Chapter 9
ALEX
Walking home, my mind kept replaying what happened in the store.
Not just the whole egg thing - even though I could still smell it in my hair even after changing back into my school clothes - but the way Alfie and Kai knew each other.
No. Not just knew each other.
Hated each other.
There was history there, something sharp and personal, something that made Kai’s jaw clench and Alfie’s voice go cold. And I’d been right in the middle of it without even understanding why.
I kicked at a loose bit of gravel on the pavement, trying to shake the feeling off, but it stuck to me like static. The way Kai stepped forward. The way Alfie smirked like he wanted him to. The way Callum appeared out of nowhere, ready to back him up without question.
It was like watching a storm build and I’d been standing there in the eye of it with egg dripping down my cheek like an idiot.
But then there was the other part. The part that wouldn’t leave me alone.
The way Kai looked at me.
Like he was checking I was okay. Like he was trying to read me. Like he cared - even though he barely knew me.
And that was the part that made my chest feel weird. Not bad weird. Just… confusing.
I pulled my sleeves over my hands, the way I always did when my thoughts got too loud, and took a slow breath before I put the key in my door and turned it.
The lock clicked, but before I even had the chance to push, it yanked open, and Connor was dragging me inside.
“Where have you been?” His voice was slurred and the smell hit me before the words did. He’d been drinking.
My whole body tensed on instinct.
The next few seconds blurred together, slipping past before I could even catch hold of them.
And before I knew it, I was being dragged into the living room and thrown onto the sofa.
My eyes scanned the room, just fast enough to see Mum passed out on the other sofa, a half-drunk bottle of vodka next to her.
“Just… studying at school,” I said, staring up at him, the lie slipping out automatically. I’d used it so many times it felt like muscle memory, worn down like the wood around the handle.
Most days, he believed it. Most days, it was enough to keep things calm.
But tonight? I didn’t know why he was so angry. I’d been careful. None of his friends had come into the shop while I was there - I was sure of it. And I’d changed back into my school clothes before leaving, stuffed my work uniform deep into my rucksack so he wouldn’t see it.
I’d done everything right.
“I needed you here.” His voice was cold. Too cold. The kind of cold that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
“We spoke about this,” he went on, each word slow and deliberate. “You ask ME if you want to study. Or do anything else for that matter.”
He waved his beer as he talked, sloshing some over the rim before taking a long swig.
“I know, I’m sorry, my phone died,” I said quickly. “I was going to call but-”
“Oh, was you.” He interjected, mimicking my voice, pacing the length of the room like he couldn’t keep still. “Was you going to call .”
My stomach twisted. The pacing was always a bad sign.
“Because of the stupid little act you pulled, I missed out on three hundred quid.” He jabbed a finger at the coffee table, like the money was sitting right there. “Now that’s a lot of money. And what were you doing? Studying .”
He spat the word like it offended him.
“Have you not learned by now? You’re not smart. You’re not going to make anything of yourself. Whatever the crap they teach you in that place, that’s exactly what it is - crap.”
Each sentence landed with that cold, dismissive certainty he always used when he wanted to make something stick.
“School won’t do you any good. No. Not for people like you and me. People like us .”
He gestured between us with a sharp flick of his hand, beer sloshing dangerously close to the rim. The gesture was careless, but the message wasn’t. It hit exactly where he wanted it to.
“And the sooner you learn that, the better off you’ll be.” He pointed at me before taking another long swig.
“Fucking studying,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head like the word tasted sour. Then he turned back to me, eyes narrowing.
“You’re only there so the government stay out of it,” he said, taking another swig. “If I had it my way, you’d never step foot in that place.”
The words sank into me like stones. Heavy. Familiar. Too familiar.
“No, you can learn the real lessons here.” He pointed to the floor.
“This is where the real work is done. The work that puts a roof over your fucking head and food in your mouth.” He glanced over at Mum - her mouth slack, eyes half-shut, looking like she’d had more than just alcohol tonight.
“Do you think she pays for shit? Do you? Do you think she feeds you? No. Exactly, so how about a little damned respect.”
I kept my eyes low, sleeves pulled over my hands, trying to make myself smaller. Trying not to react. Trying not to breathe too loudly.
Then his gaze landed on my hair.
And I saw it - the way his pupils widened, swallowing the brown until his eyes looked almost black. His expression shifted, tightening, sharpening, like he’d just noticed something he wasn’t supposed to.
The egg.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
He stepped closer, too close, and my pulse hammered in my ears.
“What’s that?” he said quietly. Not a question. A warning.
My throat closed. I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think.
All I could do was sit there, heart thudding, hoping - praying - that he wouldn’t jump to the wrong conclusion.
Or the right one.
“What the fuck is that?!” he bellowed, making me jump.
Before I could answer, he grabbed the front of my shirt and threw me against the wall behind him.
The shock of it rattled through me, knocking the breath from my chest. My back throbbed where it hit the plaster, but I didn’t even have time to register the pain - Connor was already in my space again, too close, too angry, too unpredictable.
His hand shot up, fingers curling in the fabric near my collar, dragging me upward. My feet barely stayed under me. The pressure wasn’t on my throat, not yet, but it was close enough that panic surged anyway - that instinctive, choking kind of fear that made my vision tighten at the edges.
“You think I’m stupid don’t you. Think I don’t know what that is?” He said. “You and your little fag friends have been at it again, haven’t you?”
“N-No.” I sobbed, tears now streaming down my face.
“So you’ve been off fucking boys while I’ve been home, waiting for you, like a fucking idiot!?” His voice was like venom and I could smell the concoction of alcohol, nicotine and weed on his breath.
“N-No.” I stuttered again - trying and failing - to loosen his grip.
“Oh, my bad. Were you on the receiving end then? Were they fucking the shit out of you? Yeah, that sounds about right. My brother the fucking fag.” He tightened his grip on my neck and the pressure made my heart pound against my ribcage.
I pulled at his hands, trying to loosen it.
Trying to let oxygen back into my system.
But his fingers wrapped around me like a vice, fingernails already marring my skin.
“S-Stop, please.” I managed, but the world around me was blurring, and I didn’t know how long it would be until I passed out. My eyes drifted to Mum’s prone body on the sofa. The way her hand was hanging off the edge, nails brushing the carpet.
Wake up , I thought to myself. But I knew she wouldn’t.
And even if she did… what would that change?
She’d never helped me before. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.
In her eyes, this was just boys will be boys . Just roughhousing. Just noise.
“You make me fucking sick.” He sneered, throwing me to the floor again, before I could even catch my breath, his boot collided with my stomach, and I found myself breathless again. “Stupid fucking fag!” He kicked me again, and I doubled over, pain erupting in my stomach.
“P-Please,” I begged, hands clenching at my ribs like armour.
“Three hundred quid!” he shouted, the sound cracking through the room like a whip.
He grabbed the nearest thing - Mum’s bottle of vodka - and hurled it in my direction. It smashed against the wall just above my head, shards scattering across the floor. The sharp smell of alcohol hit instantly, stinging my eyes, making them water.
I froze.
My heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst. I could feel tiny pricks on my cheek where the glass had sprayed, a faint sting that told me there were small cuts - nothing deep, nothing serious - but enough to make my skin burn.
It could have been worse. So much worse.
“Three” Kick . “fucking.” kick. “hundred.” Kick.
Then crouching down so we were eye-level he whispered at me. “You’re going to make this right.” His breath was hot with alcohol, his expression twisted with frustration.
My pulse thudded in my ears. I didn’t trust my voice, so I didn’t speak. I just kept my eyes low, sleeves pulled over my hands, trying to stay as small as possible.
I heard his footsteps fade as he left the room. Then grow louder again as he returned.
He threw something at me - three folded bits of paper - and I flinched before I could stop myself. They landed beside me on the floor.
“Go to the bridge and close this fucking deal,” he said, his voice rough, breath coming fast like he’d just been in a fight. “Or so help me god. I will end you.”
“Now!”
The word cracked through the room like a whip.
I didn’t wait. I knew better than to wait.
I pushed myself up, every movement stiff and shaky. My stomach ached, my head felt light, but none of that mattered. Not if I wanted to still be here tomorrow.
I grabbed the papers with trembling fingers and limped toward the front door. The cool air hit me as soon as I stepped outside, but it didn’t clear the dizziness. It didn’t clear the fear either.
I just kept walking.
.