The Hurricane (12 page)

THE PAIN WAS SO EXCRUCIATING, it burned through the haze of sleep. I had no idea what was happening. Disorientated and confused, my pain receptors were screaming. I had literally been pulled from my bed, from sleep, by my hair. It must have been coming out in handfuls. Seemingly unimpressed with his progress, Frank stopped to wrap his hand around it, giving him a better grip, and then continued yanking me upwards with all his strength. Tears ran down my cheeks uncontrollably. I was helpless to do much of anything, except follow where he was leading. I could hear Mum whimpering in the next room so I knew he’d already warmed up. I’d like to say that he reeked of booze, but that would be a lie to excuse what he was doing. He was stone cold sober. Frank did what he did because he liked to hurt people, because he liked to hurt me. He was a monster, and alcohol had nothing to do with it. We’d reached the utility room off the kitchen when he let go of my hair and shoved me to the floor.

“What the fuck is that?” he screamed.

I looked toward where he had pointed in confusion. Mum hadn’t done the washing for a few days, so I’d done a couple of loads and put them out on the drying racks to air. Realising that I’d be out of comfortable underwear by tomorrow I’d put a couple of pairs of knickers on the heater to dry. Frank pushed his screaming, rage-filled face so close to mine that he spat on me as he shouted.

“You think that flashing your underwear at me is going to make me want to get inside you, Emily, you filthy little whore! I’m your stepfather for fuck’s sake. Do you know how fucking sick it is to put that on display in front of me?”

“I’m sorry,” I whimpered in agony, as I fought to control the tears.

With his hand firmly gripped in my hair, he reeled me around and slapped me as hard as he could on the side of my face. The force of his grip held me still so I took the full brunt of the hit. It wasn’t the first time I’d tasted blood.

“Little whores like you are never sorry,” he sneered. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re out trying to get it whenever you can, because I won’t give it to you.”

He hit me again so hard that I was dizzy. It was testament to how fucked in the head he was, that he equated my drying underwear on a rack in the laundry room to my throwing myself at him. It was a frightening insight as to where these beatings would eventually lead.

I WOKE WITH A START and as usual after the nightmares, I could barely breathe. Sucking air into my lungs, I tried breathing deeply to gain control before I hyperventilated. When I caught sight of O’Connell’s unconscious form next to me, I nearly fell out of bed. After a nightmare about Frank, seeing someone in my bed was a sure-fire way to get my heart racing. He was still laying facedown next to me. With his lips slightly parted and snoring gently, he went from looking mean and dangerous, to vulnerable and cute. I couldn’t help but stare. It was probably the only chance I’d ever have to study him this closely. His strong jaw held the hint of a five o’clock shadow, but that only softened the ‘in your face’ sexiness of those sharp cheekbones. He kept the sides of his hair almost military short but the top, usually arranged in messy spikes, was now deliciously rumpled. It only made me want to run my hands through it even more. Long, inky black eyelashes framed the most hauntingly beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. As breathtaking as they were, they always held an edge of danger and barely controlled violence. Even when he was calm, he was still the most dangerous man I’d ever met. He opened them up, and this close I could see the flecks of silver in the blue that made them so remarkable.

“Good mornin’,” he whispered croakily, betraying the amount he’d had to drink the night before.

He looked nervous, and I knew that he was waiting for my reaction to his late night visit. I smiled gently at him, unable to prolong his agony in anticipation of my reaction.

“Good morning. If you’re waiting for breakfast in bed, I’m afraid this hotel stopped serving at eight.”He grinned, and his relief that I hadn’t balled him out, was palpable.

“I totally owe you that,” he replied.

“It would be pretty amazing,” I said as I rolled over in bed to look at the ceiling. “I’ve never had breakfast in bed.”

“No?” he said in astonishment. “What, never?”

I turned my head to look at him and shook it to answer no, unwilling yet to share the details of my sad and pathetic life.

“What would you have if we were in a fancy hotel now, and you could have anything?”

I didn’t need a minute to think about this one.

“Deliciously rich, expensive coffee and a selection of fresh Danish pastries,” I breathed out on a wistful sigh.

O’Connell chuckled and looked across at me hungrily. Without any warning, he sprang up, leant over the bed to grab his boots and sat down again to put them on.

“Are you going home?” I asked reluctantly, afraid of the disappointment I’d feel when he answered.

“No.” He grinned. “I’ve got some errands to run, but I’ll be back in half an hour.” “Okay.” I answered, without asking him where he was going. I moved to get up with the intention of seeing him out.

“Why don’t you stay in bed where it’s warm, and see if you can’t get back to sleep,” he suggested.

“I’m sorry it’s so cold in here,” I apologised nervously.

“My heating isn’t great, and it takes so long to come on that I’m usually on my way out before the room is warm, so I don’t bother with it most of the time.”

Anger flashed through his eyes, and I could see him biting the inside his cheeks to refrain from saying something. I didn’t think that O’Connell’s financial circumstances were much better than mine, but I still felt shamed at the obvious evidence of my poverty. A sure sign of wealth was that rich people never needed to feel cold or hungry. After a moment that felt like an hour, he leaned forward, grabbed the back of his sweater and pulling it over his head, passed it to me.

“What are you doing?” I asked him in shock, still staring at the definition of his eight pack that had been revealed when his t-shirt rose.

“It will keep you warm, and I won’t be gone long.”

“You’ll freeze!” I cried in horror.

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, “I tossed my jacket on your chair before I passed out. I’ll be fine.”

True to his word, he shrugged on his jacket and grabbed my keys off my desk before throwing the locks on my door.

“Don’t deadlock the door behind me, okay? I’ve got your keys, so I’ll just let myself in.”

I nodded, still grinning like a fool, as I sank further into the warmth of his sweater. He gazed at me intently, like he was trying to memorise something, then with a wink he let himself out and closed the door behind him. I’d bet good money that he’d used the exit wink more than once before. I didn’t for one minute think that he’d come back, but if nothing else, the sweater was a pretty awesome souvenir. I had a spare set of keys, but I’d have to find a way to get my others back from him. I pulled on the neck of his sweatshirt and inhaled deeply. It was still deliciously warm from the heat of his body, and as I snuggled back into bed, the chill of the room barely bothered me.

The luxurious smell of expensive coffee brought me round, but the beautiful blues staring down at me were enough to keep my eyes open. I sat bolt upright in bed in surprise.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I told you I’d be back,” O’Connell answered in confusion. My cheeks coloured as he realised I hadn’t believed him, but he was nice enough not to call me on it. He reached toward my bedside table and handed me a foam cup. The smell literally made me groan.

I leant back, wrapped up in O’Connell’s sweater and sipping luxury coffee, feeling like this was the best dream I’d ever had. The dream got even better when O’Connell started stripping.

“Umm,” I mumbled sounding like a complete moron, but unwilling to put an end to the free show. When he was down to his jeans and nothing else, he slid into bed next to me and grabbed a box by the side of him.

“As promised...breakfast in bed,” he grinned, feeling very pleased with himself, and damn if he wasn’t holding a box full of warm Danish pastries. When we’d gorged ourselves completely, I laid back down on my side, full and contented.

“That was the most amazing thing anyone’s ever done for me, and you’re totally forgiven for waking me up in the middle of the night.”

He set aside the box and laid down to face me.

“I’m sorry about that. Yesterday was kind of a rough day for me,” he admitted.

“What happened?” I asked gently. I didn’t mean to pry, but O’Connell looked like he needed to talk.

“Ma fell off the wagon again night before last. We got into it, and we both said some things we can’t take back.”

There was nothing to say that could make him feel any better. I gathered that she was an alcoholic, and reached out and laid my hand over his in a gesture of support. He stared at it for a really long time and then carried on.

“Dad was a twat who was off fucking anything in a skirt for as long as I can remember. Eventually, Ma kicked him out, and that’s when things got bad. She started drinking and would go on binges for weeks at a time. When she tried to clean herself up, things would get better. There’d be food in the house again, and she’d start giving a shite about me going to school and stuff, but then she’d hear about my dad’s latest hook up, or we’d get a final demand on a bill, and I’d come home to find vomit all over the kitchen floor and her passed out on the sofa.”

O’Connell looked so nervous telling me, like he thought it would change my opinion of him. I wouldn’t pity him. We all had our own sad stories to tell, but now he stood taller in my eyes. Any man who could survive a childhood like that would.

“How did you stay out of care?” I asked.

“I was pretty good at covering for her and taking care of myself. Kieran’s Ma knew that something was up, but she never called me on it. When things were really bad, she fed me and let me bunk in Kier’s room, which pretty much saved my life.”

He closed his eyes like talking about it was too much for him.

“Why did she fall off the wagon this time?” I persisted, poking at his open wound.

Now he’d started, I figured that he needed to let all the poison out before it would heal.

“Who the fuck knows,” he admitted. “But I’m so fucking over it. How am I supposed to sort my crap out, when I’m always dealing with hers?”

“You shouldn’t drink when you’re angry. It probably makes things worse,” I whispered. I didn’t mean to preach, but it sounded like the drinking was a dangerous path for his mum, and I didn’t want him meeting the same fate.

“I’m pretty sure that being a loser is in the blood,” he admitted, as he opened his eyes to look back at me sadly. I didn’t cuddle him or offer false platitudes that everything would be fine. That was a promise that I couldn’t make, for him or me. If he wanted to change his life, then only he could make it happen. I knew that better than anyone. I reached across to my bedside table and grabbed a black pen. He looked stunned as I started writing across his rock hard pec. His chest really was worthy of appreciation. All rock hard muscle beneath my fingertips. When I was done, I looked over my handiwork and smiled.

“What does it say?” O’Connell asked, looking down at his chest.

“It says,” I replied throatily,

“A champion is someone who gets up when they can’t.- Jack Dempsey.”

I figured you’d appreciate the boxing reference, and I think that if you can pick yourself up, even when you think you’re rock bottom and can’t get any lower, well, then that makes you pretty special.”

He swallowed deeply and pulled me down onto his chest. With my head pillowed against his bicep, I fell asleep. Just like that, more warm, rested, and peaceful than I’d been in a very long time.