Janice Johnson - From This Day On

Guilt jabbed, but he stomped on it. Not my sister. He couldn’t help wondering if the seismic shift had fully hit her yet, and if so what the realization meant to her.

Oh, hell, what was he thinking? She was dealing with her mother’s lies, with his father’s lies, with the knowledge that she was very likely the product of rape, and he was rejoicing because he didn’t have to feel guilty anymore for wanting her.

What she needed right now was a friend. A brother. The understanding sobered him. That might be all she’d ever want from him. If it was, he would give her what she needed. There were too many years when he’d hurt her as much or more than Michelle and his dad had. He owed her.

“Sit.”

She sat, but indignantly. “I’m not a dog.”

His grin came despite his plunge in mood. “No, you’re not.”

Her spine didn’t touch the back of the chair. Her neck stretched so long it had to hurt, and that pointy chin thrust out. “So?”

“He found out you weren’t his when you fell off the bars at school. I’d kind of forgotten about that.”

She frowned. “I knocked myself out.”

“And bled. A lot, according to Dad. I don’t know if they were thinking transfusion or what, but they checked your blood type.”

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