Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh

WOE IS ME

TARA

I was fucking done with playing nice. Tired of nodding along, of going out of my way to keep everyone happy. Honestly, did anyone actually enjoy that? The world wanted me to fit in its perfect little box, but I was about to break the goddamned thing wide open.

I'd always been a bit of a bitch—maybe a bit more than a bit—and it was time everyone else saw it too.

"They're gonna hate you," Malachy laughed, lounging against the closed doors of the church, his lips twisting into a smirk.

"They're gonna hate me anyway," I shot back, shrugging. "What I'm really hating right now is that haircut of yours."

He feigned offense, running a hand through his freshly cut and dyed hair. "What's wrong with my hair? At least mine doesn't look like some dead skunk's chilling on top."

"Who the feck are ya calling a skunk, Snowman?" Ciaran sneered at his brother, tipping his chin up proudly. "I'll have you know, no one pulls off a mullet like I do."

"I'll shave it off in your sleep and call the CSPCA for animal abuse," Malachy muttered, shoving him back. "Now back the fuck off my personal space, ya eejit."

"I'll invade your personal space all I fucking want," Ciaran countered, giving him another shove. The two were like a pair of oversized, overgrown kids high on sugar—honestly, it was easy to forget they were supposed to be adults at twenty-one and nineteen.

"Alright, alright," I said, stepping between them, planting a hand on each of their chests to keep them apart. "Playtime's over. How about we try to avoid killing each other for one day, yeah?"

"We're dead already," Malachy said, still glaring daggers at his brother. "I'm just making it official."

"At least I'd fit in a coffin," Ciaran taunted, giving him a look up and down. "Your fat arse, though? No chance. Maybe go on a diet and then, who knows, you might find a girl desperate enough to date you."

"At least I'm not playing fucking Twister on the sexual orientation spectrum."

"It's called being fluid, big brother. Maybe if you swung both ways, you'd have better luck on the dating spectrum."

"Listen, if the two of you don't shut it, I'll put you both on the six-feet-under spectrum," I warned, glaring between the two of them. "Sound like a plan?"

"Shutting up now, princess," they chimed in unison, both breaking into sheepish grins.

In case it wasn't obvious, we weren't actually dead. We'd just taken a week off, laying low while things blew over. We'd watched the riots spread across town, and honestly? I was so fucking proud. Most of the people involved were victims, finally fed up with being silenced, speaking out against the monsters who'd hidden behind money and their perfect families for too long. The abusers were finally getting what they deserved.

"I'm loving the new look, by the way," Ciaran said with a mischievous grin, his gaze trailing over me as if appraising the change.

I'd dyed my hair to a light brown with subtle highlights, blending in more, just in case. When you're faking your death, changing your hair is rule number one.

"Miss my blonde, though."

"You can always dye it back," Malachy shrugged. "Or grow it out and chop it off later. I will. I'm not keeping this in my hair forever."

"My father will hear about this," Ciaran announced, putting on an exaggerated, posh English accent before dissolving into laughter. "Cheap knock-off Draco Malfoy, that's what you are."