Page 3 of Mine to Worship

“Brandon,” I snap.

“What are you talking about?”

“Where are you?”

“In Los Angeles.”

“I’ll send the jet to get you here.”

“Why should I?”

“Don’t make me come to you,” I threaten and hang up.

I stride to my home gym, punish my feet and kick the punching bag until it rattles from the wall then I change to throwing punches. My knuckles bleed. My vision blackens and my body shakes, but nothing calms the storm wreaking havoc through me. I pace around like a caged animal. Time trickles too slowly, increasing the torturous waiting. I wait and wait, unable to speed time while my insides crumple and twist with pain.

Brandon’s face appears on the intercom, and I yank the door open. I drag him inside and his eyes pop up.

“You look like shit,” he says.

He blinks at me in an utter stupor, and I rake a hand through my hair. My chest heaves with heavy pants. By the second, I am losing my fucking control—my mind.

“Brandon.” My voice booms with warning.

“What are you blaming me for now, huh?” He pushes me and I sway on my feet at the hurt flashing in his eyes. “I wanted your attention. Every memory of my childhood has you in it. Me, the stupid little kid running toward his big brother. But you always pushed me away. Am I so damn unlovable? Because this is all I wanted, your love.”

Fucking great, I hurt the two people I have loved the most in my fucking life. But do any of them have any idea what it’s like to be betrayed by those you love most?

“You had everything. Grow the fuck up,” I tell him.

His eyes bore into mine, and he shoves me again. “Or what? You’ll cast me aside? It stopped hurting a long time ago, brother.” But his wretched tone reveals that’s a lie.

A volcano of feelings broods inside me.

“Seeing you this weak and pathetic, I regret protecting you.”

He freezes, and his head sags. I still see him as my little brother, even though I am his uncle. That is fucked up.

“What have I ever done to you?” he asks, sounding resigned.

“You were born.” I clamp my mouth shut the instant the words are out. In my hurt, I hurt. Isn’t that what a fucked up person does? Because I’m crippled by hurt and I want to share it.

“Thank you for making it clear that you never loved me, and never will,” Brandon whispers despondently. His words plunge a knife right into my chest.

I pinch the bridge of my nose conjuring patience. “That’s not true.” I drop down in my armchair. “I am not your brother. I am your uncle.”

“What?” his voice cracks and he stumbles back, crashing on the couch. Seconds tick by as we stare at each other and I force myself to confess.

“You’re wrong. I love you, but I never knew how to show it. All my life, it was about protecting you. I didn’t avoid you. I wanted to play with you, spend time with you, but…” Physically, it stopped hurting a long time ago, mentally, I am still trapped in that hell. “Beneath my clothes, my ribs cracked whenever I would breathe, I barely could keep my eyes open from another night fighting to survive,” I continue. “Your father dragged me to a warehouse where he organized his illegal fight clubs, and I took all the beatings. I was the smallest, the youngest. Richard said it was me or you.” I drag a hand down my face, my body straining with those images. “I used to come to your room afterwards, and I swore you would never experience blood coating your mouth, the pain tearing your flesh, your bones aching.”

The color drains from his face. “I didn’t know.”

“Why would you?” I ask and a sardonic laugh bursts out of me.

He gulps and his shoulders slump. “Then why do you blame me?”

“If I blame you for something, it is for making me love you, when all I wanted was to curse your existence. Jillian used to care for me before you came along. I remember her tucking me into my bed, caressing my cheek.” I saunter to the bar and I fill two glasses. “It was a lie anyway. She did it for the money. Grandfather is my biological father.”

I offer Brandon a drink. We clink and he tips his back in one go.

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