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I can walk into any Target right now and find books with some doll-faced heroine being swept off her feet by a gorgeous Armani-clad mafia prince with a BDSM habit and a secret heart of gold. Well, I’m the mafia prince of Oklahoma. If that’s not life kicking me in the balls, I don’t know what is.
no one can pronounce my given name. Tadhg. Like ‘tiger’, without the -er.
protecting Micah was a worthy cause. Probably the only worthy cause I ever had.
Maybe I could have found wherever Micah and his mom ended up when they fled my father’s influence. They might have taken me in, and then I’d be a normal person instead of a sweaty, bullet-ridden criminal about to die on a warehouse floor, cradled in the arms of the person I hate the most in this world.
Someone who doesn’t know the texture of a person’s insides. And who hasn’t missed their stepbrother like an amputated limb for twelve years.
Nothing feels right. Nothing feels real. I reach out for him on instinct, and he frowns, but leans down and tangles his hand in mine. Exactly how we used to in the closet.
I’ve found that people will let you get away with a lot of shit when you’re doe-eyed and boyish. Hooray for twink privilege.
“Bambi?” he whispers, still staring at me with that confused expression.
If Patrick has spent the last decade being a devil on his shoulder, this is my chance to be an angel. A very gay, exhausted angel.
It’s nice. He’s in control. He just keeps talking in that calm, I’m-the-boss voice and I kind of want to let Micah be in charge of me for the rest of my existence. That wouldn’t be so bad, I think. He’d make me shower and eat real food, and he probably wouldn’t let me murder anyone hardly at all.
