Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60198 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 201(@300wpm)
“I’m your brother. You know I’ll do anything for you.”
Anders grins.
“Oh, fuck. What did I just agree to do for you?”
“Come home with me this weekend to ask the ’rents for money to pay for therapy?”
I let out a relieved breath. I’ve been begging him for ages to go back. “I’m there. Although, it never ceases to amaze me that you’re a broke accountant. You’re a walking oxymoron.”
“Hey, I’m great at budgeting.”
“Just not great at sticking to it,” I mumble. “I’d help you out myself but—”
“Pfft, you earn less than me. You should work at a gym as a personal trainer, or hell, buy your own gym. You’d earn more. Or, do what you originally set out to and become a real teacher. Private schools pay their teachers a shit load.”
“I am a real teacher. Besides, I love my job.”
“Do you, though? You’re not doing it because you feel guilty about what happened—”
“I’m helping those kids. And you. That’s all I need.”
Most of the kids I work with are great, but it’s the troubled teens I like working with most. When I get the chance to change someone’s life, it fills me with a sense of accomplishment that no other job could. My dojo runs a program with the local schools, promoting anti-bullying, teaching self-defence, and giving these kids a much-needed boost in their confidence and self-esteem.
I may not have been able to help my brother, but I can prevent other kids like him from being a victim, and hopefully, stop other kids from being aggressors.
Anders stares at my head. “Why’s your hair wet?”
Shit. “It, uh, rained on my way home.”
He glances down at my dry clothes and then back up to my face.
“I’m going to go to bed,” I say and practically bolt for my room. I pause in the doorway. “Anders?”
“Yeah?”
“When’s the next time you see your client? The one who set you up tonight.”
“Not until next year. We just finished her tax return. Why?”
Thank fuck. “Was wondering if I had to give you a play-by-play of tonight in case she asks.”
“You let the guy down gently, didn’t you?”
Making him come would be considered gently, right? “Of course. Uh … goodnight.”
I make my way to the coffee machine faster than a sailor on a whorehouse. It’s going to be a long day, and caffeine might not cut it.
Anders must think the same way because he sits at the kitchen table, staring at a prescription pill bottle.
“What are those?” I ask and silently will the coffee machine to warm up faster.
“Anti-anxiety pills I had left over from a while back. They’re still in date.”
“The ones that made you sick?”
Anders doesn’t take his eyes off the bottle as he says, “They only made me sick because I was popping them like candy. I think one might help me fake it with the parentals—take the edge off.”
Ah. The reason today is going to be long.
Elizabeth and Connor Steele are great parents. No one could ever dispute that. They are, however, melodramatic. To understate it. Especially Mum.
We both know what’s going to happen when Anders asks for money. Dad will suggest a rehab facility for intensive treatment. Mum will suggest Anders move home. They’ll both want to help in their own way, but Anders needs to do what he’s comfortable with. Moving back to our hometown in northern New South Wales where everyone knows everyone’s story, and where Mum can smother him twenty-four seven, won’t do anything for his sanity. Alternatively, rehab is an intense quick fix that won’t do any good for him in the long run.
Weekly therapy sessions work for Anders—when he goes—but it’s something he’s going to have to keep going to. Possibly forever. At one hundred fifty bucks a pop though, there’s no way we can afford it.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go,” Anders says.
“They’ll give you the money.”
“That’s not …” Anders grunts and runs a hand over his dark beard. “Do you know how shitty I feel about asking my mummy and daddy for a loan because my head is all messed up?”
Probably about the same amount of shittiness I feel about hooking up with my brother’s date. The confession is on the tip of my tongue, but when Anders’ hand shakes as he reaches for the bottle, I know now’s not the time.
I pour both of us coffee and then slide into the seat opposite him. “What if you had cancer and needed money for meds or hospital visits or whatever?”
“But I don’t have cancer.”
“PTSD and anxiety are still medical issues that need treatment.”
“I was doing better. I …” He sighs.
This is something he still doesn’t understand—a lot of people don’t. Conditions like his aren’t curable, only manageable. And while he has been doing better, minus the fact he still can’t deal with conflict, the truth is, I’ve seen the warning signs building for months. Each breakup is a little harder on him, and physical signs like the tremors and being withdrawn are getting worse. Add that to his panic attack over Reed …