Holland's punching bag

Kian

The moment I stepped through the front door, I knew it was going to be a bad night.

The stench of whiskey hit me first—sharp and heavy in the air, mixed with the lingering smell of stale cigarettes. The TV was blaring some football match, but dad wasn't watching it. He was slumped in his usual chair, bottle in hand, his eyes dark and unfocused.

"Where the fuck have you been?" His voice was slurred but still sharp enough to make my stomach clench.

I exhaled slowly, shutting the door behind me. "At work."

He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Work, is it? Joey fucking Lynch's garage?"

I didn't answer. There was no point. He already knew.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "So what, you think you're better than me now? Think you can run off and play mechanic, pretend like you're not my son?"

"No," I said evenly, keeping my voice calm. "I just want a real job. Something steady."

His face twisted with something ugly. "A real job?" He scoffed. "You think slaving away for some jumped-up Lynch bastard is better than working for me?"

I swallowed hard. "It's legal."

The second the words left my mouth, I knew I'd fucked up.

Dad's face twisted with rage, his bloodshot eyes locking onto mine. He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly but still full of that reckless, mean strength he always had when he was drunk.

"You ungrateful little shite," he spat. "You think you're better than me?"

I didn't flinch, didn't back down, even though every instinct was screaming at me to get out. "I just want a real job," I said, my voice steady. "Something steady. Something that doesn't—"

I didn't get to finish.

His fist came fast, slamming into my jaw so hard my vision blurred. Pain exploded across my face, and I stumbled back, catching myself against the wall. Before I could react, he was on me, shoving me hard, knocking me off balance.

"You think you can walk away from me?" he snarled, his hands fisting the front of my hoodie. "You think you're too good for this family?"

I shoved at his arms, trying to pry him off, but he was too strong. Too used to throwing his weight around. He slammed me back against the wall, knocking the breath out of me.

"I put food on this table," he growled, his breath hot and stinking of whiskey. "I kept a roof over your head. And this is how you repay me?"

I tried to push him off again, but he was quicker, his fist crashing into my stomach this time. Pain shot through me, my knees buckling, but I gritted my teeth and stayed upright.

"Fucking useless," he muttered, giving me one last shove before finally stepping back, like he'd lost interest. He grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table—his second or third of the night, probably—and took a long swig, shaking his head.

"Go on then," he muttered, slumping back into his chair. "Run off to your new fucking family. See how long they keep you around."

I didn't move for a second, my head still spinning, my body throbbing. Then, without another word, I turned and walked to my room, locking the door behind me.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling, breathing through the pain.

This couldn't be my life forever.

I wouldn't let it.

Pain radiated through my ribs as I forced myself upright. My jaw ached, and I could already feel the stiffness settling into my limbs. Da had gone harder than usual last night, but that wasn't exactly surprising. When he was pissed off, I paid for it.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my muscles protested. I didn't have time to sit around feeling sorry for myself. If I was late for work, Joey would have something to say about it, and I wasn't about to give him a reason to second-guess hiring me.

I checked my phone—no messages from Mam.

She was probably still sleeping off yesterday. I wouldn't be surprised if da had his way with her before I got home.

Sighing, I pulled on a hoodie and grabbed my keys. If I was lucky, I could slip out before Shane even realized I was awake.

But luck had never been on my side.

The moment I stepped into the hall, I heard his voice.

"Kian."

I stopped, swallowing down the frustration rising in my throat before turning to face him.

He was slouched in the kitchen doorway, cigarette dangling from his fingers, bloodshot eyes watching me like he had something to say.

"Where you off to?" His tone was almost lazy, but I knew better.

"Work," I muttered, adjusting the strap of my bag.

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, smirking. "Ah yes. Joey Lynch's little charity case."

I clenched my jaw, keeping my expression blank. I wasn't playing this game with him. Not today.

"Bet you think you're something now," Shane continued, stepping forward. "Think that job means you're one of them?"

I didn't answer.

He scoffed, flicking the ash off his cigarette. "You can play mechanic all you want, boy, but you'll never be a Lynch."

I already knew that.

I knew that when I first stepped into the garage, felt the weight of their stares, the unspoken judgment.

But what Shane didn't understand—what he'd never understand—was that I didn't want to be a Lynch.

I just didn't want to be a Holland.

So I said nothing. I just turned and walked out, letting the cold air hit my skin like a wake-up call.

One day, I'd walk away from all of this for good.

And when I did, Shane Holland would never see me again.

I tried to keep my head down, pushing through the pain as best as I could. My hands gripped the wrench tightly, my knuckles going white. If I focused on the car in front of me, I could almost forget the bruises and the ache in my body. I could pretend everything was fine.

But Joey Lynch wasn't the type to let things go.

"Kian."

His voice had a weight to it, the kind of tone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I straightened, not looking at him right away.

"Yeah?"

Joey's gaze was sharp as he stepped closer, eyes flicking over me like he was seeing through the act. He was good at that—always able to read people, to see what they were hiding.

"You limping, lad?"

I shot him a glare, taking a quick step away, trying to shake it off. "I'm fine."

"Doesn't look like it." Joey's voice softened, but I could still hear the concern underneath. "Let me guess—your old man?"

I froze, the blood running cold in my veins.

He was too perceptive for his own good. I didn't have to say anything. He'd seen enough.

"Is that why you're walking like that?" Joey asked, his voice a little firmer now, a little less patient. He didn't press immediately, but the look on his face said it all. He already knew.

I gritted my teeth. "It's nothing. Just drop it, please?"

Joey's eyes narrowed, his lips pressing together. "Don't tell me to drop it." His voice dropped to a quieter, more dangerous tone. "I know what it's like, Kian."

I swallowed, trying to hide how much that hit me. Joey wasn't some stranger. He didn't just mean he'd seen violence or had a bad childhood—he was talking about his dad, too. I knew the stories.

"I know what it's like to be your dad's punching bag." Joey's voice was quiet, the kind of quiet that made it clear this wasn't something he said often. "You don't have to carry that shit around."

I stood there, stunned. The wrench in my hand felt heavier all of a sudden.

"I'm fine," I said again, but it came out quieter, almost as a plea. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me.

Joey sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not saying you need pity, Kian. I'm saying you don't need to take this shit. Not now. Not ever." He paused, his gaze softening, though the concern was still clear. "If you need to talk... I'm here, alright?"

I didn't know what to say to that. My throat felt tight.

Joey gave me one last long look, then gestured to the car. "Now get back to work."

I nodded silently, hoping he'd leave it at that.

But as I got back to work, I couldn't shake the feeling that he wouldn't just forget. Joey had been there, too. He knew what it felt like to get hurt by someone who should've cared about you. And now, I had to wonder if he would keep an eye on me to make sure it didn't happen again.