Ball & Chain (Cut & Run #8)

Ball & Chain (Cut & Run #8) Page 4

He climbed the front steps and knocked before he could decide against it. His mother answered the door, her smile strained and her hug stiff when she greeted him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, voice quiet. “You look good, Nicholas. Your father’s been asking for you.”

Nick merely nodded, resisting the urge to glance up or in the direction of his father’s study. He was closer to forty than four, but he still felt that flash of anxiety and outright fear when he thought of walking down that hallway.

They stood in awkward silence, not really looking at each other, not really wanting to. This was the first time Nick had been in his childhood home since he’d told his parents he was bi. He hadn’t been welcome after that.

Nick cleared his throat.

“Katherine and Erin are here,” his mother said finally. “They’ve been waiting for you to get here before they go up to see him.”

Nick nodded again, shrugging out of his snow-covered coat. He and Kat and Erin shared memories the younger siblings hadn’t been subjected to.

“They’re down—”

“I know where they are,” Nick murmured, and headed for the creaky old door to the cellar.

The light at the top of the staircase didn’t turn anything on, but then, it hadn’t since Nick had gotten old enough to figure out how to cut the wires inside the switch. He descended in darkness, hoping his memory of the stairwell would keep him from breaking his damn neck. His footfalls were silent on the concrete steps. When he reached the bottom, a pool of weak light emitted from the corner, where old room dividers and screens and large concrete pillars partitioned off a piece of the cellar.

His two sisters were together on an old sofa in the corner. A battered coffee table with a duct-taped leg, braced with a broken hockey stick, sat before them. A lamp on a milk crate gave off the only light. They were flipping through a photo book, both alternately sniffling and laughing.

Nick shoved his hands into his pockets as he approached them, trying for a smile. He stood on the other side of the coffee table. “I thought I’d find you two down here.”

Kat smiled weakly and cleared her throat. “Do you remember when he’d come home drunk and you’d gather all of us together and bring us down here?”

Nick fought to swallow past the tightening in his throat. “I remember.”

“You’d tell us stories and we’d play board games or listen to the Sox play until we heard him go to sleep.” Kat wiped at her eyes.

Nick stepped around the table, and they both moved over so he could sit between them. He spread his arms on the back of the couch, and both women leaned into him.

Kat’s voice quivered when she spoke again. “I was never afraid when we were down here. Not when you were with us.”

“Neither was I,” Erin whispered. She hugged Nick close. “We knew you would protect us. You always did.”

Nick closed his eyes, his arms tightening around them.

The three of them had met for dinner the day after he’d returned to Boston, catching up after he had been gone for so long. But this was something they never talked about.

Kat began to cry softly. She shoved the picture book away and pressed her face against Nick’s chest. “These pictures . . . we never realized how young you were. My God, Nick, you were just a baby. You were younger than Patrick is now.” Her oldest son. He’d just turned ten last week. “Who stood in front of you?”

“It’s okay,” Nick whispered.

They sat in silence, listening to the house creak, to their mother moving around upstairs, to the occasional voice of one of their two youngest sisters asking where the hell they were. The young ones didn’t remember the basement, didn’t remember Nick and Kat carrying them down here in bundles of blankets and setting them in stacks of pillows or beanbag chairs and singing them to sleep so they’d be safe. They didn’t remember to look for their older siblings down here when the thought of facing their father was too much for them.

“Nicholas!” their mother called from the top of the steps. “Your father’s awake. He’s asking to see you.”

Nick took a deep breath. The three of them shared a glance. Both his sisters looked like they wanted to hang on to him for dear life, just like they’d done when they were little.

“Let’s go to tell him to kiss our asses,” Erin said as she stood.

Nick stared at the rectangle of light near the bottom of the steps. He had so many memories of sitting on this couch, his arms around Kat and Erin, their baby sisters asleep on their laps, listening to the sound of their mother crying upstairs. And waiting. He remembered the terror of watching the silhouette of his father appear in that frame of light, hoping the man would try to storm down the steps Nick had booby-trapped with his sports equipment, praying he’d just trip and break his neck on the concrete floor when he landed.

He’d never grabbed one of those sticks or bats on his way up the steps after being summoned, though. He’d always left them where they were, knowing the veritable minefield would keep his sisters safe.

That didn’t mean he’d never dreamed about taking that hockey stick and watching it crack his father’s skull. He’d grabbed a baseball bat one time, the day before leaving for Basic. It had been the last time his father raised a hand to any of them.

A shadow appeared on the floor, different than the one that haunted him. “Nick?”

“Coming,” Nick called. Kat and Erin trailed behind him as he made his way up the two flights to his father’s bedroom.

He stood in the doorway, Kat and Erin still behind him. His two youngest sisters, Alana and Nessa, sat in chairs beside the bed, where Brian O’Flaherty lay propped amongst several pillows, jaundiced and weak. All three of them looked at the doorway when they realized Nick was standing there.

“Son,” his father said. He pushed himself up, trying to sit straighter. He didn’t quite make it.

Nick moved toward the bed. Nessa stood and gave him a stiff hug. Nick held onto her, flooded by memories of running down the hall and gathering her out of her bassinet, wrapping her up in her blankets and hugging her to his chest as he and Kat scrambled to get down to the cellar before their father hit the front door.

He let her go, and she and Alana moved to let him sit beside the bed. His father’s eyes stayed on him, and Nick didn’t look away. Eye contact had always been something he’d fought for. When he’d been little, it had pissed his dad off. He’d seen it as a challenge, like a fucking junkyard dog.

It had been worth a backhand to meet the man’s eyes.

“You’re home safe,” his dad finally said. “That’s good.”

Nick nodded.

“You didn’t even tell us you were leaving. We’d have come to see you off.”

Nick snorted. “You hadn’t spoken to me in over a year. You said I was going to hell.”

Brian’s eyes hardened. “I’m too sick to fight, Nicholas.”

“That’s a first,” Nick said through gritted teeth.

“Nick, he can’t handle stress right now, why don’t you try to be civil,” Alana spat. She was standing by the door, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth,” Kat snapped.

Nick glanced over his shoulder at them, then back to his father. “I’m not here so you can say a tender good-bye. What do you want?”

“I want to make my peace with you, son. We had a rough road. But now I’m dying. And I’m scared.”

Nick narrowed his eyes. He knew what sort of changes the thought of impending death could bring on a person. He’d suffered through them himself. But he knew his dad, too. The man wasn’t seeking retribution or forgiveness. He wanted something, something only Nick could give him. And it wasn’t peace.

“Cut to it. What do you want from me?”

Brian took a deep, rattling breath. “Without a new liver, I’ll be dead in three to six months.”

One of Nick’s sisters sniffed. Nick didn’t look away from his father.

“You’re close enough to my size you could be a match, son. You’re the only one who might be. You got that O blood type.”

Nick sat back and closed his eyes.

“You’ve got to be shitting me!” Erin shouted.

“Erin!” their mother cried. “Your language!”

“Stuff it, Mom!” Kat waved a hand at Nick. “How the hell can either of you ask him to do this?”

“Dad is dying,” Nessa said, her voice small and scared. “Even you can’t be so selfish you wouldn’t help him if you could. Even Nick’s not that selfish.”

Nick glanced over in time to recognize the warning signs of Kat and Erin about to blow a collective gasket.

“Everybody get out,” he said softly.

“Nick!” Kat started.

“Kat, stay calm, okay? Give us a few minutes.”

Kat held her breath but nodded. She ushered everyone out of the room and closed the door behind them, leaving Nick and his father alone.

“Temperamental women,” Brian mumbled. “They run in the family. Got to keep the reins tight.”

“The only person in this family who should be tied down is you,” Nick snapped.

They stared at each other for several long moments, neither willing to look away. Brian swallowed hard and licked his lips. Nick hated that he enjoyed seeing his father scared. He hated the fact that he wanted revenge for all the terror and pain of his childhood. But he did. He’d have to live with the kind of person that made him.

“I know you hate me, Nick, and you got the right. But do you think I’m such a horrible man I deserve a death sentence?”

Nick narrowed his eyes. “You probably don’t want me to answer that.”

“Will you consider it before you say no? For your sisters? And your mother?”

Nick began to smile. “Tell me something, Dad. How fucking terrified were you when they told you I was the only one who could save you?”

What little color there was drained from Brian’s face. “Nicholas,” he tried.

“I’ve got somewhere to be,” Nick said, and stood.

“Son, please. I’ll die without your help.”

“Probably should have thought about that thirty-seven years and fifteen broken bones ago,” Nick said as he headed for the door.

His father called after him, his voice a pale echo of the shouts that used to ring through this house.

Nick ignored him. He stalked down the hallway to the stairs, beginning to fume as he thumped down the steps. The man had no right to ask that of him. He had no right to put that decision in Nick’s hands. How many times had Nick prayed for his father’s demise over the years? And now it seemed the only way it would happen was if Nick pulled the trigger on him. It wasn’t fucking fair.

The rest of the family was gathered in the kitchen. Nick’s mother was hunched over the kitchen table, Alana and Nessa sitting on either side of her. Kat and Erin were stalking back and forth like hungry lionesses, and they pounced on him when they heard him coming.

“What did he say?” Erin demanded.

“You’re not going to do it, are you?” Kat added. “You don’t owe him shit.”

Nick’s phone began to ring before he could answer. He glanced around at the five women as he dug in his back pocket. Nessa and Alana were watching him, their expressions full of hope and fear and pain. How many times had Nick seen those eyes—frightened but not sure why, trusting him to protect them.

His mother stood. “Nick, please,” she whispered.

Nick tore his eyes away from them to look down at his phone. “I have to take this.” He grabbed up his coat and turned toward the front door without another word, leaving his family behind to step out into the freezing air. His hands were shaking and he felt like he might throw up in the bushes. The cold air helped to calm him, and he began making his way to the brand-new Range Rover parked at the curb.

“O’Flaherty,” he answered, his voice choked.

“Hey, Irish, you okay?” Ty asked. “You sound like shit.”

Nick cleared his throat and glanced at the house behind him when he got to his car. “Yeah, you just did me a solid, man. Got me out of a tight spot. What’s going on?”

“Well, long story short, you want to be one of Deacon’s groomsmen? All expenses paid.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

“Where?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland?”

“Scotland.”

Nick stared at the window above him, pursing his lips. “Yeah, okay.”

“Bring a date.”

Nick closed his eyes and smiled. “Okay.”

“And a gun.”

Nick opened his eyes. “Wait, what?”

Ty’s laughter was all the answer Nick got.

Chapter 2

“There’s not a single town name here I can pronounce,” Zane said as he peered at a map inset of the Scottish highlands and Inner Hebrides. He kept pronouncing Hebrides wrong on purpose, and it was driving Ty crazy.

Ty tossed his arm over Zane’s shoulders, leaning back in his chair. His feet were propped on a suitcase. They’d flown into Glasgow via a hellish eighteen-hour layover in Iceland, and now they were waiting at baggage claim for Nick and his date to join them. They were a little behind the rest of the Grady family, who’d chosen to take Theodore Stanton up on his offer to fly in his private jet. Zane hadn’t been able to get off work in time to do it or Ty would have been all over it.