She shuts her locker and leans one shoulder on it, mimicking my position, ending my fantasies about our babies being gorgeous and smart, just like her.
“Are you going to get your books, Butcher? Or are you going to stare at me all day?”
I open my mouth to speak, but the words are cut short by her suddenly startled expression as she peers over my shoulder. I frown at her discomfort, twisting to follow her line of sight and-
That fucking screeching hits my ears again.
A howling sort of current moves through me, the laughter inside my head follows in its wake.
As I watch my little brothers walk through the halls, one with a split on his forehead and the other with purple-blue marks painting his swelling jaw, my blood doesn’t boil. . . itfucking ignites. The kids around me jostle each other and nod, believing they have it all figured out, while my fingers twitch to the images playing in my mind. Images of them eating their own gaping, judging eyeballs. They presume my beautiful brothers have been fighting in the streets, but I know what really happened.
Know who is really to blame.
Me.
For not being in that house to protect them.
I hear laughter
See black.
Shoshanna
Fifteen years old
My breath vibrateson an exhale at the shocking sight of his brothers. Feeling a shift in Bronson, I turn to focus on him. His mood gem irises are now two thin glowing turquoise rings around large pitch-black holes, making him look menacing. The anger radiating from him is not loud; it is quiet and eerie. I’ve never seen him angry before. It is like a complete stranger has pulled his skin on slowly. His usually grinning face has fallen, leaving no expression at all.
With long, unhurried, and yet meaningful strides, he heads towards them. I can feel his mood like a cold front moving through the ventricles of my heart.
I trail Bronson as he moves to meet his brothers in the centre of the hallway. Kids divert their gazes, focusing on their lockers as all three Butcher Boys share a strange silent interaction that I don’t quite understand. As Bronson raises his hand up to touch the wound on Xander’s forehead, Max scowls at me as though I am a voyeur, watching something incredibly personal.
Back off, Max.
I match his glare, noting the bruising and swelling along his jawline and the haemorrhaging on his forearm, which looks like it could have been caused by a thorough beating with a baseball bat. I’m not intimidated by him anymore. It’s not just me that annoys him, but literally everyone at school bores him to the point we might as well all be invisible.
Placing my hand on Bronson’s back, I let him know I’m here for him. Whoever they need to face, I’ll face with him. His muscles roll against my palm, thick and strong, responding to my touch.
“She threw a glass at my head,” Xander says, looking solemnly at the ground.
“And Dad?” I hear one of them say. Doing a double take, I realise it’s Bronson, but he sounds so detached, I could swear. . . could swear I’ve never heard that voice before. I swallow so hard I can hear it in my ears. And as I dart my eyes between them, the information being shared settles into me like concrete, sinking to the bottom of my stomach, threatening to drag me to the floor like a puddle.
That fucking bitch!
My brain screeches with the need to lash out at her, to tear at her Gucci pencil dress, remove her status clad armour. How long has this been going on? Is she a drunk?
Xander sighs through a slow shake of his head. “In Sydney. He left yesterday. I doubt he’ll be back for months; he took half his clothes.”
“And Carter?”
“His night off,” Max states curtly. I know Carter is Xander’s bodyguard. I know a lot now about the boys that I shouldn’t. That they need to be watched - guarded- because their dad is involved in some kind of bullshit that puts a target on all of them. Everyone always whispers about their family; hushed tones sharing gossip about the seedy underbelly of the District. That the Butcher Boys have affiliations with the Mafia.
At least, that is the rumour.
And all signs point to that rumour being real.
Bronson grips his brother’s shoulder. “Maxipad took it for you, buddy?”
“He did. He stepped in front of the bottle. I think it broke his forearm. I just-” Xander’s face contorts, and he stares at the ground again as though an eleven-year-old is supposed to hold his own.