Reign of Brayshaw (Brayshaw High) - Meagan Brandy Page 0,3
would only cause me problems later.
She failed to see I wasn’t holding on to anything – I was simply a fucking kid who wanted no part of the things I hated her for.
I knew what she was doing, saw people fucking on movies and even on picnic tables or in backseats of cars in our lot.
Grown men would walk out of her room naked, not sparing me a glance – if I was lucky – as they’d come fish a beer or what the fuck ever from the mini-fridge, so I’d seen dick before, pussy, too, for that matter.
I was disgusted by it.
The sounds they’d make, the smells. The way they acted as if my mother was a fucking queen while their wives or husbands sat at home probably wondering where the fuck their partners were. Betrayal and disregard for any and everything around.
So, no. Sex wasn’t something I wanted.
For a long time I saw sex as a tool for manipulation, and I had no reason to use it. It wasn’t until I was desperate to erase what I knew sex to be, dirty and shameful, painful, that I was interested.
Crazy thing about all the shit popping up, my mom trading me for money in her pocket doesn’t surprise me in the least. There were tons of times I thought she would, and honestly, if it didn’t offend her when her men would make sleazy comments about me, she probably would have.
Or maybe not since I was technically already owned by another – bought by a rich man who posed as a commoner, who used to bring me ice cream and movies to keep me busy while he spent an hour in my mother’s room, supposedly talking about me. A man I knew to be good as far as good went in my world, who gave me my knife for protection before he was gone, only to make his way back into my life as my man’s dad eleven years later.
How much more twisted can this shit get?
With a sigh, I sit up and reach for the body wash, but the second I pop it open, my senses are assaulted with the overpowering aroma of coconut and something else as equally disgusting.
I quickly shift to my knees, open the shower door, and lean over the toilet.
My stomach is damn near empty, so liquids and dry heaving it is. A chill runs through my body as sweat beads form at the crown of my head.
Fuck!
I hate this. The shit Donley had Vienna inject me with is taking its day-after toll – one of the many reasons I touch nothing harder than the green.
As soon as I wipe my mouth, I submerge myself underwater and run my hands over my hair, using the bubbles in the water to wash my body off – thank hell the shampoo and conditioner were unscented.
I drag myself from the tub and dress as quick as I can without getting sick again, then drop onto the toilet to brush out my wet hair.
I feel like I got hit by a fucking truck. Still, conversations must be had today.
I swear to God you can hear the hard hit of our pulses echoing against the high ceiling and bouncing back, wrapping around our throats and cutting off our airways.
Give them Zoey instead.
What. The. Fuck.
My chest aches and I can’t even fucking force myself to look at my brother, but I do when he stumbles a bit, falling back and dropping to his ass on the leather ottoman.
His hands slide through his blond hair, coming back to drag down his face. His skin is pulled tight, hands still covering half his face as his tortured eyes hit mine.
My lungs fucking fold, not an ounce of oxygen left to feed my body.
Cap isn’t breathing either, his face starting to turn colors, and Royce cusses, quickly dropping in front of him.
He shakes his shoulders, but Cap never breaks my stare.
“Breathe, brother,” Royce tells him, his head snapping my way, worry in his eyes when Cap refuses.
Doubt he’s hearing Royce right now, he may not even be seeing me, even with his gaze locked on mine.
“Cap,” I rasp, and unsure if it was loud enough for him to hear, but suddenly his hands fall, his arms flopping to his sides as his chin meets his chest.
He knows.
He knows, never in a million years would we turn our backs on our niece, my brother’s daughter, for anything.