Page 6 of Beautiful Secrets
Cillian’s loafers hit the porch a moment later. “Thought you said you were holding up fine.”
I light a cigarette and hit it hard before I turn to him. “I was just dandy.” I point back inside. “And then I walked into that.” I shake my head, laughing. “What the fuck is that?”
“My family?” Kill says coldly, cocking his head. “Did you forget I had one?”
I snort as I turn away from him. How the fuck could I forget when every letter I got in the facility—fucking letters because that’s how backward Blackmoore is—were filled with reports about my brother’s kids.
“We should call it a night,” Kill says. “You get your head right and then—”
“I’ve had five fucking years to get my head right.” I flick my nail against the filter of my cigarette. Hit it again. “I’m done.”
Cillian sighs. Comes closer. “It’s time to move on. You have enough money to retire—so why don’t you? Do some sightseeing. Travel the world.”
I turn, studying my twin through narrowed eyes as I lean against the railing. White, of course. Matches the fucking picket fence.
It kills me that Cillian was busy playing house while our enemies tore apart the legacy we built from nothing. Our kingdom destroyed—because he was done with being a mob boss. Somehow, he figured I was too. Like I’d lost every scrap of who I was when they locked me in the madhouse.
And let’s not forget who put me there.
But I can’t blame Brother Dearest. Not really. He’s done more time for me over the years than I have for him. I guess it’s his way of balancing the scales.
And there’s an upside. The treatment did work. All that therapy and the pills and shit.
I’m as much a changed man as my brother.
In more ways than he’d ever know, in fact. Because while I learned a lot about my condition inside those horrid peach-painted walls…I discovered even more about myself.
Some of those secrets I wish had stayed buried in the murky depths of my psychotic mind.
Maybe then I wouldn’t be feeling so fucking bitter right now. So…lost. Like I’d stepped into a parallel dimension. Everyone looks the same, but they’re completely different people.
We stare at each other a beat, and then he lowers his eyes. “You’re not a kid anymore. It’s time you got your life back on track.”
I can barely fucking breathe. “You mean what’s left of it? Because that ain’t much.”
Kill’s eyes narrow warily. “I meant get a wife. Start a family. Stop acting like Fate conspired against you. Trust me, the world doesn’t owe you anything.”
I step closer, push a finger into his chest. My cigarette leaks a stream of smoke upward, and he turns his face away. “Aye. The world doesn’t owe me anything, Kill. You, on the other hand? You owe me five years.”
He laughs. “You think I took years off your life?” He shakes his head, puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve given you back your life, Cole. You’d have rotted in jail if I hadn’t made that deal with Helen. You’d have—”
I shove my way past him.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me.
“Back to my hotel,” I throw over my shoulder.
“Don’t.” Kill rakes his fingers through his hair again. “Stay here tonight. We have a spare bed. We can talk about—”
“With that fucking ruckus?” I point to the house, where it’s obvious Meisie hasn’t managed to calm down the twins yet if their howling is anything to go by. “I’d rather go back to the facility.”
Kill’s jaw bunches. But I don’t give a shit if I’ve offended him.
I guess I’m an idiot if I thought things would be the same. I know he’s a family man now, but I’d expected some trace of my brother to still be buried deep inside.
Meisie and her brood have had five years to bewitch him.
The Hendrys have never been soft in our lives. That’s how we survived. Other kids would break down, but we just kept going. Someone hit us, we’d hit them back twice as hard. Someone messed with us, we’d burn their fucking house down.
