Page 98 of Starting Over

He turned his back on me then, denying us both what was between us. One drunken confession and I lost the one person who could have made my life whole. And the kicker was, I lost him before I ever had him.

Now, I never would.

He wouldn’t let me.

I sat, curled in the corner of the couch, my feet tucked up under me, facing him. Both hands were wrapped around my cup, and I waited for him to be ready.

“Declan isn’t my brother.”

I sat up straighter, setting my cup down on the coffee table in front of us.

“What?”

“He’s actually my uncle. My parents were my grandparents. At least, my mother was. I’m not related to my dad at all, except he was married to my mom. Or rather, my grandmother.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to wrap my head around what he was telling me.

“You know, I spent fifteen years in a 1% club and never had as much fucking drama as I’ve had here in bumfuck, Nebraska.” He turned his head to look at me. “Stocks was right. This club is a fucking soap opera.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying my brother has been lying to me for my whole fucking life. My father, my real father, is the head of the fucking Irish Mob in Boston, and no one bothered to tell me.” He turned back and closed his eyes. “I guess that explains why Dec is a cop and I’m a fucking criminal.”

“King, I don’t know what to say.”

“This worst part is, if Maureen hadn’t shown up here, I still wouldn’t know shit.”

Maureen.

I didn’t want to hate her. She wasn’t a bad person; it was just that King was enamored with her, and I didn’t know why. I tried not to be jealous, but ever since she showed up, his attention had been on her. I knew he saw something in her, I just didn’t know what it was. He had a way of reading people right off the bat.

When Beck returned home, he connected with her immediately. Turned out she was his niece. Or I guess not.

“So what does that mean?”

“Hell if I know. He’s here.”

“Who?”

“My father.” He ran his hands through his hair.

“Oh.”

“FUCK!” he shouted. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this shit? How fucked up is this?”

I watched him. Waited for him to look at me. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“No.”

“What do you want?’

He turned to look at me again.

“You.”

“I’m right here.”

He pulled my legs across his lap and squeezed his big body between me and the back of the couch, resting his head against my belly. I trailed my fingers through his hair, feeling him shudder.

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