Atonement (The Protectors 6)

“This floor’s off limits,” I bit out. “The couch in the den pulls out,” I snapped as I went to the closet at the end of the hall and grabbed a blanket and pillow and shoved them into Dante’s arms. I knew my behavior was over the top, but I was too damn raw to care. I strode past him and down the hallway to my own room and slammed the door shut behind me. I made it to my bed before my knees suddenly felt too weak to hold my own weight. I managed to hold back the tears that desperately wanted to fall.

Tears are for girls and sissies, boy. You either one of those things?

The sound of my grandfather’s voice had me automatically shaking my head. I barely managed to stifle the urge to say, “No, sir.”

Many had considered J.D. DuCane a tough, man’s man kind of guy and he’d garnered a nearly infamous reputation among his fellow Rangers for his uncompromising dedication to the job. But to me, he’d been equal parts intimidating and inspiring. I’d wanted to be just like him in so many ways, but I’d learned early on that my grandfather didn’t accept failure in any form. Age hadn’t been an excuse for weakness, and shared blood didn’t mean you got a pass if you didn’t measure up to his strict standards. My father had been proof of that.

The relationship between my father and grandfather wasn’t something I’d really understood when I’d been little. I’d been inwardly defensive of my father in the early years when my grandfather had called him a disappointment and berated him for everything from his blue collar job painting houses and doing construction work, to his choice of brides. I’d been too young to recognize the way my grandfather had slowly broken my father down until he’d had little choice but to lose himself in a bottle night after night. All I’d seen was proof everything my grandfather had said about my father was true as he’d lost job after job, blew every penny he’d managed to earn on alcohol, and had ultimately take his self-hatred out on me and my mother.

My mother had eventually escaped.

I hadn’t.

I’d hidden the bruises at first, afraid that I too would be deemed weak in my grandfather’s eyes, but as my father’s hatred had been fueled with more and more alcohol, there hadn’t been any hiding. Ironically, the man who’d driven my father to the breaking point became my savior. But within six months, the safe haven I’d found with my grandfather was gone after his sudden death and I’d been sent back to my parents. With my grandfather gone and my mother walking out three months later, my father hadn’t exactly embraced his role as the parent in our household. No, that had become my job.

Before my age had even reached double-digits, I’d taught myself to cook so my father and I wouldn’t starve while he drank himself into a stupor every night. I’d learned how to stretch every dollar I’d managed to swipe from him after he’d cashed his monthly disability check and immediately bought booze. I’d even managed to arrange a deal with the guy who owned the liquor store on the same block as our street to return most of the bottles of liquor my father bought right after cashing his check. Luckily the guy must have felt sorry for me or something because he’d given me every penny back for every unopened bottle I’d brought back after my father had passed out in a drunken haze on the couch. I’d take the money and hide it in our apartment building’s boiler room behind the furnace. The only cost had been the beating I’d get the next day when my father would ask where his booze was. Once he’d sobered up enough, he’d believed the lie I’d told him that he’d drunk everything he’d bought. He’d still always managed to somehow get alcohol between checks, but I’d never asked how he’d accomplished it. All I’d cared about was that I’d had enough money to keep a roof over our heads and food in our bellies until the next check came and the cycle started all over again.

Living with my grandfather even for those six months hadn’t been easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I’d thrived on the discipline and order he’d instilled. He’d never once raised a hand to me, choosing instead to drive home the need for me to be strong, fearless and always in control of myself, no matter what. He’d been a hard-nosed son of a bitch, but he’d been everything my father hadn’t. Ironically, it was the sense of duty he’d instilled in me that had kept me living in hell for years after he passed. Even when I was old enough to tell my father what would happen if he ever laid a hand on me again, I didn’t leave him.