Page 7 of Accidental Irish Daddy

Some birds my age might’ve given up already. I know a few of them in the club, even. But not me. I know there’s more to life than just this, though. There has to be.

I look at the clock on the dashboard and my chest tightens. Speaking of dancing naked for drunk horny men, I’m due at the club in about an hour.

I get out of the car, and the second I do, there’s a crash from inside the flat.

Now what?

I run up the walk and through the front door.

Uncle Liam’s standing at the foot of the stairs, yelling.

Anger and fear coil inside me as I take in the mess of white foam and shards of glass from a broken beer bottle on the stairs.

“That’s right! Run, ya coward! Can’t face the truth, can ya?!” he yells.

“Uncle Liam!”

He whirls around on unsteady legs. He’s on the lash. Again.

He points a finger at me, weaving from side to side. “Your sister’s a little thief,” he slurs. “Stole money right out of me wallet. I had fifty quid in there last night and now it’s gone!”

Great. I have to deal with his drunk version today. And lately seems to be every day.

“She didn’t steal your money,” I scowl. “You’re scuttered. You probably spent that in cheap booze.”

“Nay, nothing but the black stuff for this fella.”

I brush past him to get the mop and he grabs me by the arm painfully.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

I yank my arm out of his grip. “I’ve got to clean up your mess and then I’ve gotta go to work.”

I walk away from him, and he laughs. “Yeah, sure. Going to shake ye’ titties for all those manky ol’ bastards at that club. Yer dear old ma’ ought to be so proud of the filthy slut you’ve become.”

I’m ignoring him. I don’t have time for his antics.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he keeps on spewing.

“You know, I told your boss about your godless ways. I told her that she ought to watch out for you and those ol' bastards at the hospital you take care of. She might walk in on you giving them a free dance.”

I freeze, that white-hot rage coming up again. I spin on my heels to look at him. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. I told them what a slut you are—”

“You called myjob?" I cut him off, feeling both angry and dumbfounded. “How could you do that?! They fired me today!”

“Serves you right!” He guffaws and starts walking to the couch. “Now make yerself useful and get me another drink.”

I remain standing there, angry and miserable and…and all I want to do is pound him something good with this mop handle.

I don’t, though.

He’s got me by at least a hundred and fifty or two hundred pounds. Plus, he hits hard as hell.

I found that out the hard way when I told him to feck off once when I was eighteen. I had to go to the hospital to have my jaw reset.

I set the mop down and grab him his beer, then go about cleaning up the mess of beer-covered broken glass.

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