Double Trouble novel Chapter 1

He didn't mean it.

He did.

Of course he did. But I have to tell myself he didn't so I don't hate him. I can't hate him. He's all I've got left. I tried not to flinch as his grip on my wrist tightened. "Brogan," I pleaded. "Please, you're hurting me."

"I don't want to hurt you." Brogan said "But you need to listen to me. I'm your elder. You have to listen to me."

I was too close to him. His breath was stale as it hit my face. I tried to avoid his icy blue eyes. I wanted to leave, to get out of this car and just go to the gallery. It's where I always went when things were getting tough. We were an artistic family. Our parents had been artists. Brogan had studied History of Art. I wanted to be an art major; too, when the time came that I'd graduate. Not long now. Just a few short months... Then I'd hopefully get my scholarship and leave. One less mouth to feed, as Brogan usually said whenever I brought up the idea of leaving. But I knew he didn't want me to leave. The smack to the mouth that would usually come afterwards told me that. I was all he had left, and he I. But I wanted to change that. I wanted to move, become someone new, find new people to call my family. Brogan didn't want to put in the effort. He didn't want to try. He just wanted me to keep working, to pay the bills, so he could fuel his habit without spending money on essentials.

I looked wildly around the parking lot. Why was no one around? There were other cars in the lot - surely someone was sitting in a stationary car? Surely someone could see that Brogan was hurting me? Someone? Anyone? "I am listening." I tried not to hiss. I didn't want to make him angry. "Brogan, the longer you keep me here, the less time I have in the gallery."

"That's not my problem."

"If you hurt me, someone might see. They might ask questions. You don't want them asking questions, do you?"

Brogan narrowed his eyes. They were our mother's eyes. But she'd had a kind nature, my father, too. Brogan was a nomad in our family - misunderstood, aggressive, and unpredictable. Sometimes he left for days at a time without telling anyone. Since our parents died, he'd spent more time at home though. I did not count it as a blessing, either. "There's no one around." He retorted.

"If you keep squeezing it'll bruise." I grumbled. "Then it'll be noticeable."

"Fine." My brother dropped my arm quickly. My ear stung still, from when he'd clipped it earlier, but it was nothing compared to the ache of my wrist now he'd released me. "You better not be late home." He warned, unlocking the car.

Without another word, I scrambled out of the car and watched as he stepped down on the pedal. His wheels screeched as he bolted out of the parking lot and onto the road again. I sighed lightly. He hadn't always been that bad. He'd never really been nice, as such, but at lease he'd been less aggressive. I would have told someone; of course I would have, if I couldn't handle it. But, like my father before me, I was a proud person. I could handle myself. I was going to graduate soon, anyway. I didn't want the aggravation. I turned on my heel about to go into the gallery when the familiar judder of Brogan's car's engine stopped me in my tracks. My heart sunk. Why was he already back? His black car came into view. I put on a smile, trying to look happy to see him. If you don't smile, people will think you're miserable, Brogan's voice ran through my head. People are nosy. They'll want to know why you're miserable. You're not miserable, are you, Darcy?

Brogan stopped inches in front of me. He rolled down his window, scowling as he stuck his head out. "You forgot your phone." He said, almost chucking it at me. "Don't forget your phone. I need to get hold of you at all times."

"Sorry." I murmured, putting my phone in the pocket of my jeans. It must have dropped out whilst I was jiggling my leg in the car. Car rides with Brogan always made me nervous.

"You caught me." I said quickly. "I'm not hurt."

"I'm not talking about bumping into you when I opened the door, anymore." His tone was laced with authority, but in the calm and natured kind, not the demanding, bossy kind like Brogan.

"Like I said: everything is fine. Thank you." And I turned before he could say anything else. I might be a proud person, but I was also an open book, and the last thing I needed right now was a stranger seeing right through me.

###

I'm now out. Brogan's text read. I was about to reply when a second message came through. I won't be back until late tomorrow. I breathed a deep sigh of relief, not bothering to ask where he was going. It would only be to gamble, or fight, or something else incriminating and wasteful. I'd learnt a long time ago to not ask what Brogan got up to. Only he had the liberty to know where the other one of us was going, or what we were doing, or whom we were doing it with.

OK, I replied. He was probably off to Laurel Park to bid on the most obscured named thoroughbred. Then I put my phone away, standing up from the bench I was on. I'd spent a little over twenty minutes looking up at the new pieces that had come in this week to the gallery. I'd written down what I thought, what I felt, when I looked at each one in the notepad I always carry around with me. Some of them were lengthy, but others were just little sentences, sometimes just words. Dismal, I'd put as I looked at the black painting. There were red lines hastily painted over the top, some flesh colour in the corner, but no light. Not at the end of that tunnel, anyway.

I moved into the next room, where the café was so I could make a call. I didn't want to disturb anyone in the gallery. I dialled Nahla's number, and she picked up on the second ring. She seemed to be glued to her phone all the time. "Nahla Puth at your service. How can I help your gorgeous self?"