Page 12 of Alfie: Part One

“I don’t like how you act around them.”

Yeah, well. I hadn’t liked how I was judged for being myself.

I remembered the second time I’d seen West’s parents. I’d sworn to myself to be on my best behavior, considering what’d happened the first time, with West’s dad warning me.

“I happen to know your history, young man. For six years, I dedicated my work to learning everything there was to knowabout John Murray. I know where he lived, who he married, who he screwed on the side… I know you didn’t become Alfie O’Dwyer until you were three years old.”

I dropped down from the bar, panting like a madman, and rested my hands on my thighs.

Fuck me.

My vision filled with black spots.

The third time visiting West’s folks hadn’t gone any better.

We’d sat on their fancy-ass patio, and Lucille had asked me about my childhood. Somehow, I’d forgotten my place, and I’d ended up sharing a memory of when my parents had given me the best Christmas ever. I’d been six or seven—I couldn’t remember exactly. Mom had just been laid off, so money was extra tight, and we couldn’t even pay the electric bill. So Dad had lit a bunch of candles in the apartment while Ma had raided the cupboards.

The tree had been a gift from one of Ma’s girlfriends, and my new clothes were from the church’s coat drive. Like I gave a shit. Everything was wrapped, and they were new to me. Some toys too. We’d sat there by the tree, candles everywhere, eating SpaghettiOs, pan sobao with jam, and chocolate Santas.

In retrospect, I knew that memory wasn’t as fond to my folks. It’d been a low point to them. But to me…? I’d had so much fun. We’d played games, goofed off, and just spent the whole day together, the three of us.

I’d been so wrapped up in that memory that I’d noticed too late how Lucille reacted.

There were rich people who hated poverty, and there were rich people who hated the poor.

She fell into the latter category, and she’d made me feel like absolute shit with just one expression.

Why would I wanna subject myself to that over and over?

I’d changed my behavior; I hadn’t changed who I was. Granted, the changes had bled into our personal life when those uppity cunts weren’t around, but fucking excuse me. It was exhausting to keep up the charade and switch back and forth.

Even so, it wasn’t like West got a whole other version of me at home. I’d still had my opinions. I’d still had my crass sense of humor. I’d still accidentally let one too many fucks slip out, so Ellie had been, like, three when she’d cursed for the first time.

I drew a deep breath and then chugged from my water bottle.

If anything, fuck West for parading his hood rat around. Like he was some rebel who got a thrill from going against his parents’ wishes.

I’ll stick to my SpaghettiOs, thank you.

I only had two sources of guilt where West was concerned, and those lies were safe. And in my defense, I’d never planned on keeping my heritage a secret. My job, however…

I’d started working for Kellan pretty instantly after we’d moved back, and West had no idea. To his knowledge, I’d wasted six months looking for a job, and then I’d bartended and worked a bit in construction. Which wasn’t untrue. I actually had helped my old man at his construction company.

Whatever.

I was done.

My work phone buzzed on the hallway table, and I went over there and saw a text from Kellan.

The boss wants to meet you. Are you at home?

He never used Finnegan’s name when texting.

I messaged back, too spent to get nervous.

Yup. I’m available whenever. When?

I blew out a breath and?—

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