Page 6

My cheeks are still warm as I blindly follow after Mother and Daren to the car. That priest . . . Father Marcelo . . . I was unable to take my eyes off him. He was so handsome , and his deep voice with his strong accent was so melodic, it felt as though each syllable uttered wrapped around me, snugly fitting around each and every curve.

Capturing me.

Priest , I remind myself. He’s a priest. Not that it matters. Even if he weren’t, there is no way on earth a man as hot as that would ever look at me.

“June.” The sound of my name from his mouth alone is enough to send my stomach into somersaults. Maybe it’s the recent plague of horny bouts, but I haven’t . . . ogled at someone like this before. Not even Father Callum, who was arguably the most attractive man in my life.

Most attractive till now.

I shake my head, trying to get the thoughts of Father Marcelo and his chiseled jaw, scruffy facial hair, and curly, mussed dark brown hair, out of my mind. His tan skin was near golden, and his dark eyes were absolutely intoxicating as he looked down at me.

And he was tall. Very tall.

“I haven’t heard such a thick accent since the last time I was in Jersey. Could barely understand a fucking thing that guy said,” Daren spits, forcing my attention back to them as he moves to the driver’s side of my mother’s old, beat up, white Toyota Corolla.

Mother shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought he was exotic .” A small smile curves her lips, and pink rises on her cheeks before she catches me watching her. Her face quickly switches to a scowl. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t forgotten that you skipped Mass.”

I slide into the car and startle. Not thinking, I utter, “What? I didn’t—”

The sharp noise reverberating in my ears shocks me faster than the sting on my cheek.

Mother’s body is spun in the front seat, facing me, and only then do I realize she just slapped me.

“You were such an embarrassment. What’s everyone gonna think when they realize you weren’t praying with the rest of us?” she hisses.

Daren huffs a breath, almost a laugh, and drives out of the church’s lot as Mother’s voice only grows louder.

“It’s like you think you’re better than us. Sitting up there, above the rest of the parish. What, do you think you’re closer to God ’cause you’re up there, Junia?” Her white face is now stark red, and I shrivel farther into the back seat.

I know this look.

A shaky breath releases from my nose and I can feel a familiar quivering in my chest, almost as if my lungs are shriveling up, with no room for air.

“She must,” Daren says, provokingly, “and the whole dang parish knows it. You saw how Tonia looked at her when she came into the sanctuary for Communion?”

Mother spins to him. “No. What’d she do?”

“Looked at the girl’s tits poking through that tight sweater.”

I stifle a gasp, trying desperately to stay as still as possible.

That wasn’t Tonia, jerk, it was you .

Mother’s eyes snap back to mine before they dip down to look at my chest. I instinctively cross my arms over them, but she yanks my wrist away.

“That is it . What the Hell is wrong with you?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter, not even sure what I’m sorry for. Perky nipples? A sweater that is obviously not too tight? My existence? “I-I’ll get rid of this one. I th-thought it was okay.”

Slap .

My face stings from the impact, and before I can recover, I feel wetness on my lashes, pooling in my eyes.

“My daughter, acting like the town fucking slut.” Mother rolls her eyes and spins in her seat, facing the front again.

“Girl deserves a whoopin’ if ya ask me.”

Mother nods, and I can feel the life drain from me as she says, “Oh, I intend to.”

My throat is so dry, no matter how much I swallow, it just feels like cotton. The ride goes on forever, and I can already feel the burn on my back, my legs, the familiar sting of the belt, the stabbing pain of the metal buckle that always manages to catch me.

Every breath is forcing its way out of me, but no matter how much I breathe in, it’s never enough.

Daren’s voice sounds far away as fear captures me, but I manage to hear him say, “Who do you think she’s doin’ it for?”

Mother looks at him. “Doin’ what for?”

Daren shrugs as his eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, but his gaze doesn’t linger there—it drops. “Lookin’ sexy, showing off her tits.” He turns to Mother abruptly. “You think it’s Callum?”

Ass. Hole.

Mother’s silence is louder than any curse she could’ve mustered, her rage simmering in the unbreathable air in the small cabin of the car. I see her jaw lock, her eyes stay forward.

And I know, Daren just added so much more fire to her rage. So much more force to each whip. I can’t move, I can’t make a noise. If I do, I don’t know what will happen.

If I do, I don’t know if I’ll make it home.

I cry out again, my hands holding the back of the worn suede couch as my knees are propped on the sunken-in cushions. But no matter how hard I plunge my fingers into the soft material, it doesn’t ebb the pain.

Whip . Whip . Two slashes, back to back, as the leather snaps against my bare back. Mother had me strip to my underwear, my sweater already thrown into the trash. The teddy bear panties I’ve had since middle school, with tears all along the seams and a faded period stain, are all that protect my butt from the ravage whips. My bras, circa teddy bear panties, are old, worn, and way too small. The once-white color of the top one has turned a gross yellow from years of washing. The underwire has long since poked into my skin, and the band has stretched so wide, it’s holding on by a thread. The one I wear under is a sports bra as tight as can be, from before I even wore regular bras, and that strip is all that protects my back. But my mother purposefully doesn’t aim where her blows would be cushioned, and I can already feel the burning slashes rising, red and angry. Like her.

Mother stands behind me, her rage taking up all the space and air in the small living room. But I can feel Daren’s eyes on me from the hallway. Watching. Enjoying.

“Are you trying to seduce Father Callum?” she yells, whipping my upper thighs right under my ass.

The leather snaps on my skin and I cry out, “No!”

“Then who ?” she hisses.

“No one, I-I’m not doing anything!”

“Liar!” Another whip. I’ve lost count already.

“Pl-Please, Mother,” I whimper pathetically. The pain on my back is radiating, spreading all over my skin. Sweat dots my forehead and I can’t help but squeeze my eyes shut to the pain, even as tears drip down.

Suddenly, I stiffen.

The sound of metal on metal.

I jolt up, trying to turn around. I know that sound. I hate that sound. But Mother knees my lower back, pushing me back toward the couch.

“You don’t wanna tell me, Junia. So, you get the buckle. Three lashes for your heresy in church today. Three lashes for the father, the son, and the holy spirit.”

My spine straightens as I hear the metal prong hit the buckle, jingling again, and before I can brace myself, I can feel the sharp cold snap into the flesh at my back. The juxtaposition of cold creating a raging heat singes my back, as fresh waves of violent stings explode. I don’t even know if I’m bleeding yet, but I can feel my skin torn open, exposed to this rotten room.

She snaps it against me again, and this time, the prong catches on my skin, tearing the flesh down and away.

I scream and lie flat on the couch, trying to escape her, escape the belt.

But then she hits me again, so fast I’m not ready. This time, the metal tears into my butt cheek, just beside my underwear, ripping skin once more. Stupid teddy bears. They couldn’t even protect me.

Over my silent sobs, I hear Mother huff a breath and step back. The metal jingling once more as she drops the belt.

Slowly, so slowly it feels like I’m not even moving, I ease up, leaning on the back of the couch as I turn to sit.

Daren steps back into the room, and I do everything I can to avoid him.

“Want me to take over?” he asks Mother, pointing at the belt.

I catch her reaction. She scrunches her eyebrows and shakes her head in confusion. “No. I said three for the trinity, and she took three. She’s done.” Then she turned back to me. “Go to your room. I think you could afford to skip dinner.” She looks at me with such disgust in her eyes, dropping her gaze to my stomach, my thighs, and it takes everything in me to hold back the bile in my throat.

Somehow, I manage to stand up, even with the pain of the fresh wounds screaming at me. I lift the skirt from the floor, hold it to my chest, and run. Past Mother. Past Daren. Our house is so small, yet the run feels so long. So far. And as soon as I’m in my room, I lock the door behind me, and slump to the old, smelly carpeted floor. All I can do is cry.