Extra Bonus #74: Donnelly's Sacrifice (Patreon)

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MY BEST FRIEND’S WEDDING is over. Gone in the thunder and happiness of yesterdays, and I thought I’d land back in the great state of PA with more to look forward to. Wawa, my beautiful love (always the crème de la crème, as the saying goes) is in arm’s reach now that I’m no longer in Italy. Plus, I’d return to another love: protecting Xander during his summer routines.

Movie theater outings.

Bookstore browsing.

And maybe Luna would join her brother. Maybe I’d see her too.

All great things.

It’s been my first summer on Xander’s detail, and he’s been more excited to leave the house. Can’t say if this is an annual habit or if this summer is just different, but I like seeing him take a few more risks. Seems like he’s enjoying that bold, brave boost inside himself.

But I’d been on the private plane coming home when Farrow hit me with a juggernaut. “Scottie might get let out of prison earlier than we think.” He brought up his parole hearing, then casually mentioned that my dad called too.

“He said what?” I whispered to Farrow in the back of the plane.

“That Scottie would be willing to terminate his parental rights, but it’d come at a price.” Farrow frowned, lines pleating the skin between his brows. He looked disturbed by it all and that disturbed me.

Still does.

“It might just be your dad’s way of trying to make a buck off Scottie,” Farrow added quietly.

Of what I remember, Scottie wasn’t the sharing type, so I couldn’t see him lending my dad a penny in any payout. He’d keep the money himself. And he’s stuck in prison. My dad is out.

All I knew and all I know is I don’t trust ‘em. I don’t want ‘em around any of these families, and they’re crawling closer and closer. I thought I could ignore my dad’s phone calls and that’d be it, but with Ripley in the picture, there’s no ignoring what’s happening.

The line between the people I care about and my family needs to be severed. And fast.

“Don’t pay him,” I warned Farrow.

I didn’t tell him the truth yet.

I couldn’t say, I already have.

“I wouldn’t,” he whispered. “That’s a fucking black hole, man.” He combed a hand through his hair, which he dyed black for his wedding day. “I don’t always understand your dad’s motives. I can’t tell if he just wants in these rich social circles for connections so he can deal to them or if he’s looking for ways to blackmail Maximoff for cash.”

I dunno. I shook my head, and Farrow saw I was just as unsure.

I’m so far removed from the ugly innards of my humongous family’s uglier wheeling and dealings—I couldn’t, with total confidence, say which ones wanted wealthy connections and which just wanted to get high. At the end of the day, it always circled back to the drugs.

“My dad wasn’t deep into dealing,” I mentioned to Farrow. “But that’s of what I knew.” I shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“I know,” he said, his gaze lingering on me for a beat. He wasn’t looking for me to supply him with all the answers or the golden ticket out of this mess. Farrow knows how I’d rather play Frogger in traffic and risk being roadkill than risk being pulled back into my family’s ugliness.

He’d never ask me to.

And that was that. We let the conversation go on the plane, but it stayed with me all the way to Philly.

Haven’t made it to Wawa.

Haven’t been back on Xander’s detail yet. Lucky enough for me, he hasn’t needed a bodyguard—so I didn’t have to bail on him. He’s been at home, busy unpacking and lounging from long travel, and in no need of at-home security.

Hope my luck isn’t in threat of running dry. ‘Cause I’m running out of time. It’s now…or possibly never.

Before Italy, I met with lawyers. Got papers in my hand. I’ve brought them to the prison again. I had to schedule a visitation, so I couldn’t just arrive once the plane landed. Now it’s 9 p.m.—I’ve got a half hour before all visitations end—and I’m sitting across a table from my uncle, who’s only a few years older than me.

He has the bluest, nastiest eyes. If they’re not taunting, then they’re lifeless, soul-sucked orbs. Makes me long for the Cobalt blue—the eyes of passionate, too-big-for-this-world people who scream for happy, good things.

Scottie also has this face like he’s repulsed by a stench in the air. Like I smell foul, when he’s the one rotting away in a cell. Only a few other tables in the visitors’ room are occupied, but the chatter is louder than in our corner.

We haven’t said much yet.

“You ready to sign or what?” I ask him, sliding the papers over to his side of the table.

Scottie mulls this over with no enthusiasm. Thought he’d be more excited that I held up my end of the deal.

My pulse begins to speed. He could be playing me. “I showed you my paycheck,” I remind him. “You have proof of how much I make. You got the deposited amount—”

“What’s in this for you?” Scottie cuts me off.

Is he worried that I won’t keep paying him once he signs away his parental rights? “I’m gonna keep paying you, you know,” I assure him, my back stiff as a fucking board, but I bow forward more towards my dad’s little brother. “Every paycheck is yours, for as long as I’m a bodyguard.” That was the deal.

It was the only thing that got Scottie even remotely interested in letting Farrow and Maximoff adopt his son. It’s the chance at a regular stream of money. Which is better than waiting to battle Farrow and Maximoff in court. He won’t win.

I keep telling him that.

You won’t win. They’ll hire the best lawyers in the country. He’ll be slandered in the media as a degenerate meth-head. Might make a couple grand from interviews, but that won’t last. And even then, how long will he have to wait to be released? His parole hearing could flop. He’s got years left.

This is guaranteed money now.

“I know you’re gonna keep paying me,” Scottie says like it’s never been a question.

“You do…” I say, my voice tapering off.

“Yeah.” He nods strongly, clutching my gaze with his nasty eyes. “Because you already know that if you ever stop, I’ll get out of here and”—he mouths, ruin you.

My nose flares, something sharp burning my throat. Acid. Distaste, probably.

And he’s right—I’m not willing to find out what “ruin you” entails. I never liked Scottie. He’s a hungry bastard who’d cannibalize his mom, his brother, his dad, his nephew—all for his own gain—so I was never shocked he’d do the same to his son.

He has no love for anyone. Barely even himself.

Back when I lived with him, he’d try to tease me for being tall just to make himself feel better about being six inches shorter. I usually had a comeback that’d make him snarl. Then, I’d run away. I tried to avoid him, mostly.

Now I’ve been visiting him in prison so frequently, you’d think I loved the guy. I’m not sure I hate him though. I’ve got no room for that much hate in my heart. That stuff is too foul to keep.

“So what’s in it for me?” I repeat what he asked, since he’s clearly not concerned I won’t hold up my end.

“Yeah.” Scottie leans back in the chair. “You’re about to be broke. You’re choosing to be broke when your friends are the rich ones who could cough up your chump change. It’s dumb as fuck, so why the hell would you do this dumb as fuck thing?”

I don’t want them attached to you.

If it’s gonna be someone, it’s gotta be me.

“Maybe I’m just that dumb,” I tell him and hold out a pen. A guard is watching me. They’ve already taken apart the pen. Made sure nothing’s inside. It’s just a regular black ballpoint with the dullest tip.

Scottie snorts. At least he’s not laughing in my face like he used to do. He takes the pen. “You are pretty fucking stupid, kid.” He likes calling me kid, as if I’m a decade younger, but the meth has aged the hell out of him. He has crows’ feet and pock mark scars on his cheeks.

He signs his name on the dotted line.

With no remorse, my uncle is gonna rob me of everything I earn, but in his head, I’m the idiot choosing the path where I lose.

I’m not the loser he thinks I am.

I’ll never be. I’m staring at a thirty-year-old hollowed out man who could pass for forty while he’s sniffling in prison, dreaming of chasing after the next fix that’ll never hit like the very first one, and it’s empty. It’s sad. It’s soulless.

He could take every last dime and fill up his bank account to the millions, and still, I’ll always have more.

So when he hands me the paper and the pen, I refuse to feel dread or fear. He doesn’t get that emotion from me. I barely look at him as I stand up. Don’t even say a word. It’s the biggest fuck you I can think of.

“Paul!” he calls back, like he’s not finished.

But I am. It’s over. Relief finally hits me, and I breathe.

“Paul!”

I walk away from that name.

Thank you so much for reading this month's extra bonus scene! We hope you've enjoyed the Luna and Donnelly centric bonuses this month. Since we've been in their heads writing UNLUCKY LIKE US, our writing mood has definitely gravitated to them!

There's still more to come this month in the form of podcasts! Keep on the lookout 🥳💕

xoxo Krista & Becca

"Donnelly's Sacrifice," Copyright © 2023 by K.B. Ritchie