Page 70 of King of Pain (Damaged Hearts #1)

Every Day Is Like Sunday

Anthony

Eight Years Old

I can’t move.

My leg is twisted wrong. I know it’s broken.

My bike is on top of me, heavy and sharp in all the wrong places, pressing into my ribs. Everything hurts. The gravel’s cutting into my palms and elbows, and the sun suddenly feels ten times hotter than it did a minute ago.

I hear the car door open.

Then close.

Slow steps crunch across the gravel—measured, deliberate.

I turn my head just a little, enough to see the polished black shoes.

My stomach knots, worse than it ever has before.

I know those shoes. I know the shape of his shadow.

I know the way my whole body reacts to him, even before I see his face.

Father Tommy squats next to me, real slow. He takes off his black hat and presses it to his chest like he’s at someone’s funeral. He tsks three times, low and sharp.

“Little Tony,” he says, voice syrupy with fake concern. “You really should watch where you’re going. Now look at you.”

I try to answer, but all that comes out is a whimper. My throat feels thick and hot. Tears blur my vision. My leg throbs like it’s pulsing with its own heartbeat.

He leans closer—too close—and the smell hits me.

Whiskey.

Not just a whiff. Strong. I know it’s whiskey. I know it because they make me pour it. Make me drink it. It coats my tongue before the bad things. My stomach flips and I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he whispers, his breath brushing my cheek. “Good.”

His voice drops lower, meaner. “You know what else you should watch, Little Tony?”

I can’t answer. I can’t even breathe.

“Your mouth,” he says. “You need to be careful nothing comes out of it that could cause trouble.”

He stands, brushing invisible dust from his pants, and puts his hat back on like it’s just another Sunday afternoon. I tilt my head up, forcing my eyes to stay open, even though the light makes everything spin.

“I didn’t like how you sneered at me leaving school today. If you don’t watch that attitude and that mouth, Little Tony,” he says, looking down at me, “it’ll be so much worse than this. For you. For your family.”

I don’t even realize I’ve started shaking until the bike rattles against me.

“I know you wouldn’t want that.”

He turns back toward the car, and I think—hope—he’s done.

But at the last second, he glances over his shoulder.

“And Little Tony,” he says, voice smooth as glass, “I expect to see you in church this summer.”

Then he slides into the Lincoln and pulls away like nothing ever happened, gravel spraying behind him.

And I lie there.

Alone.

Crushed.

Broken.

Silent.