Page 66 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Open Arms

Anthony

I wake up and immediately know I’m alone in the bed.

No Chance.

No Guinness.

The sheets next to me are cool, and for a second, I think it was all just a dream. But then I stretch and smile to myself—remembering that it’s real.

It’s Saturday. No work. Just the blissful freedom of time with Chance and Little G; and a trip to my apartment to grab a few things now that I’m…living here.

Again, I wonder if it’s all just a dream.

I roll onto my back and look around the bedroom. The high ceilings with the ornate crown molding. The warm, polished hardwood floors. The massive window overlooking downtown Phoenix, morning light pouring in like a spotlight. This condo really is incredible.

And I get to live here. With the two loves of my life.

Wondering where those two are, I climb out of bed and slide on a pair of gym shorts. Padding barefoot into the living room, I don’t see Chance or our four-legged child anywhere. Must’ve gone for a run. I rub the sleep from my eyes and make my way into the kitchen.

Cabinet. Mug. Pod. Button.

The hum of the machine kicks on as I lean back against the counter, arms crossed, waiting for my caffeine fix.

Then I notice the door to the spare room—the makeshift studio—is cracked open.

I grab the mug once the coffee finishes and shuffle around the island, headed toward the room. My feet stop short in the doorway, breath snagging in my lungs.

Oh. My. God.

Chance is standing in front of a canvas—wearing nothing but a pair of paper-thin shorts with no longer than a three-inch inseam.

Shorts that are fighting for their life against the curve of his ass and the sheer size of his thighs.

He’s got bright blue over-the-ear headphones on, and his body is moving with the music, hips swaying, muscles flexing with every shift of his brushstroke.

Little G is curled up on a blanket off to the side and gives me a look like, ‘Take a picture. It will last longer.’

I lean against the doorframe and sip my coffee, watching.

If someone told me three years ago this could be my life, I don’t think I would’ve been capable of believing it. Waking up in his bed. In his space. Watching him dance half-naked while he paints.

It’s a mind fuck.

Chance must sense me, because he spins around, and—

Aw, fuck.

His face splits into a stupidly gorgeous smile, eyes sparkling in that shade of blue even he couldn’t recreate with the colors on his palette.

He’s covered in paint—a red streak across one pec, yellow dots splashed on his hip, a smear of blue across his abs.

I want to lick every single speck off him. Are oil paints toxic? I'd risk the ER visit.

He pulls his headphones down around his neck, Huey Lewis & The News blasting from the speakers. He saunters toward me, all slow confidence and disarming swagger.

“Morning, Beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my lips before stealing the coffee cup from my hand, taking a swig, then pressing it back in my hand.

“You getting nervous about the exhibit?” I ask, sipping the coffee again.

He shrugs one shoulder. “No. Kind of. Maybe.”

I laugh. “Every piece is brilliant, Chance. And that’s not something I say lightly, considering I’m the sole subject of your work.”

He steps in closer, grabbing my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger. “Hey. Are you sure you’re okay with this? With… all of it being you?”

I nod, no hesitation. “I am. Honestly, I don’t even really see it that way anymore. When I look at those paintings, all I see is your talent. Your heart.” I meet his eyes. “Those paintings are the closest anyone else will ever get to seeing how beautiful your heart is. And even they don’t compare.”

Chance ducks his head shyly, peeking up through his lashes. “I don’t deserve you.”

He kisses me again, slowly, then snags the coffee cup from my hand once more and takes another swig.

“Keep it,” I say, waving him off. “I’ll make another and start breakfast before heading to my apartment to grab a few things.”

He grins like a fucking kid at Christmas.

“You’re going to be insufferably proud of yourself watching me move my stuff in, aren’t you?” I grumble, backing up toward the kitchen.

Chance slides his headphones back on and calls out, “Who?Giddy? Don’t know her . ”

I roll my eyes, but the grin that stretches across my face as I make my way back to the kitchen is just as obnoxious as his.

An hour later, Chance is perched at the kitchen island—still shirtless—with his headphones slung around his neck, finishing the last of the breakfast I made him while I move around the space tidying up.

He’s got that dazed, blissed-out look on his face that makes my chest swell with pride.

Feeding him is near the top of my list of favorite things.

He hums the melody of whatever song is stuck in his head and scrapes the last bit of herb and goat cheese frittata from his plate.

“You sure you don’t want help grabbing stuff from your place?”

I shake my head, rinsing out the skillet. “No, you need to focus on finishing your last pieces for the exhibit. I’m only grabbing a few boxes today. I’ve still got a month left on the lease, so I’m going to bring things over slowly.”

Chance nods, stretching his long limbs as he pushes the plate away. “Okay. Text me when you’re on your way back. I’ll help you unload.”

I waggle my eyebrows. “I bet you will.”

He barks a laugh. “I’ve unleashed a monster.”

I glance down at my shorts and smirk. “No, he’s still tucked away securely.”

Chance groans and stands, stretching with a shake of his head. “I’m going back to painting.” Then he points at me. “And you’re not leaving the house in those shorts. I mean it, Pacini. No one gets that view but me.”

I laugh and shoo him off as I finish cleaning up, drying the last pan and folding the kitchen towel over the handle of the oven.

On the counter, my phone starts ringing from an unknown number.

I frown, mute it, and let it go to voicemail. Probably a telemarketer.

It rings again, same unknown number. Persistent.

I silence it again with a sigh and pick it up to take it with me to the bedroom to change. It starts ringing a third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, hitting answer. “Is there something I can help you with?”

There’s a pause, then a voice—calm, professional, male. “Yes, hi. Sorry to bother you on the weekend. Is this Anthony Pacini?”

I tighten my grip on the phone, already annoyed. “Yes, it is. What can I do for you?”

“My name is Mark Bittner. I’m an attorney with Smith, Jackson and Associates. Apologies for my persistence, but this is a pressing matter.”

My body tenses, and my mind immediately races to the worst possible conclusion.

Shoulders slumping, I sigh. “Okay, which athlete was it and what did they do?”

Mark chuckles lightly, though it’s more awkward than amused. “Ah, yes. I see in your file that you represent professional athletes. But no, this isn’t about any of your clients.”

I frown. “My file?”

He clears his throat. “Yes. Look, there’s no easy way to discuss this, so I’m just going to dive right in. Our firm is representing a group of victims of abuse from Catholic priests in the Detroit Diocese.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. My knees wobble and I sit down heavily on the edge of the bed.

Mark keeps talking. “The accusations span multiple parishes dating back several decades.”

I can barely whisper. “O-okay.”

“One of the victims attended Holy Cross Catholic School. Same time you were there. They identified you as a potential victim or witness based on their observations—said they noticed you received similar special treatment as they did.”

My hand clenches into a fist in my lap. “Who… who is saying this, exactly?”

“They wish to remain anonymous for now. You would have that same option, if you are, indeed, a victim and choose to pursue it. And if not, you may still be able to offer valuable witness testimony. Only if you’re willing.”

I wipe my palm against my shorts, already slick with sweat. My voice is a broken scrape when I say, “I’m not ready. For any part of this.”

Mark exhales gently. “That’s completely understandable. Will you at least take down my number? Sorry about the blocked caller ID—I’m on my cell phone. It’s a precaution.”

I scoff, bitter. “Pretty sad you need precautions with the church.”

A laugh lacking humor comes from the other end. “Which is exactly why it was urgent I spoke with you today. It’s important you know this is on their radar. The news is breaking this morning.”

I drag a hand down my face. “Fuck.”

“Look, whether you help us or not, we’re here for you. If you need to talk, or ask questions, call me. Day or night.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Okay. I’ll call if I need to.”

“Please do. And let me know if you change your mind.”

I end the call without taking his number.

I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. My life just fell into place.

I fall back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as my hands curl into my hair.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The floor threatens to drop out from under me, but I can’t afford to fall.

I need something to ground me. Something to keep me upright.

Distraction.

I stand, suddenly needing to move. I yank on a pair of jeans and throw a t-shirt over my head. When I step back into the studio, Chance is standing near his easel, brush in hand, eyes narrowing slightly when he sees me.

“You okay?” he asks, already clocking that something’s off. Of course he does.

I lean forward, press a quick kiss to his lips. “Yeah. Just want to grab those boxes while it’s still early.”

Before he can push, I’m grabbing my keys off the counter and heading for the door.

“Text me when you’re heading back,” he calls gently after me.

I nod, hand already on the knob.

And I’m gone.

This is a good distraction. The boxes, the packing, the act of physically sorting my life into what stays and what comes with me. After the call I just got, I need it.

I toss another hoodie into the box on the floor and close the drawer with more force than necessary.

Everything about being back with Chance has been so good.

So right. Packing up my apartment, bringing pieces of my life into our shared space—it’s more than just moving.

It’s a reset. A clean start. It’s the way things were supposed to be between us, and I’m not interested in revisiting a past that almost broke me.

I’m glad people are coming forward. That someone is shining a light into the rot, unearthing what was always there under the marble steps and stained glass at Holy Cross.

If those priests see consequences, it’ll be more than most ever have.

But I know how it works. I’ve researched it.

I’ve heard other survivor’s horror stories.

The Catholic Church fights dirty. They throw money at it. Pressure. Harassment. Fear.

I’ve spent years in therapy to find my peace. With the abuse. With the silence. With the fact that the people who should have protected me— loved me—didn’t. There’s a scar there that will never really go away. But it doesn’t bleed anymore. I’m not looking to cut it wide open again.

Still… if it comes down to it—if my voice is the difference between them walking free or being held accountable—I’ll do the right thing.

But not today. I can’t make that decision today.

Today, I’m choosing my future.

I walk into the closet and reach for the top shelf, pulling down one of the old storage boxes I stashed up there a couple years ago. I forgot how much crap I managed to tuck away in this apartment. Most of it probably isn’t worth saving, but I slide down the first box anyway and pop the lid.

Inside are a few old Devil Records t-shirts, a ticket stub from the first ‘80s-night cover band show Chance and I went to together, and a folded copy of a sketch of me Chance had drawn in art class.

I pull down the next box. It’s labeled Chance . Yeah, I saved all the stuff he left behind.

My chest aches in a sweet way as I open it and find a stack of his vinyl records. Stuck to the cover of the top album is the note he left on my mirror once that just said, You’re my favorite song.

I start to flip through the albums and see a patch of maroon fabric peeking out.

Smiling, I lift the stack of vinyl up and pull out the two articles of clothing folded neatly at the bottom: the brING BACK THE ‘80s shirt Lexi had given Chance, and the Arizona football jersey with my name and number that he wore to my game.

I laugh under my breath. “Oh yeah… these are definitely coming on this trip.”

I press my lips together, close the box, and set it gently by the door.

I pull some of my hanging clothes from the closet and fold them into a larger box. Sweeping through the bathroom, I grab anything I haven’t already taken to the condo. In under an hour, I’ve got everything loaded into the car.

I shut the trunk and stand there for a minute, staring up at this place that’s been mine for the past couple years. The apartment where I healed. Where I rebuilt.

I’m ready for the next chapter.

I pull out my phone, shoot a quick text to Chance.

ME: On my way. Hope you cleared some closet space, baby. I brought souvenirs.

I slip behind the wheel and head… home .