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that’s who I am as a person: an altruistic, stand-up guy.” “Didn’t you do community service for public indecency recently after running down a street completely naked?”
“Specifically speaking, I don’t have any. Just think of me, like, as Bambi: cute AF but super stupid and in total need of supervision.”
“You’re here because I heard all about your antics in California, and I don’t want my daughter to suffer because you’re slightly less civilized than a chimp.
I wondered what it felt like to walk around with balls that weighed five tons each. Lots of back problems, I imagined.
I was trying to figure out what I could say without sounding like a whiny douche. “I’m going to tell my old man.”
I realized what the cherry on the shit cake this day had served me was: My father’s people had to have seen me getting into Troy’s car—they had eyes on me wherever I was—but they didn’t do a damn thing about it. I really was alone in the world.
“Obviously you’ve never been kissed by a Fitzpatrick.” “Have you?” I challenged, cocking a brow. “Was it your brother or sister? I’m hoping your brother. I love me some male-on-male action.”
“How convenient of her to fall in love with a middle-aged gazillionaire who has no hair, but possesses teeth the size of bricks, four chins, and is rumored to have given his ex-wife three estates and a hundred mill in a divorce settlement,”
“This part is crucial, so listen carefully: nobody knows how to dance unless it’s professionally. Nobody. But especially white people from Boston. We are notoriously bad at dancing.
“Guess what?” He breathed in my face. If only he didn’t smell as he had—of cinnamon and male and my full-blown demise. “You’re dancing.”
It was a gray Monday morning, which brought with it the urge to hurl myself under a bus.
Dangerous older son? That would be mo órga. Precious Cillian. Also, this sounded nothing like a torrid, harmless affair with an anal-loving mistress.
anal loving mistress 🧐
In that moment, I wished I’d never laid eyes upon Hunter Fitzpatrick, because I knew with certainty that for all his spoiled ways, corrupted behavior, and obsession with pleasure, he was innately good, loyal, and courageous.
“Just so we’re clear, you may be my babysitter, but you don’t call the shots. You do not boss me around, you do not make stupid-ass decisions with your body. Finally, you do not fucking hunt me. I’m the hunter here, sweetheart. And you? The goddamn prey.”
“Honey, I’m home,” Sailor sing-songed sarcastically. She froze on the spot when she realized I wasn’t alone. I sat upright, thinking, This is salvageable, until I felt the bra falling from my face onto the carpet. Shitfuckhell.
“I can explain.” She said nothing. Just stared at me. Which was worse than being yelled at, somehow. “We were just watching a movie.” “Were you using her bra as glasses?”
“You have to let life touch you. Drown a little with me, baby.”
“Where do you think you’re going, aingeal dian? If you can still walk, that means we’re not finished yet.”
Knight: Yo, asswipe. What are you doing next weekend? Hunter: Scratching my balls. Making voodoo dolls of my dad. That kind of thing. What kind of question is that? Knight: One I’d like a serious answer to, you little ass fucker.
“My brother?” I echoed, spinning on my heel. Did I have another bastard brother I wasn’t aware of? Because there was no way she was talking about Kill. “You mean the asshole who looks at me like I’m cow shit clinging to his twelve-hundred dollar Magnannis?”
“Priceless and worthless are the same sum, presented in different manners. Words make you or break you. By cursing, you reduce yourself to someone who cannot convey their feelings sufficiently.”
… apparently I’m stupid
But the new Hunter was too prideful to beg, let alone for food. So I cracked open a can of beans, tried to microwave it, almost caused an explosion (who knew metal wasn’t microwave-safe? Not this fucker), and settled for crackers and expired cream cheese.
“Get the fuck out. I’m not your son. I may be dumb and pretty, but for fuck’s sake, I am pretty. You look like Gargamel.”
