Page 42 of Reaching Hearts
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tommy
Where the fuck am I? Eyes: focusing on two heads hovering above me. Shoulder: possessed with a pain I’ve never before known.
The room comes into focus and I see I’m lying on a workbench in the garage with my legs sprawled out, my shirt and jacket off, and Uncle Paul’s head above me as he surveys the wound. My dad is on the other side of him, peering down with disgust that I know from experience is directed at me, not the bullet hole. I yell out as Uncle Paul pokes around, inspecting what’s going on so he can formulate a plan on what to do.
“It’s deep in there. This is gonna hurt.”
My dad growls, “How’d you get shot?” I stare at him, not answering, so he yells in my face, the spittle hitting my cheeks. “I said, HOW’D YOU GET SHOT?”
Through gritted teeth, I mutter, “I shot him first. He went down first.”
Paul glances to Walter, my dad, but gets nothing in return.
He doesn’t care what Paul thinks of his yelling at me. My dad could give two shits about what anyone thinks, but himself. That’s the ways it’s always been. Walter is the alpha. He runs this house and this family. He will always be in charge and anyone who ever thinks otherwise will be stomped to the ground. Like a pack of dogs, we know our place and it’s always behind him. I fucking hate it, but I put up with it. For now.
“So… what? Someone pulled a gun, so you shot them? Were you at a club or somethin’?”
Paul turns and I follow him with my eyes to see what he’s going to do to me. From a bag, he pulls out what looks like very long tweezers.
My eyes cut back to my dad and I wince at the throbbing ache in my shoulder. “It was Brendan.”
His eyes flicker and he looks to the ceiling. “Oh fuck. You mean to tell me this is all about your stupid rivalry? What have I told you?”
Staring at the ceiling and gritting my teeth against the pain, I keep my mouth shut.
Paul mutters one of the family slogans we all know too well: “Never let emotions get in the way of the goal.”
My dad throws him a deadly look. “Was I talkin’ to you?” His head swivels back to me. He takes his finger and presses his thumb into my wound, shooting blinding pain into me. I scream out and struggle not to punch him in the face. If I did, he’d kill me. Maybe that would be better than this.
“Don’t even think it,” he hisses, like he can read my mind.
Gasping against the pain, I grunt, “He was fucking some bitch from our college in a bar. He was naked. Vulnerable. It was my chance to take him out. The fog was in. The streets were empty. I could have gotten away with it! I had to do it!”
“How’d he get the jump on you?”
My jaw locks and I say through my teeth, “He pulled some martial arts shit. But I shot him first.”
Paul mutters to my dad, “He probably choked.” Then looks to me. “First time you ever shot someone, Tommy, right?”
I nod. Dad glares at me. “Did he know it was you?”
I jerk my head. “No. He had no idea.”
He wants to believe me. He knows I’m good at what I do. I may have gotten shot, but I don’t normally fuck up. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Paul lifts the shiny metal tool and has the decency to look apologetic. “We have to get this out, Tommy.”
“What the fuck is that thing?”
“It’s tweezers. What does it look like?”
“Tweezers are smaller than that. That looks like…”
“They’re long fucking tweezers. What do you want from me?” He leans in and pokes them into my shoulder.