Chapter 1
one
Liam
I didn’t expect him to fall asleep here.
Waking up next to a warm body beside me in my childhood bedroom wasn’t on my bingo card.
Panic hits fast.
What’s the guy’s name? Curtis? Maybe Callum. Fuck. I wasn’t paying attention.
Tall, lean, naked. Close to my age. When I saw him at the party, his eyes pinned me as though he’d already decided how the night would end. My cock agreed. I brought him home, not because it made sense.
Probably because it didn’t.
My life is complicated. I’ve got three wee brothers in their early teens, Padraig, my twin who knows me too well, and Connor, our older brother who stepped in when Da spiraled into pain-killer and alcohol addiction after a car accident.
Ma’s busy taking care of him, so all of the family activities we used to enjoy have fallen by the wayside.
Truth be told, Connor’s held the whole family together for the past couple years. He gave up his own college dreams to make sure all of us finished school. He’s financing me and Padraig’s college education. Yet, somehow, it always feels like we’re on the edge of disaster.
Fuck. I don’t know what I was thinking bringing my sex life into this house. I’m smarter than this. I’ve gotta get this bloke outta here before Da wakes up. It’s tough to know how he’ll react if he realizes I enjoy cock on occasion.
Nah, it’d blow his addicted mind.
Anyway, sure enough, my phone buzzes with a new text from Padraig. He’s downstairs making breakfast for Seamus, Cillian, and Brennan. Fuck.
“You gotta go.” I pull on a pair of sweats. “The family’s awake.”
I scrub a hand over my face and type fast to my twin.
Me: WTF? Can you cover for me?
Padraig replies before I can blink.
Padraig: All good. Coast’s clear if you take the front stairs.
I nod at Curtis-Callum, who’s mostly dressed.
He doesn’t say much, which is preferable.
He was good with his hands and generous with his mouth.
Better than I usually get in the small bum-fuck town where I go to college.
I slip on my T-shirt as we leave the room.
I motion toward the front stairs. “This way.”
We step into the hall. The floorboards creak so fucking loud I swear they’re trying to sell me out. I wince and hurry him forward.
Curtis-Callum tries to slip on his hoodie, then freezes at a drunken voice behind us.
“Who the fuck’s are youse?”
My da’s voice slices through the air like a rusted knife. Slurred. Furious. Full of whiskey before it’s even breakfast.
I close my eyes. Shit. “Leave it, Da. It’s my business.”
I hear the scraping of his plastic knee brace dragging across the floor. Curtis-Callum stiffens behind me, hoodie half-on, shrinking toward the staircase like he could disappear if he moves slow enough.
I step forward, planting myself in front of him. Protecting him? Or baiting Da?
I don’t even fucking know.
“This is my feckin’ house, you wee bastard,” Da bellows. “Your business is my business. Who is he?”
Curtis-Callum retreats a step. I stand taller.
“Leave him be. Let’s go.”
He starts to descend.
“Jesus, Mary, and feckin’ Joseph, my son’s a feckin’ poof.”
I bite back bile.
Curtis-Callum leaps down the stairs two at a time and bolts out the front door, squawking, “Jesus, is your dad homophobic?!”
No time to answer. Da’s hand hits my shoulder. Clamps down like a trap.
I lock up. Since the accident, every bottle turns him mean. His Irish lilt is full of venom, scarily prejudicial. I swear to fuck he wants to purge me from his bloodline.
No matter how much I try to ignore him, his words hit bone every time. No lead-up. No signal. Only impact.
“You dirty wee pansy,” he hisses into my ear. “Is this what you are now, a faggot? Bringin’ men into my house? Under your ma’s roof? Corrupting your wee brothers?”
Yup. His words eviscerate me more than his fists ever could. But I don’t flinch.
I won’t.
Instead I give it back to the bastard. “Go back to your room and pass out, you useless cunt.”
He moves fast. Reeking of whiskey, sweat, and rot. His eyes are yellowed. Wild.
“You fuckin’ shame me,” he snarls. “I break my back for this family, and you’re in my house suckin’ cock like it’s a badge of pride?!”
Suddenly I see a flash of movement behind me.
“Stop.” Padraig’s climbing the stairs. “Let him leave. You’re drunk. You don’t mean it.”
Da turns. His gaze locks on Padraig. His rage deepens.
“Don’t you feckin’ defend him.”
“I’m not—”
The sound of the slap is louder than the shout. I see Padraig’s head whip sideways. I move, but not fast enough.
“Padraig!“ Seamus’s voice pierces the chaos.
Everything spins.
Da isn’t finished. He swings again. Misses. This time, it’s meant for me.
“You gonna hit me too, Da?” I spit, full of venom. “Try it.”
“You’re not my son.”
Then his fist flies.
It’s not a punch. It’s a fucking wrecking ball.
I don’t remember the moment it lands. Only the fall. The sound of it. My body slamming down the stairs. Each thump another betrayal. Boots scraping. Elbow cracking. Skull bouncing.
The world blinks out.
I hear voices. Distant. Warped.
“Liam,” someone says. “Hey. Look at me.”
Padraig.
Nothing. I’m floating.
A grunt rips out of me. My throat’s raw.
My eyes fight me, but I open them.
Everything is haze.
“There,” someone breathes—Cillian? “He’s okay, right?”
“I don’t know,” Padraig says. “Dar. Can you move your arms? Legs?”
I try.
Fingers twitch. Ankles flex. I groan. “Fuck.”
“You scared the shit out of us.” Padraig squats next to me.
“I feel like I got tackled by one of Connor’s football teammates,” I mumble. “Help me up.”
“Not yet,” Seamus warns, panicked. “You’re not supposed to—”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My voice is hoarse. Broken.
Padraig slides an arm behind me. Cillian’s on the other side.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it hurts too much.”
It all fucking hurts so I say nothing. I let them lift me. Excruciating. I lean against my twin, body sagging like it forgot how to hold weight.
“Let’s get downstairs, lads.” Padraig gestures to the younger brothers.
Thank fuck. The basement is our rehearsal space. Dank concrete floor, sagging ceiling, rugs and egg cartons slapped up to kill the echo. Cables everywhere. Padraig’s kit in the corner. Mic and guitar stands against the walls.
The only place in this goddamn house where I can be myself.
We make it down step by step. Brennan ushers Seamus ahead. Padraig and Cillian lower me onto the beat-up couch. I clench my teeth in agony. Seamus brings a towel and an ice pack. Doesn’t speak. Padraig presses it to my temple. I wince.
“Fuck. Hurts.”
Seamus curls in the corner. Brennan vanishes behind his laptop. Cillian stares at the wall.
Padraig’s face is wracked with guilt. “I’m sorry.”
I arch an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Not getting there sooner.”
“You tried.”
Padraig’s the only one who knows me. The real me. Even he doesn’t know how deep this goes.
“He looked at me like I was filth,” I whisper so the wee lads can’t hear. “I told you he fucking hates me for being into guys.”
“You’re not filth.” Padraig shakes his head.
“He thinks I am,” I correct him. “Part of me understands. I want to be with women. I want to be with men. How am I supposed to choose? How will I ever have what you and Stevie have?”
Padraig doesn’t answer right away. Stevie is his soulmate. He’s loved her since he was a kid.
“Da doesn’t get to have an opinion about you.” He slumps down to the floor. “Not ever again. You’re allowed to be yourself without worrying about him.”
I close my eyes. Let the cold bite of the ice numb the pain.
Thankfully, we don’t talk. Not for a while.
Eventually, I sit up. Arms crossed, body aching. “Fuck this mopey bullshit. I wanna play.”
“No. You’re concussed.” Seamus pops up and tries to keep me from picking up my guitar.
“Ah, I’m grand, wee one.” I muss Seamus’s hair and push to my feet.
The amp crackles. Strings tremble beneath my fingers. One chord. Two.
Then I fall into it.
Padraig gets behind his kit, counts us in with his sticks.
My face might be a mess and my ribs might ache like a motherfucker, but my guitar is home.
We play until the walls forget what happened.
It’s the only way I know I’m still alive.