I suppose neither of us has grown out of our struggles. Dad was wrong in saying we would.
“You struggle with all people. You’ve known this town for twenty years.”
“Will you do it, please?” Dollie begs. Actually begs.
“Fine,” he agrees. But he isn’t happy about it. “But you’re gonna have to build your confidence at some point. And I don’t mean to talk to estate agents or your brother to sign the house over, because even I’m hoping that maybe you won’t have to talk to him, and that’ll take the pressure off a little and allow you to not be so on edge? Hmm? Who knows, maybe my mom was right, and he lost his rights when he shoved that blade into your mom’s throat and dad’s stomach.”
No, I didn’t, and I won’t be signing shit.
“That would be better for you, right? I mean, you don’t want to see him after what he put you through?”
“I don’t wanna see him.” She sniffles. “I can’t see him. But I do wanna go to town now.”
The damp air attacks my lungs as I suck in big breaths through flared nostrils, attempting to forget the crawling sensation on my skin and the heat rolling down my cheeks as my anger now clouds my senses. I squeeze Duggan until his stitching almost pops.
Shit… I check him over, and he’s fine. Thank God because I can’t be the one to break Dollie’s heart, and that would do it.
She wouldn’t understand my reasons for abusing the poor toy.
Shane is the reason. The reason Dollie doesn’t speak to me. The reason she turned her back on me is because of him.
She’s brainwashed.
She doesn’t even realize that he says things a certain way just to see the pretty sheen of tears gloss her eyes.
I would never.
Stepping away, I move back through the reading room, not waiting to hear the wobble in her voice if she says something else.
The floorboards creak under my weight because I don’t give a shit about who hears what right now.
I pause in the foyer.
The music room would be a fine place to leave Duggan, and I contemplate it as I stare down at the stuffed toy in my hands.
Dollie lost and found him there many times when we were kids.
But she won’t today.
I climb the stairs with him in hand because I need him more.
CHAPTER 11
Ambrose—present day
It’s frowned upon to drink on the job, and my probation officer and boss would no doubt be pissed, but who would really notice here anyway? Everyone acts like they’ve escaped either a circus or a mental institution.
Neon paint lights up the black room as much as the disco ball. Party girls in little more than underwear swing from the ceiling, suspended by ropes, while men prance around topless on moving floors.
Their costumes and makeup make me cringe. The painted-on scars on their torsos speak of made-up trauma. Mine are real and grab the attention of half of the women in this place each night. Their hands are always eager to be all over me, and I fucking hate it.
I hate the feel of sweaty palms running all over my skin.
I’m the only one who does, of course.
There is a reason this place is called The Funhouse.
So, I keep to myself, manning the busy bar, which is a feat in itself when I have no way of communicating outside of facial expressions and hand gestures.