3. Morgan #2
If it was me, people would say I’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. Is that what happened to my dad? I have my own life; I’ve not paid all that much attention to his. Didn’t think I had to. A sudden wave of guilt hits me full force. I’m not prepared for it. “I’m sorry.”
His head snaps up. “What the fuck are you sorry for?”
“I should have tried harder to help you. To get you to stop. To?—”
He stands abruptly, chair screeching against the tiles.
“No. This is all on me, not you.” He stalks towards me and grips my shoulder.
“I’m sorry I’ve let you down.” Tears roll down his cheeks, but his eyes are fierce.
“But don’t you ever feel guilty. None of this is your fault.
I should’ve known better. I thought I had a handle on it, but—” His voice breaks, and he hangs his head. “I don’t know what happened.”
It’s the second time he’s said that, but this time it seems to sink in. “Did they drug you?” I grasp his hand when he doesn’t answer. “Dad?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.” When he looks up, that fire from a moment ago is replaced by defeat. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Course it fucking matters !” I yell at him, but he doesn’t even flinch. “Whoever did this to you can’t just get away with it. We’ll go to the police, they can?—”
“No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s something in the way he says it that stops me cold. Then ever so slowly, he raises his jumper.
For the second time that morning, I’m shocked speechless.
His ribs are mottled red, traces of blue starting to come through as the bruising develops. It’s not just on his ribs either, it’s his stomach too. “Who?” I ask, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.
He offers me a weak smile. “I told them all the things you just said. That it’s not legally binding. That they can’t force me to honour something I can’t remember signing.” He waves a hand at his torso. “This was their response.”
I curl my hands into fists, fighting the urge to race out of here and find whoever did this to him.
I want to kill them. I want to, fucking.
.. god , I don’t know, but who the hell does this to someone?
Harlington has its faults, but I didn’t think we had.
.. gangs or whoever the fuck would do this?
But then a thought strikes me that I really don’t want to have but can’t ignore. “Was it one of the MCs?”
I don’t care how terrifying they look, they can’t get away with... with drugging and beating my fucking father.
But he’s quick to shake his head. “I didn’t recognise most of them.”
My eyes narrow. “Who were the others?”
“Ray Wilson and Jeff Stokes.”
“The police ?”
“Yeah.” He sighs, and he sounds exhausted. I bet he hasn’t slept at all. “So no, we can’t go to the police either.”
Fuck that.
“We’ll go above their heads.” I gesture to his body, even though he’s dropped his jumper back down. “You can’t just ignore that.”
“It’s not just that,” he says softly.
“What do you mean?”
He holds up his left hand, and it’s only then I notice the bandages around it. Red starting to soak through.
A bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to escape because I must be dreaming, right?
This is like a cheesy film where the bad guys threaten to cut off body parts if you don’t do what they say.
Except it’s not in a film and I’m staring right at the evidence, because that’s exactly what it looks like.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry as I try and wrap my head around what’s happening.
“I refused to sign over the deeds to the house, so they cut off my little finger. When I still wouldn’t sign, they took the next one too.”
I feel sick.
Think I might actually throw up as my mind supplies a very unwelcome image of what’s under that bandage. “ Jesus .” I swallow several times, and thankfully the wave of nausea passes. “So you signed.” I can’t blame him for that. Pretty sure I would’ve done too. He must’ve been terrified.
To my surprise he shakes his head. “No. I was so angry at myself. So... ashamed that I’d let this happen.
To her house,” he adds almost in a whisper.
“I don’t know if it was the aftereffects of what they gave me or what, but I just didn’t care anymore.
They could’ve cut all my fucking fingers off.
Hell, they could’ve killed me and I still wouldn’t have signed it over to them.
” He sighs again. “And I think they knew it.”
I’m so confused right now. “Then why did you?”
He looks at me then, good hand reaching up to stroke my hair, smile small, and his eyes full of sadness.
Oh.
“They threatened to do the same to you. And other things that...” He shudders and shakes his head.
“They’d do it too.” He holds up his hand.
“It wasn’t an idle threat. So I signed over our house and swore not to say anything to anyone.
” He pulls me against him, and I let him.
Too stunned to object, and I’m not sure I would anyway.
I wrap my arms around his waist and let him hold me like he used to, back when he could soften my heartache with a good tight hug. If only that would work now.
Eventually we step back, and I feel lost. Adrift from my life in a way I haven’t felt since mum died.
“How long do we have?” I know he said the end of the week, but I need specifics.
Part of me still wants to fight this, but I don’t want to die or lose any body parts.
And as surreal as it seems, I believe him when he says they weren’t just threats. How can I not?
“We have to be out by Sunday night. They said they’d pay us market value for any furniture left in the house.”
“How fucking generous,” I scoff, but at least it’s something.
If they stick to their word on this too, then at least we’ll get a little out of this.
My mum had an eye for antiques, and I doubt Dad will be able to take much with him on such short notice.
“They couldn’t give us more time to get everything sorted? ”
“No. They were insistent that we be gone by then.”
We stand there in silence. What else is there to say? I still can’t believe this is happening, but when I catch sight of his bandaged hand, it hits me all over again.
We’ve lost our house.
Our home.
“Where will we go?” I hate how small my voice sounds, how young, but I can’t help it. I’m twenty-five years old, but in that moment, I don’t feel it.
“My brother has room for us both.” He winces as he says it.
Despite everything, a bitter laugh escapes. “No fucking way.”
“Morgan—”
“No.” I point a finger at him. “How can you even suggest that after what he called me?” And fine, he might not have called me a fucking faggot to my face, but he hadn’t been quiet about it either. The whole room had heard him telling my dad exactly what he thought.
“I know it’s not ideal, but we don’t have much choice.”
“I’d rather live on the street.” I take a moment to think about that, to see if I’m just spouting words or if I actually mean it. And yep, no part of me wants to step foot under that arsehole’s roof.
“Just think about it, okay?”
I nod, even though my mind’s made up.
“But don’t take too long.”
Because we only have five fucking days.
I’m showered, dressed, and out the door as fast as fucking possible. I just need to get out of there.
My bike waits for me in the garage, a Dyna like Lynx Harper’s but nowhere near as new or as flash. I restored that baby all by myself. Took me four years, parts aren’t cheap, but I did it, and I’ve never been more thankful as I start her engine and escape the house that used to be my home.
My safe place.
Now it’s just another thing that’s been taken from me.