

I thought about her words for a long moment before saying, “I love you, Claire.” “I love you, too, Gerard.” A shiver racked through her. “A lot.”

“You’re in my seat.” “I didn’t see your name on it, lad,” Jamie joked, looking slick in his fancy black coat and gelled hair. “It’s right there,” Hugh offered, using his fork to point out the word Gibsie engraved on the chair. “Move.”

“I’m a barrister,” he explained, dressed in a designer suit, with sunglasses perched on his nose. He even had his hair slicked back like one of those corporate lawyers in the movies. “Like my dad.”

Sobbing

The minute Mark landed on Lizzie, she started to scream, and it was the worst, scariest, most feral noise I’d ever heard.

Darren smirked. “Just take my number,” he said, retrieving a business card from his coat pocket. “Call that number when you’re ready.” “Wait!” I called after him, but he was already walking away. “When I’m ready for what?” He didn’t respond.

“And what did I do?” “You know,” was all I could get out, and I fucking hated how small my voice sounded. Like I was seven years old again. Or eight, or nine, or ten, or even eleven. My breath hitched in my throat, and I had to force myself to not cower. “You know,” I strangled out, chest heaving. “And she did, too.”

“Tell?” He tossed the word out like it was something laughable. “Christ, what age are you?” “I’m seventeen now,” I bit out. “But I was seven when you raped me.”

“I was seven years old when you first raped me!” I said louder, refusing to be silenced a second longer by my fear of this man. “I was eleven years old when you finally stopped!”

“I need to hear your voice.” “Why?” “Because I need to know it’s you touching me.”

This poor broken boy..

“I killed Gerard with my hymen, Daddy!” I wailed, throwing the blood-stained duvet at his feet.

Being with her in this bed, the same bed where I’d endured countless nights of torture throughout the course of my childhood, was so cathartic, it was almost surreal.

I unfolded the page and reread Caoimhe Young’s suicide note. The real one. The one she left just for me.

After all, taming seven had been the adventure of my lifetime.