Page 99 of Love Thief

“Gabe, you're losing it brother,” I tell him and pull away, his eyes totally glazed over—the lights are on, but nobody is home.

I walk off, into my shower and shut the door. I put my head down and she’s there, smiling at me. So much fucking love in that smile, I could cry. I want her so badly, I touch my cock with her in my mind and I come immediately, ribbons of cum painting the walls of the shower. It should be her skin, not the bland, emotionless tile.

And then I do start to cry. Why hasn’t she come to claim me? Drag me back to where I belong. When will this call come and put me out of my fucking misery. My breath is stuck in my chest, and I can’t fucking breathe. I can’t fucking breathe without her.

Igo out, I get high, I get drunk. I’m photographed with my arm around Grace. If I’m miserable, she should be too. My fucked up brain tells me it’s a good idea.

Retaliation is swift. My son, the most ruthless bastard to walk this earth. A twenty-week scan photo of my babies. I can see their faces, the fine detail. I think they look more like Evie than me. God, I hope they have her eye colour.

What am I thinking? They won’t, because they won’t make it.

Days, weeks later, more nightclub shots of me—Lauren this time—and an audio recording of their heartbeats arrives.

Tears fill my eyes, panic claws at my chest, I can’t breathe, I can hear them, I can see them, she is twenty-three weeks pregnant. If they come now, they may survive. I looked it up.

The photos start in earnest. He’s not even waiting to see if I do anything, he’s just hitting me again and again.

James

Come home Dad. She needs you. They need you. I need you *audio heartbeats*

James

Come home, Dad.

Attachment:

A photo of Evie stood sideways, just as she was with James on her slideshow she did for me, all those months ago. With Eamonn, the littlest Purcell, kissing her belly.

James

Come home Dad.

Attachment:

same pose again, this time with all three of my pseudo nephews, Oisin, Colm, and Eamonn, with the twins

James

Come home Dad. Mum at twenty-two weeks babies on board.

Attachment:

side photo, they are measuring them each week

James

Come home Dad. Mum and twins at twenty-three weeks.

Attachment

a recording of the babies moving and Eamonn, yet again touching her stomach and squealing in delight when they kick his hand.

Xander grabs my phone. “You’ve been staring at that for two fucking days. What is it? You’ve not eaten, washed, nothing. You stink. Time to move it, or Mick and I will do it.”

Mick is stood ready for action. Xan looks at the messages, puts the phone onto the speakers, and plays the heartbeats through it. I stare and stare at him, trying to get my fucked up brain working. He plays the audio of Eamonn squealing when they kick him, asking if he’s their favourite and Evie telling him of course.

God, her voice. It’s lower, more husky. My body responds to it, coming alive, like someone’s set it on fire.

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