Xander stumbles again, seemingly getting tired.
Suddenly, his tempestuous blue eyes lock on my wide, concerned ones.
"I am sorry, Cassidy," he cries, the tremble in his voice reaching right inside my chest and squeezing my franticly beating heart. "I am so sorry. I fucked up." He stumbles towards me, sloppy in his movements. As he reaches out to me, Max charges into him, ploughing his little brother to the floor.
I jump as the air is smashed from Xander's chest. He heaves. Whines. And then he ignites. He punches his brother's chest. Again and again. Max takes the hits as if they are just rain smacking the pavement. He glares down at his brother, searching. Confused.Pained.There is so much hurt in both sets of eyes right now. I want to scream at them to stop.
Stop!
"Isn't this what you wanted, Max?" Xander grits out between sobs. "The brother you want! One that can hack a guy's head off and sleep soundly at night!"
All of a sudden, breathing becomes hard. I suck at the air, trying to draw it in, but it seems dense and boiling hot. I force Xander's words down.Down.They have no place in my life or in my mind and I won't analyse them.
Xander breaks, bursting into tears, but he still swings at him - weak, lazy swings that barely affect Max at all. My pooled eyes study Max's face. His jaw muscles pulse in time with his little brother's hits. Not from the pain, as I am sure there is very little, but from the emotion driving Xander's fists forward.
He doesn’t retaliate. He waits for Xander to lose momentum, to lose energy.
Slowly, Xander's fists stop. He buries his face in bloodied hands, sobbing into them without restraint.
I never thought I'd see a Butcher boy cry. It makes me weak with sadness. Tears slide down my cheeks, over my top lip, and fall onto the driveway.
Is this my fault? What did I do?
Leaning forward, Max pulls his brother's shaking body into his arms, holding him against his chest and rocking him back and forth. "It's okay, buddy. It's okay."
"Max! I'm sorry." He cries into Max's shirt, his face distorted, crumbling.
"No," Max states tersely. "I am. Now stop this."
Two large bodies now stand beside me - Carter and Bronson. But I'm unable to pull my eyes off Xander falling apart on the driveway. Then it dawns on me. This is about the auction. About what happened to me. I step forward and kneel down beside Max and Xander, surprised when no one stops me.
Xander releases his hold on Max and reaches for me. Twisting his torso, he pulls me into his desperate and quivering embrace. Max leans back on his heels, allowing our interaction.
"I should have killed him," he mutters into my shoulder as the smell of vodka from his breath drifts around us. "Right then. Right there. It's what Max would have done. Bronson. I let them down. I letyoudown."
My throat locks onto the words I wish to say, the heat from my tears like steam expanding inside me. The salty drops track down my face and fall on to him. His on to me. I shake my head slowly in the tense crook of his neck.
"I don't blame you," I manage to say. "I never have." Cupping his cheeks, I lift his face up to meet mine. "Let this go." Pleading with my expression, I look up at Max. "You too. Let it go. . .I have."
Max
Jimmy gaveme two fucking weeks to help Cassidy adjust to her new world with me. Two weeks without chasing little shits down for money. Without sorting through tender after tender with Clay and Xander. Without working on Clay's campaign. Without meetings. Now though, my time of playing house with her is up and it's back to business as fucking usual. Except now that I have finished my dissertation, Jimmy has me working throughout the day as well as at night.
The glowing display in the Rover fucks with me as the time clicks past midnight. I had every intention of getting home earlier, but things took a turn at the last minute and I was forced to make an example of a Croatian arsehole who'd forgotten his bargain with The District Boss. We part-fund their tuna fisheries in South Australia, and they supply our markets. Pretty straight forward arrangement really. In fact, it's been the easiest fucking deal up until today when one of our associates saw crates and crates of imported tuna heading for our docks. So, of course, I called a meeting at their favourite strip club to find out where the fucking Aussie catch was going and why we know nothing about it. Needless to say, I broke a few noses.
I pull into the garage and make my way inside, but as I peer towards the entertainment room, I'm suddenly eager for another whiskey. Heading down the hallway, I growl at the stench of perfume and sweat on my clothes. It's from the skanks that were crawling all over me tonight. I have never indulged in the affections of women. Their place in my life was one of simplicity. An exchange of pleasure. Nothing more.
Until my little ballerina.
I won't hurt her. Won't be cheating. But I should still shower before lying in bed with her.
Moving into the room, I pour a Jameson's, throw it back, and then pour another.
Turning to make my way upstairs with it, I'm stilled by the sight of pink-blonde hair and smooth white skin. Too much skin. Skin that needs a good slap for being out of our room, wearing only silky hot-pink pyjama-shorts that arch up at the sides and a silk camisole that showcases a perfect, trim stomach and . . .perky tits.
I bite my fist.
A blush hits her cheeks and that's the exact colour I should paint her arse for not listening to me about what's appropriate to wear around the house. Around my brothers. Guards.Fuck.