Page 19 of The Bonds We Break
The wood-on-wood decor is still oppressive in the daylight, but the cottage has potential. The front door is in the center of the space. To the right is the living area and a rocking chair with a red cushion on it. There’s a table that folds up against the wall. One leaf of the table is out, and on it is an ashtray and the fixings for poker. Cards and chips.
There’s a sheen of dust on every surface.
As I step toward the cozy kitchen with its small breakfast bar, I notice a smaller window above the sink. The sun is high. It must be closer to midmorning, which makes sense since we got to bed so late.
While King starts some coffee bubbling in the pot, I poke around in the fridge. Whoever shopped doesn’t appreciate why five portions of fruit and veggies a day are good for the bowels. There’s meat. Sausage. Steak. Chicken. Oh, and eggs. No hint of berries, or carrots, or anything green.
There’s some butter. And on the counter, I see potatoes and bread and, oh, goodie, some oranges. I won’t get scurvy then.
My heart races as I fry some eggs and toast the bread. Dad would get so angry when the underside of his eggs were too overcooked. The knife clatters to the counter as I try to spread some cold butter. Placing my hand over my heart, I try to stop the borderline palpitations. I make two eggs for me and three for King, who has stepped outside. I see him standing, arms sort of folded—given he’s holding a cigarette—staring off into the distance. He’s so still, just the ruffle of the breeze through his hair.
When breakfast is cooked, I knock on the window and lift the plate so he knows his food is ready. Miraculously, I resist the urge to spit on it.
I put both plates on the table, pour two cups of coffee, and forage for cutlery. The kitchen is serviceable, but all the things seem ... tired.
I’m eating mine before King comes back inside.
“Why did you stay?” I ask as he cuts into his first egg.
“Stay where?” he asks before he shovels a mountain of food into his mouth.
“Here. Last night. You have the one thing you know I won’t mess with. My brother’s life. You have cameras around the place to let you know if I leave. If you’d told me that last night, you could have left.”
He chews his food, then swallows. “I could, but then I wouldn’t have gotten a blow job. Your mouth is so much more effective when adequately filled, duchess.”
I cut a perfect square of toast. “I know about MCs. You could have gone back to the clubhouse and gotten an obviously more impressive one from someone there.”
“Probably. But a blow job from someone at the clubhouse wouldn’t piss your brother off. And I intend to do a lot more than piss him off.”
I recall my dream. Shakespeare’s heroes warped by toxic masculinity and revenge. “O, vengeance. Why, what an ass am I.”
King pauses with his eggs halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck was that?”
“Hamlet, actually. It’s all a bit of a mess, really. A ghost tells Hamlet to avenge his father, the king’s death. But his uncle, the new king of Denmark, catches wind. To cut a long story short, they both die in the end because vengeance is a losing game usually perpetrated by men who have fewer than five braincells on average.”
His eggs hang suspended in the air as he processes what I’m saying. “You’re a bitch.”
I point my fork in his direction and smile. “Maybe. But at least I’d be alive at the end of a Shakespearean play.”
King takes a few more bites of his food and three long slurps of his coffee. His chair scrapes across the floor as he abruptly leaves the table and then stomps into the bedroom. When he returns, he has his jacket and cut on.
He offers me my phone. “Your brother messaged. Reply to him and tell him your connection might be patchy for the next week or so. Let me see what you text before you hit send.”
The messages from him are simple. A picture of a flower. A selfie of him and Briar.
I do as King says. Liking the images, always with the heart emoji.
Glad you found each otherI type beneath the selfie. Because my brother looks really, truly bone-deep happy in the image. Briar looks at the camera. But my brother is looking at her.
“They look good together, don’t they?” I ask King when I’m done.
The only response I get is a scowl.
I go to open my email, and he swipes the phone out of my hand as he heads to the door.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“None of your business.”
