I do my pushups, In. Out. Up. Down. I go until my arms burn, and then I do two more before I flip onto my back for crunches. For those, I count by twos for some weird reason, clenching my core again and again until I can barely breathe. After that, it’s right back to the pushups, and the cycle continues ten more times.
When I’m done, my whole body is on fire, but every cell in my brain is firing on full cylinders. I refill the mug from the machine and take it out onto the deck, staring out at the mouth of the harbor as I take a fresh scalding sip.
“Well shit, kid.”
I whirl at the sound of the voice from my past - the voice of the man who sent everything shattering out of control.
Declan.
The world’s all-time shittiest uncle and legal guardian. I can’t really imagine a world where my parents’ legal will named a man like Declan as my next of kin, except in a world where I have no other family. A world where Declan McCreedy is literally the only option.
That I basically grew up in the Hammond house makes a whole lot of sense once you know Declan.
His hair is grayer now than it was then, slicked back to the point of pulling at the sallow skin of his forehead. He’s still got the same out-of-date mustache, grayer now, still tobacco streaked with yellow. I can remember him stroking it, like a nervous tick or a poker tell, that night in the car.
The night I watched her heart breaking from the hospital parking lot through the rain-streaked windshield.
The night he put a passport in my hand.
And now he’s standing right in fucking front of me, on the docks of Shelter Harbor.
He’s flanked by two bruiser-looking motherfuckers in black jackets and berets - the exact type of wannabe Irish-mob tools Declan’s always surrounded himself by. He’s got connections, sure, but he’s the big fish in a small fucking pond out here away from the city. He’s got his little criminal fiefdom here in Shelter Harbor, but he’d get eaten fucking alive in Southie or Charlestown, and he fucking knows it.
He’s wearing fucking sunglasses - big, gaudy grandmother-style ones. But I can see the lines around his eyes crinkle as the corners of his lips pull back in a grin.
“You look good, kid,” he growls out in that Boston-tinged townie accent.
“Catch a lot of rays over there in sunny fucking Dublin?”
The two goons snicker on cue. I just tighten my jaw.
Part of me wants to destroy this man for fucking up my life. Except eight years later, I know that’s only partly the blame. Deep down, I know it was me that did the destroying. Declan may have helped, but I’m man enough these years later to know that I’m to blame for my own shit.
As easy at it would be to kill this man with my bare fucking hands right here and now, even if it’d be my last move.
His goons are still chuckling when I interrupt them all.
“What do you want, Declan.”
He chuckles as he reaches up to pull the shades from his face. His grey-green eyes narrow at me, his tobacco-stained smile still leering at me.
“Just wanted to check in on my favorite nephew is all. Hey, if you don’t got family what do you have, huh?”
“You’re a pillar of the modern family, Declan.”
He grins, spreading his arms. “So, home sweet home, huh?”
“Yep.”
He shakes his head, his hand slipping into the breast pocket of his shirt for a pack of Lucky Strikes.
“I mean, shit, kid. You got me all choked up over here.”
I frown, my mouth tightening. “What.”
“What?” He laughs with the cigarette in his lips as he brings the lighter up to the end of it. Smoke billows out as he chuckles through the lighting of it.
“I mean, you don’t call , you don’t fucking write .”
I level my eyes at him. “You get that I was in fucking hiding , right?” That I was in another country without a real fucking passport? Remember that part?”
Declan pulls on his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing and his eyes never leaving mine. “Not talking about
When I’m done, my whole body is on fire, but every cell in my brain is firing on full cylinders. I refill the mug from the machine and take it out onto the deck, staring out at the mouth of the harbor as I take a fresh scalding sip.
“Well shit, kid.”
I whirl at the sound of the voice from my past - the voice of the man who sent everything shattering out of control.
Declan.
The world’s all-time shittiest uncle and legal guardian. I can’t really imagine a world where my parents’ legal will named a man like Declan as my next of kin, except in a world where I have no other family. A world where Declan McCreedy is literally the only option.
That I basically grew up in the Hammond house makes a whole lot of sense once you know Declan.
His hair is grayer now than it was then, slicked back to the point of pulling at the sallow skin of his forehead. He’s still got the same out-of-date mustache, grayer now, still tobacco streaked with yellow. I can remember him stroking it, like a nervous tick or a poker tell, that night in the car.
The night I watched her heart breaking from the hospital parking lot through the rain-streaked windshield.
The night he put a passport in my hand.
And now he’s standing right in fucking front of me, on the docks of Shelter Harbor.
He’s flanked by two bruiser-looking motherfuckers in black jackets and berets - the exact type of wannabe Irish-mob tools Declan’s always surrounded himself by. He’s got connections, sure, but he’s the big fish in a small fucking pond out here away from the city. He’s got his little criminal fiefdom here in Shelter Harbor, but he’d get eaten fucking alive in Southie or Charlestown, and he fucking knows it.
He’s wearing fucking sunglasses - big, gaudy grandmother-style ones. But I can see the lines around his eyes crinkle as the corners of his lips pull back in a grin.
“You look good, kid,” he growls out in that Boston-tinged townie accent.
“Catch a lot of rays over there in sunny fucking Dublin?”
The two goons snicker on cue. I just tighten my jaw.
Part of me wants to destroy this man for fucking up my life. Except eight years later, I know that’s only partly the blame. Deep down, I know it was me that did the destroying. Declan may have helped, but I’m man enough these years later to know that I’m to blame for my own shit.
As easy at it would be to kill this man with my bare fucking hands right here and now, even if it’d be my last move.
His goons are still chuckling when I interrupt them all.
“What do you want, Declan.”
He chuckles as he reaches up to pull the shades from his face. His grey-green eyes narrow at me, his tobacco-stained smile still leering at me.
“Just wanted to check in on my favorite nephew is all. Hey, if you don’t got family what do you have, huh?”
“You’re a pillar of the modern family, Declan.”
He grins, spreading his arms. “So, home sweet home, huh?”
“Yep.”
He shakes his head, his hand slipping into the breast pocket of his shirt for a pack of Lucky Strikes.
“I mean, shit, kid. You got me all choked up over here.”
I frown, my mouth tightening. “What.”
“What?” He laughs with the cigarette in his lips as he brings the lighter up to the end of it. Smoke billows out as he chuckles through the lighting of it.
“I mean, you don’t call , you don’t fucking write .”
I level my eyes at him. “You get that I was in fucking hiding , right?” That I was in another country without a real fucking passport? Remember that part?”
Declan pulls on his cigarette, his cheeks hollowing and his eyes never leaving mine. “Not talking about
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