Rich Heir Life on Borrowed Love

Thanksgiving came around, and for once, the whole family was together.

I was pouring beer for Dad. Just as I filled his glass, my brother, Eric Jones, suddenly held out his own glass and muttered, "Pour me some too."

I froze, instinctively glancing at Mom.

I remembered that she'd told me Eric was allergic to alcohol. He couldn't have so much as a drop, or he'd break out in a rash. "Eric, you can't drink. Have a soda instead."

Unexpectedly, he snatched the bottle right out of my hand and drank straight from it. When he set it down, he seemed fine, so I finally relaxed.

I'd barely sat back down when he fixed his eyes on me and smiled. "Peter Jones."

He'd used my full name. "Do you know how much your life is worth?"

Dad shot up from his chair and smacked Eric on the back of the head. "If you're drunk, go up to the attic and sleep it off! Why are you making a scene?"

Shocked, I quickly got up to stop him. "Dad, why did you hit him?"

The blow knocked Eric off balance, and he banged his forehead on the corner of the table, leaving a gash.

Turning around in a panic, I yelled for Mom to get the first-aid kit, but she just stood there, frozen.

Blood trickled down from Eric's brow, but he didn't even wipe it away. He just stared at me, his eyes filled with sadness and hurt.

I lost my temper right then, yelling, "Mom, hurry up and help Eric up! He's bleeding!"

Mom finally snapped out of it and came running over.

She pressed a dish towel to his face, cursing under her breath the whole time. "I told you not to drink, didn't I? But no, you just had to! Look at the state you're in now. You just had to make a spectacle of yourself on Thanksgiving!"

Eric tipped backward under the pressure, but he didn't resist. Then he suddenly spoke. "A million dollars. I'd say your life, plus this leg of mine, is worth a million dollars."

The moment he finished speaking, Mom's face went deathly pale.

Dad hit him again. "Shut your mouth!"

This one landed harder than the last. The corner of his lip split open, and blood started coming out.

I stood up to intervene, but Mom seized my arm. "Peter, stay out of it! He's just drunk. He'll be fine once he sleeps it off in the attic."

My tall, broad-shouldered dad grabbed Eric by the collar and dragged him upstairs.

The attic stairs were narrow and steep, and with half his body dragging on the floor, Eric's ankle kept banging against the edges of the steps with dull thuds.

Still, he didn't struggle or say another word. But just before he disappeared into the darkness, he called out, "Peter…"