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  Copyright © 2014 Max Henry

  Published by Max Henry

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Max Henry is in no way affiliated with any brands, songs, musicians, or artists mentioned in this book.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: May 2014, by Max Henry [email protected]

  Edited by: Max Henry

  Cover Design: Rebecca Berto of Berto Designs

  Formatting by: Max Effect

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Steph wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes, and turned for the exit. Who gave a flying fuck if she looked like a watercolour raccoon? Her heart had slipped down the escalator with Pete, and the looming darkness over the horizon mocked her with the knowledge of how alone she'd soon be—even if Pete had stayed.

  Why now? Why did her damn mental illness have to rear its fucking head now? Of course she knew the answer—stress. But accepting that as the answer, and letting her demons win again seemed like such a cop out. What did she learn from the first time, if not how to avoid falling into that same pit of despair? Was she so weak that she’d knowingly lead herself there without a fight?

  The thought of Pete returning to Ireland scared the living daylights out of her. He knowingly walked into a place filled with people who would rather see his mangled corpse six feet under than thriving a world away from their own. Why couldn't his parents let him go? Why couldn't they simply let him be?

  Why couldn’t he let it be?

  She drew her chin further to her chest, and walked through the automated doors into the rising heat of the day. The parking building sat before her—multiple levels of numerous cars. She cursed under her breath. The thought hadn't occurred to ask Pete which level he parked on. Her mind had been completely lost in the panic of letting him go.

  She slipped the ticket he’d given her into the pay-machine, and sorted the parking fare before turning for the walkway. With each step forward she took, her heart sunk further into the floor. Leaving the airport simply cemented the fact Pete was about to be a bazillion miles from her, on another continent entirely. But what else could she do? Camp out at the airport until he returned? That wouldn't stop him from going now, would it?

  Besides, she had a freaking funeral to attend tomorrow—wouldn't that be a joy? In her current state, how would she cope seeing Ivan? Everybody would expect them to be close, yet the sheer thought of being in the same room as him sent shivers down her spine.

  He had been her closest friend, and he threw it all away for a chance to be as screwed up as his brother. Who could have seen that curve ball coming? Despite how much she knew it wasn't her fault in the slightest, it still shattered the trust she had carefully reconstructed after Richard’s stunt. If Ivan turned on her, then who would be next? Who could she trust to have her back? To share her darkest secrets with?

  Such thoughts led her overbearing paranoia down a dark path, toward doors that should stay shut. Behind them lay her deepest fears—fears that the next person to rip her world apart would be the only one holding it together. What if Pete never came back? And worse, what if that was his choosing?

  By the time she reached the first level of vehicles, her heartrate had doubled, and a fine sheen of sweat coated her palms. All this time alone was already twisting her thoughts against her. How the fuck would she make it through a whole week if she couldn’t make it to the bloody car?

  Steph employed the only diversion tactic she knew worked when her thought patterns threatened to send her into a panic—she counted the colours of the cars. Level one brought twenty-eight blue, fourteen red, and seventeen white. Level two had accumulated nine black, twenty-one white, and seven blue before she came across the familiar back end of the rat-rod.

  Her heart came to a complete stop, seizing her lungs for the briefest of seconds while she fought to compose herself all over again. There it sat—something of his—and with the knowledge that he’d been in it mere hours before came the sadness that he wouldn’t be for a whole week.

  Pathetic? Maybe. But her heart shattered anew at the tangible connection she had before her. A last link.

  The last thing she needed was to think as though he wouldn’t return. Her state of mind already memorialised everything of his as though his fate was sealed. But in a way, it was. They were only two men—Pete and Trevor—going up against how many? How many others were on Murray’s pay roll? How many others had secret vendettas against the one that got away?

  Steph pressed the button on the keys, and watched with glazed eyes as the lights flashed twice. Her hand shook as she brought it to the handle, and opened the driver’s door. His scent immediately wafted out to greet her; cologne, mixed with stale smoke.

  Had he been smoking on the way over? He’d said he would quit, and it had been an age since she’d seen Pete with a cigarette between his lips. Perhaps that was an indicator of how nervous he was about returning to his hometown?

  God, could she die inside any more?

  Pity for herself, and her current situation soon morphed to anger at how unjust it was to suffer this condition yet again. Her entire teenage years she’d been the happy, outgoing kid, always up for a day out with her besties. And then that night happened. Richard didn’t just strip her of her virginity, but he ripped her confidence from her, her love of life, and her trust of the people close to her. Had he ever known how badly he’d ruined her life? Did the guy ever feel an ounce of remorse for what he’d done?

  Not likely.

  Fuck Richard. Fuck him and his twisted idea of control. He'd hit on her plenty before that night, but nothing could have told her how sick his desire truly was. How was she to know he planned every detail of how he would take her? How was she to know exactly what would happen if she agreed to go to a bonfire party with one of the people she was supposed to trust like family?

  The saddest part of it all, was she still ultimately blamed herself for everything that happened: that night, before, and in the months that followed.

  If the act
of removing any trace of her dignity wasn't enough, Richard had systematically ripped her world apart lie by lie as the days dragged on. Six days it took for her to feel well enough to attend school—and then what had she found? A social structure, turned against her by the malicious lies of one boy, who given his father's social stature in the community, held the captive attention of the masses.

  What sheep teenagers could be. What easily manipulated souls they were, eager to be told the gossip that would sate their sick desire to feed on the misery of others. Because nothing props up a broken spirit like knowing another one is worse off.

  Steph dropped into the seat, and pulled the door shut behind her. The confines of the cabin, narrow windscreen, and bucket seat eased her need to feel hidden from view. The world could be a nasty place, and on days like today, she simply wanted to hide away until it was a better day. Dragging those memories up was counter-productive to her problems, but even after so many years, she couldn’t quite walk away from that part of who she was.

  Pretending it never happened. pretending she was okay was the ultimate lie.

  The key turned easily in her hand, and the engine shook to life with a glorious, throaty rumble. Steph sat in the idling rod for a moment, simply enjoying the soothing timbre of the V8.

  Pete would be okay—or so she would keep telling herself. Like he’d said, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done a million times before. The thought of going up against another in a life or death situation was foreign to her, and therefore understandably frightening. But for a guy like Pete, was it frightening anymore, or did a person get conditioned to that kind of thing after so many years of it? What exactly had he seen as a kid that made him so indifferent to the pain of others?

  Too much for someone so young—that’s what.

  Despite her best efforts to reassure herself that the fear she harboured for Pete was purely substantiated from her own worries, she couldn't stop the barrage of 'if's' that assailed her every second her mind stood idle. What if she'd never met him? What if she'd stopped him from seeing his mother? What if she'd tried to get Derek to persuade him this wasn't a good idea? Why didn’t she beg Trevor to do something to stop him?

  Steph sighed, and slotted the rod into reverse.

  More to the point, was why did she feel the need to worry over the things she couldn't change?

  The thump of the engine echoed around the concrete structure as she backed into the narrow aisle. The gears sat close together, and it took her a few shifts while she drove out of the building to get used to the proximity. Her arm pumped as she wound the window down at the gate to slip the ticket into the machine. The barrier lifted, and Steph rumbled out into the sunshine, concealing her brewing storm deep inside.

  Pete was gone, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do about it.

  Pistol yawned, and shifted his cramped legs for the umpteenth time. Cattle class was such a squeeze. A midget would find it uncomfortable. He glanced across at Trevor who sat two rows up on the opposite side of the plane. The big guy slept—his head lolled into the aisle. The attendants kept shimmying past sideways rather than disturb him. Such a spectacle could have been pretty darn funny if it weren’t for the gravity of where they headed.

  He’d assured Steph everything would be okay, but truth be told he was scared shitless. He hadn’t been so unsure of his survival since those ingrained memories of his childhood, hiding out in the pantry with Colin while his father yelled the house down. His father. It disgusted him to realize he still thought of Murray as that—his father. It enraged him more to think again of how he’d never get the chance to know his true father better. Never have a chance to learn what he could have turned out like if he had been given another path in life.

  Was it only that? Was it only his upbringing that made him who he was now? The argument could be made that blaming a persons surroundings for their choices in life was a pathetic excuse for the actions of an individual. Yes, he should be held accountable for his decisions, but he couldn’t shirk the thought that the lack of love, and interest in his development as a child at least contributed to the man he was today.

  A person hardly saw many prep-school educated, Sunday churchgoers committing base crimes, did they?

  Nope. That kind of scummy behaviour was usually reserved for the people in the world who thought they had no other option. People who thought they wouldn’t be given a second chance no matter how hard they clawed at the sides of their dirty hole. People who had tried to do right by the world, and simply had their intentions shat back in their face.

  People like him.

  His mother sure took a huge portion of the blame for the angry man he was now. Colin’s death at her hand sure extinguished any flicker of love he may have had for the woman. Maternal ties be damned—he wished she were dead. He would make sure she was dead by the time he returned to Australia.

  But he couldn’t overlook the influence Murray had on his attitude to life. Criminal activities aside, the man never once took the side of his children. He knew what Pistol’s mother did to her boys, and yet he chose to turn his back on them, and leave their fate in the hands of a woman driven mad in her need for another hit. Pistol had told Steph he was afraid of being his father—if only he’d known he was afraid of being Murray.

  Going back to Ireland only showed how much of the man ran through his veins. Revenge was the kind of thing Murray was deep into. Many a time as a kid he’d seen the wrath of his ‘father’. He’d learnt how long it took a man to bleed out at the age of nine. He’d learnt how quickly pigs could dispose of a body at age eleven.

  Those things were chump change compared to what Murray could do with the inside of a person’s head. The asshole’s greatest weapon was his ability to drive a person crazy. He was the master puppeteer, and over the years he had manipulated many a person in doing what he wanted of them, for little or no pay-off for the sucker. Men had killed for Murray, and been killed in return. Women had whored themselves to him, and been ostracized from their families in return. Children had run drugs, and money for the man, and been traded into slavery in return.

  The guy was the devil himself.

  And here he sat, on a plane intending to confront the man.

  Pistol drew a sigh, and ran the makeshift plans through his head once more. He’d go to Murray first, and hear the reasons for his parents betrayal straight from the horse’s mouth. Getting sense out of his mother was like asking a toddler to tell you how to complete a thousand piece puzzle; you’d get there in the end, but the process would be long, and torturous. He simply wanted to hear why the assholes hadn’t let him live with his real father. The thought it was Alex’s choice to leave him with such neglectful parents scared him a little. The man was his only fantasy of parental love. He wasn’t sure if that was a fallacy he wanted shattered yet.

  After Murray would come the second half of the plan—Mickey.

  Pistol wasn’t an idiot. He could admit it had been too many years that he’d been out of the game. Richard had been the first kill he’d made in ages. Going up against a career criminal like Mickey was akin to the mouse fighting the lion; he could only hope he could scare the guy into submission before having to use force. Even with Trevor, they would be hard matched against a guy like Mickey.

  Murray, and Mickey.

  M & M’s.

  He chuckled to himself, and drew the curious glance of the young girl in the seat next to him. She looked up from her movie player, and smiled. He returned the gesture, noting the Disney movie she watched, full of princes, and princesses. The choice showed such innocence, and such a naive belief that fairy tales could happen. His heart ached for the kid. Her mother flitted her gaze between the two of them, interested in what interaction her child had with the trouble-looking man in the end seat. He wasn’t blind to the judgment the woman passed the minute he took his seat before take-off. She hadn’t responded when he’d offered a ‘hello’ for Christ’s sake.

  Time was, he’d never care
d what anybody thought about the first impression he made. But now, something had shifted, and he was fucked if he could work out what, exactly. Why did he care so much what others thought of him, yet still harbour the same hate that drew him home once more? Was Pete finally learning to get along with Pistol? He sure hoped so. Any luck at a future with Cutie would depend on him learning to mesh the two halves of his personality.

  What kind of future did he want? Kids were a definite, but he hadn’t broached the subject with Steph. Did she want kids? Could she help him to adjust to being a father? His desire to have a spin-off of himself was matched only by the fear he’d screw the child up from the get-go. No doubt if kids were in the picture, then Steph would want to get married first. Steph O’Malley. He sounded it out in his head, and chuckled again. Fuck’s sake, would he be drawing their initials on his arm next?

  The food trolley pushed through the curtain separating first-class, and their section. He watched the slender attendant while she poured coffee, and tea—unable to stop comparing her movements to Steph. He pitted everything about the woman against Cutie: the rise of her cheekbone, the length of her hair. The way she held the coffee pot. Shit, he had it bad when he needed to break every woman down into what it was about them that set Steph apart from the crowd.

  He closed his eyes, blocking out the sounds of clinking dishes, and seat-back trays locking into place. For a few blissful moments he managed to take himself back to the last time they’d been together. He ran his imaginary hands over her sides one last time, feeling the soft skin where her hipbone jutted out. His thumbs traced a line toward her centre, and the scent of her arousal tickled his nostrils.

  “Coffee, Sir?”

  Mmm, Sir.

  His eyes snapped open on the curious attendant who flicked her gaze away from his crotch. Shit. The little fella was hard. He whipped the tray down, and hoped like hell the girl next door was too involved in her movie to notice anything she shouldn’t know about at such a tender age.

  “Aye. Black thanks.”

  He glanced over at the blonde girl, and sighed at the sight of her engrossed in the singing candelabra.