Pistol

Chapter Ten

Steph drew her eyebrows together as she watched him scrub both hands over his face. What did his father do that made him so horrified to be the same? An unease settled low in her gut at the obvious: murder, blackmail, torture. All that sticky, relationship-ending stuff. "It hurts you to think that might be true, eh?"

He snapped his cool blue eyes back on her. "Yeah, it does."

Did she want to ask any more? Would it help to know? Or was he right, and she should cut him loose and move on, leave him behind? It's not as though they'd started anything yet, had they? What did you call a casual one-night peep-show? Perverted.

"What did your father do, then?" she queried, eager to lose her train of thought.

"It was as much what he didn't do."

She raised her brow in question.

"Care. He didn't give a fuck for anyone, not even his own flesh and blood."

"What about your mother?"

"Worse." No wonder he had been cool in his response when she complained about her mum the other night. She stared at him as her heart hit the floor with a thud. Was this the reason for his cool dominance over her? Was that why he liked to be in charge? Because he always had been? "You don't have to tell me any more if it's too upsetting," she said.

He shook his head vigorously, adamant he had to. "I need ya to know. I want to find out now what you'll do."

"Why?" She shrugged. "What makes it so urgent? I want to be around you—just not when you're doing the creepy stalker thingy."

He laughed—briefly. "If I don't say it now, I don't know if you're worth the effort."

Well that sounded a bit harsh. "Thanks," she bit back.

He threw his palms up. "It's the truth. Why waste me time if you're gonna run?"

Steph sighed, and slumped into the chair. "Hurry up and tell me then. What could be so bad?"

His gaze pierced into her, and his expression darkened. The shift in his mood had her straighten in the seat. Something horrible surfaced, and maybe he had been on the money after all? Maybe this was too serious for her?

****

Pete dove into the memory banks that he usually kept vaulted tight. Buried emotions pushed to the surface, an itchy pressure under his skin. Steph shifted in the seat opposite him, and for a fleeting moment, he questioned his motives.

"I grew up in Ireland, as ya can probably tell." She nodded. "Me mam, da, and a brother. We didn't have a lot, but then not many people did in the smaller towns. Me da worked at the docks, like most fellas did in the coastal areas. Me mam, she was a stay-at-home mother. Fat load of use she was, though."

He noted how Steph's hands fidgeted in her lap. Her nerves would fry her if he dragged the story out too long.

"Anyway, I won't bore ya with the details. Da was either at work, at the pub, or drinkin' at home with his mates. Didn't matter where me mam was, nine times out of ten she would be on her back." Steph's eyes widened. "Ah, it's the truth. No point beatin' about the bush on it. She was a shit mother. Never fed us, never bathed us, barely cleaned the house. She hated us."

"That can't be right. She had to love you a little—she gave birth to you."

He soured at the hope in Steph's voice. Indications were she wouldn't understand a thing. "Me da was a right cunt. He stole, he gambled, he beat us. And he enjoyed the lot of it. I've had to do some things I aren't proud of to escape them. Problem is—they're the same things me father did. I've stolen. I've gambled—money and lives. And now I take pleasure in beatin' people when they deserve it. I'm fuckin' sick in the head, Steph."