Page 23 of King of Pain
I can see it in my mind. Every line of his muscular body, the strong curve of his shoulders, the faint trail of hair leading downward. The way his muscles shift under his skin. His hard length reaching up his abdomen as he stretches awake.
My imagination is running wild, and my dick reacts accordingly and inconveniently. I panic, suddenly very aware of my surroundings. Grabbing the nearest canvas, I hold it in front of me, hiding my now full-fledged erection.
My pulse quickens, and I shake my head like an Etch-A-Sketch, as if I can magically erase all thoughts of a naked Ant.Get a grip, Sullivan,I tell myself. I wander the aisles until I get my, uh, situation under control. Still, the idea of capturing him on canvas lingers in the back of my mind as I check out at the register.
As I load my supplies into Lexi’s car—she’d let me borrow it for the day—I break into a wide grin. This is the first time in years I feel genuinely excited about something, and part of that excitement is tied to a certain beautiful Italian.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I glance at the clock. It’s time to get home, return Lexi’s car, and figure out something for dinner.
As I pull out of the art supply store’s parking lot, my thoughts are right back on Ant. It doesn’t make sense. Hell, I’ve only known him barely long enough to call someone a coworker, letalone anything else. But there’s something about him. There’s a quiet, magnetic pull I can feel under my skin.
He intrigues me in ways I don’t fully understand. He isn’t just shy; he carries himself like someone with walls a mile high. Walls built out of necessity, not choice. There’s a heaviness to him, a guarded edge, as though he’s seen things most people haven’t and doesn’t know how to let go of them.
I catch glimpses of the person behind those walls. A quick smirk when he thinks I’m not looking, the glances at me he risks, the fire in his eyes when we talk about music. The same eyes that hint at stories he isn’t ready to tell. Stories I want to know.
But it isn’t just curiosity and attraction pulling me toward him. It’s something deeper, something instinctual. From the moment we met, I’ve felt it: an overwhelming sense that I’m meant to be in his orbit. That I’m meant to protect him.
It isn’t pity. No, Ant doesn’t need or want that. It feels more like recognition, like we’ve both been living on opposite sides of the same mirror our entire lives, and now the glass has shattered.
The feeling is almost maddening. I simply can’t shake the thought that Anthony Pacini is going to change my life. And maybe I’ll change his too.
It feels… inevitable.
TRACK ELEVEN
Smalltown Boy
Anthony
8 Years Old
The announcement comes during morning assembly in the church, where all the students sit fidgeting in the pews while Sister Margaret speaks at the podium. Her voice carries through the high-arched ceilings, echoing with the kind of authority that keeps even the rowdiest students in line.
“And now, I am delighted to share some extraordinary news,” she says, her expression a little warmer than usual. “One of our very own students has won the national dental campaign poster contest. Out of thousands of entries across the country, Holy Cross is home to the winning artist.”
The students around me whisper excitedly, their attention breaking away from the polished crucifix above the altar. I keep my gaze fixed on my hands clasped in my lap, already dreading what’s coming.
“Anthony Pacini,” Sister Margaret says, her voice ringing with pride. “Will you please stand?”
The whispers stop. A hush falls over Holy Cross Church that’s connected to the Catholic school of the same name, as every pair of eyes turns to me. My stomach churns, but I stand slowly, feeling the weight of their stares. Some students clap politely; others mutter under their breaths.
Father Tommy, seated near the front, gives me a wide smile and a slow nod of approval. It’s the kind of attention I’ve come to dread but can’t escape.
I want to disappear.
By recess, the entire school is buzzing about the contest. Sister Margaret showed my poster in class; an image of a toothbrush dressed as a superhero with the slogan: “Captain Chompers: Defender of Tooth & Justice!” The nuns that run the school gush about how creative it is and chime in with congratulations.
Not everyone is impressed.
The playground, a mix of chipped asphalt and patchy grass bordered by a chain-link fence, feels smaller than usual. I sit alone near the monkey bars, peeling the crust off my sandwich, when I hear them approaching.
“Well, look who it is. Mr. National Winner,” sneers Jimmy Keller, a sixth grader who seems to exist solely to torment people smaller than him.
I look up to see him flanked by his usual crew, including Danny Russo and Mike Flanagan. They loom over me, their shadows stretching across the cracked pavement.
“I didn’t know they gave awards for kissing priest ass,” Jimmy says, folding his arms.
“Leave me alone,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on my sandwich.
