Page 201 of King of Pain
I soften, smiling at the memory I can see he’s reliving. His eyes are always so expressive. “She taught you everything you know in the kitchen, right?”
His smile finally reaches his eyes. “Pretty much every trick she knew.”
“Were you close enough to tell her?”
He shakes his head. “She was even more devout than my parents. She noticed the changes in me and tried to talk to me about it…but I couldn’t risk it. If she’d reacted the same way…” He shakes his head. “It would’ve broken me.”
I nod, a quiet understanding passing between us.
“And the bike incident?” I ask. “He broke your leg, Ant. Did they not believe that either?”
“Nope,” he says with a scoff. “But it scared me enough to beg and plead every single day that summer. I drove them crazy until they finally let me enroll in public school. After that, FatherTommy and the others mostly left me alone. Just the occasional intimidation drive-by.”
He leans back on the pillows and exhales. “They probably moved on to someone else. Maybe one of the victims in the case.”
I climb onto the bed so I’m eye-level with him and frame his face in my hands.
“I don’t know how you’re still standing,” I whisper. “How you’ve gone through all of that and still have the biggest heart I’ve ever known. I’m in awe of you, Beautiful.”
Ant ducks his head bashfully, and I tip his chin back up so I can see his eyes.
“Thank you for sharing all of this with me.”
He nods slowly, eyes glassy.
“I want to rage,” I admit on a whisper, “but I’m glad you’re unloading it. Let it go. Give all those demons to me.”
He reaches out and laces his fingers through mine.
And then I hold him.
TRACK SIXTY•TWO
Come Back to Me
Anthony
I stretch awake slowly and stare at the ceiling in the pre-dawn light. For a few minutes, I just lay there, my limbs heavy, the quiet of the room soothing.
I reflect on the weekend as Monday greets me with the sunlight slipping through the blinds.
Saturday’s call.
The threat.
Deacon taking up residence on the couch, his presence an unusually welcomed calm.
The nightmare that shook me down to my bones.
Chance straddling me, pulling me back to the surface with nothing but his voice, his strength. Getting me to talk. To finally say it all out loud.
Deacon stayed through Sunday dinner. I made pasta and homemade bread and sent him home with a container, which he tried to decline, but I insisted. The man barely speaks, but you can feel the energy off him—quiet loyalty, grounded strength. He listens. He watches. He protects.
And when he eats your food, you know exactly how he feels. Deacon gave me this low grunt, almost a purr, and a look like no one had ever cooked for him before. There’s this reverence in him that tells me he hasn’t had much softness in his life. I wonder briefly if there’s anyone in his orbit. Anyone who knows how much heart is behind all that muscle and silence.
I’ll ask him sometime.
But for now—
