Page 44 of Crave Me

“I was going to a party being thrown by Finn’s sponsor,” I say, forcing myself to speak. “Bryant came out of nowhere and told me that I needed to take him as my date to make it up to him.”

“To make what up to him?” Curran asks.

“I don’t know, for dumping him—for being the one to walk away when it should have been him.”

Curran doesn’t respond, but I can tell he wants me to keep going. “I told him to fuck off,” I admit. “He grabbed my arm, but when I shoved him away we both went at it.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me, tell us? Kill and Finn were down there with you. They would have had your back. You had no right keeping this from us.”

My face heats from my rising anger and humiliation. I’ve spent my life trying to prove to my six behemoth brothers that I don’t need to be protected, that I’m strong and capable. For the most part, I’ve done all right, and looked after them like they’ve looked after me. But the one time I really needed them, was the one time I couldn’t call them. Bryant struck a blow so lethal, it all but guaranteed I wouldn’t run to my family. But I don’t reference that moment. I can’t, so I focus on what happened in Atlantic City.

“I had every right,” I fire back, my pent up anger and shame rising to the surface. “Finn was breaking down. Do I have to remind you how bad he was getting?”

I don’t mean to raise my voice, but I do. It’s only when the cops and firefighters loitering nearby turn to look at me that I shut my mouth. Curran senses at much, quieting, but doing little to hide the rage building behind it. “Don’t use what happened to Finnie as an excuse. Bottom line, you should’ve told us.”

“It’s not an excuse. Finn needed to come first. Under those circumstances, he needed us more.” My voice is absolute. All the crap revolving around Bryant aside, our little brother was more important. I suppose the reminder of how bad Finn was quiets us, giving us a moment.

“I was also embarrassed,” I add a few long seconds later, the weight of my stress pressing into my shoulders. “And I was the one who took the first swing.”

“You swung first?” I nod. “Why?” he asks.

“I told you, he grabbed my arm and demanded I take him to the party.”

“Uh, uh,” he says, leaning in. “If you took a swing it’s because you were afraid, angry, or both. So let me ask you this, why were you afraid?”

Yeah. There’s a reason Curran is considered one of the best cops to ever wear the uniform. “Things didn’t end well,” I repeat.

“Because he was hitting you?”

“No,” I reply.

“Wren,” he warns.

“I’m not lying, Curran. I told you that was the first night he hit me. But we both messed each other up. You know how the law works. If there’s evidence of domestic violence an arrest has to be made. So yeah, maybe he would have been arrested, but I would’ve been too.”

His lips press tight. He’s listening, not that he likes what he hears.

“We were in Jersey,” I remind him. “Not here where you’re a cop, and Declan and Tess are assistant D.A.s. It would have been messy, and loud—during a time when Declan was still being hailed for winning the trail of the century and in the process of starting the next.” I take a breath because as strong as my arguments are, I don’t think he’s convinced, and he needs to be. “Even with all that aside, think back to what happened to Finnie. Curran, he was spiraling down faster than any of could have stopped him.”

Everything I say is true, and valid, and shit that should stop him in place. But it doesn’t.

“What did he do to you, Wren?”

It’s the same question Sol asked me. But where she asked with a lot of heart, Curran’s asking with barely controlled fury, cutting me off at the knees and making my excuses seem pathetic.

“He made me feel like I was less than I am,” I reply, the quiver in my voice revealing the honesty behind each syllable. My gaze drops to the floor, but it’s only brief. “Like I was nothing, and didn’t matter.”

“So it was emotional?”

He’s trying to clarify what I mean, not that it lifts the tension straining his broad shoulders. Abuse is abuse. It doesn’t hurt less because there’s no physical evidence of what you’ve endured. Inner scars are a bitch to heal and can mar forever.

I don’t tell him as much. He knows all too well where I’m coming from. “Yeah. Harder to prove, right?” I ask, hoping he doesn’t keep probing and find out how “emotional” it really was.

“Maybe, but that doesn’t make it any less wrong. You should have told us.”

“I know,” I say, more because he wants to hear me say it. I rub my eyes, wishing this could go away, but recognizing it’s far from over. “What are you going to do?”

“Knock on his door,” he tells me, not even blinking.

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