Sweet as Sin (27 page)

Sweet as Sin

The child didn’t respond. The only sound was his own erratic heartbeat and PJ shrilling like a fire siren. John’s mind went blank. His bare feet barely touched the stairs as he flew down them, leaping the last several. Water from the slippery grass seeped into his knees when he slammed to the ground.

Cool and slick, Tyler’s skin seemed too baby soft to be real as John rolled him over. Tyler was now howling and his cherub-cheeked face was streaked with red. More crimson gushed from his crown. John did the only thing he knew to do. He scooped and ran.

A soft knock on the door snapped Livvy’s head up and she quickly closed the file. Pulling several invoices on top of it, she wiped her eyes before unlocking the door. David, her secondary pastry chef, peeked in with a frown.

“You okay? You’ve been in here for a couple hours. That’s not like you.”

“Yeah, just catching up on some paperwork.”

The older man nodded, running his hands over his ample belly. “Okay. I’m going to start that weird steampunk baby-shower cake. I just

finished the bread orders, too. But the bloody ladyfingers gross me out, so Justine’s doing them.

Since you added this Dark Cravings stuff, business has picked up a lot, hasn’t it?”

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“Yeah, it has. Seems there was a whole niche that no one else had covered—the not-so-sweet who still like sugar and have parents who like to show off.” Livvy threaded a hand through her hair and sighed. “One good thing about Marnie Florici, she has a mouth as big as her bank balance. I’ve got the next month jammed full.”

“I saw that.” David grinned at her. “If this keeps up, I’m asking for a raise.”

“If this keeps up, you can have one.”

He threw back his graying head and laughed.

“Okay, I’m going back in to wrestle with ravens and compasses.”

Livvy closed the door behind him and

whispered, “You do that. I’m dealing with monsters and demons myself.”

Coffee long gone cold slipped across her lips as she lowered back to her chair and resumed reading. Alan Warner, the small-town reverend, had beat more than Bibles. After his wife died, he turned his grief on her son. Convinced he was the Devil’s spawn, the bastard child born of an unsaved whore, Alan had set out to cleanse John’s black soul.

Stunned any human being could inflict such hatred on a child, Livvy fingered her quivering lip.

An empty ache formed, longing to cradle the long-grown little boy in her arms. Her eyes fell on the word
whore
and she sniffled. John was wrong.

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Gina knew all about her mother’s previous occupation.

A child who heard monsters speak was ripe fodder for the zealous crackpot, and Alan leaped on the notion that John was at times possessed by demons. He’d tried to take John’s monsters from him. Defiantly, John told his tales in the dark to a sibling who was made to watch his every

punishment. Livvy smiled as she recognized that defiance even today. How strong he was, even as a kid. He’d not only survived hell, he’d emerged with a tale to tell.

But poor Gina. Her foster parents reported she wet the bed for a year after her father’s death, each night screaming for her brother. Dozens of letters printed with juvenile scrawl were addressed to John at the Hollybrook Correctional Facility for Youthful Offenders. Livvy laid them aside with a sad smile. She sent a soft prayer of thanks that neither suffered alone.

Like any other thirty-eight-year-old man, John had scars. Nothing huge or telling, but small marks on his skin that could have come from sports injuries or accidents. One particular scar, a thin line on his wrist she’d asked about, he’d explained away as a sheet-metal incident. He’d lied. The mark wasn’t an accidental injury; it was a badge of courage. It came from the locked back door window John had shattered to reach his sister Inez Kelley

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before her father burned her hands with scalding water.

The night Alan died.

The night John stopped the abuse.

The written accounts from teenaged John,

seven-year-old Gina and various churchgoers read like a list of inquisition tortures. The broomstick Gina had mentioned was a favorite punishment and weapon. John had to kneel on the broomstick, hands outstretched, and pray aloud for deliverance, reciting scriptures until he could no longer speak.

According to Gina, it happened weekly.

Livvy’s gaze landed on the wheeled bucket and mop. She jumped from her desk, laid the handle flat to the ground and knelt on the wood. She just wanted to taste what his childhood had been like.

Sweat beaded on her forehead almost immediately and she grimaced, shifting her weight back to her heels. It did little to erase the pain and she nearly cried out in less than a minute. Standing, her legs quivered. How had he endured that? She couldn’t understand how John had any use of his knees left.

The throb persisted as she sat and picked up yet another page. The broomstick would fall until Alan was satisfied John’s penitence was sincere or until John could no longer remain upright. In five years, he’d had six broken ribs which required treatment. Her tears dotted the paper, marring the ugly words. Doctors, based on X-ray findings, 300

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suspected that more broken bones had healed on their own. Among other things, they found evidence of an unreported skull fracture long since healed.

Disgust threatened to force the coffee from her stomach. Alan had been reported no less than five times to Child Protective Services, the majority of the claims reported by medical personnel. Each time he was cleared, mainly based on his name and occupation. Livvy prayed that CPS had tightened their investigations in the past twenty years and that no other child fell so far between the cracks.

Tears fell in an unending stream as she

uncovered more and more horror, each account seeming the worst she could imagine. Reports and statements from teachers, neighbors and the congregation filled the file, each knowing a small bit, none confessing to knowing all. Perhaps none did. But most knew more than they ever reported until it was too late.

Every single page had been gathered, trying to prove that John felt he had no choice in taking Alan’s life. In John’s mind, there was no alternative. The system failed him. The church failed him. He couldn’t trust them to save Gina.

He just did it himself as he had all along.

Numerous psychologists’ reports spoke of

John’s protectiveness. One went so far as to say it Inez Kelley

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was unhealthy and self-destructive because John chose to not only take his punishment in silence, but also the punishment of his sister. Alan told John he must take the position of Christ, suffering for others to redeem his tainted soul. By all accounts, John never balked. For over five years, he kept Gina safe from Alan by taking twice the abuse.

Until one evening he’d been gone and Alan had tripped over Gina’s shoes. He’d turned on her, bloodying her lip and reaching for the steaming tea kettle. But John came home and stopped him.

That was his crime. Rather than turn away and go for help he never felt existed, he entered the house and took matters into his own hands. Hands that were bloodied stopped the pain and yet were found guilty.

John had taken care of his sister, just like he’d promised his mother.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t take him to the hospital?”

“John, chill. You’re more freaked out than Tyler is.”

Andrea closed the first-aid kit and repositioned the bag of frozen corn on Tyler’s head. Seated on the counter, wrapped in a flowered towel, the preschooler watched Andrea’s every move with bright shining eyes. She smiled with a wink at him.

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Tyler grinned and blinked both eyes.
Now here is
a future heartbreaker.

During the first tense minutes PJ had been easy enough to distract with little helpful tasks. He’d fetched the washcloth and towels as if bearing the secrets to world peace, taking great pride in being useful. John did nothing but pace and shake, watching his bleeding nephew with anxious eyes.

“He’s okay. Head wounds bleed a lot. It

doesn’t even need stitches. His pupils are reactive, his pulse rate and breathing are normal, and you said he didn’t get knocked out.” John shook his head but didn’t stop his feet. “Just don’t wash his hair until the scab is solid, a day or two. Do you have any liquid ibuprofen? And Neosporin?”

He paused and both hands raked through his hair. “Gina sent a bag of stuff. There’s probably some in there.”

The pacing resumed and Andrea took a harder look at him. Sometimes it wasn’t the patient who needed the most attention. Fright had left him shaking like a dog and his breathing was

accelerated. John wouldn’t be the first caregiver to collapse on her but he was too big for her to handle alone. “John, sit down. Now.”

Whether it was her authoritative tone or that he was on automatic she couldn’t tell, but he took a seat beside PJ at the table. His tee shirt looked like he’d been in a battle, the blood smears resembling Inez Kelley

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a macabre Rorschach test amidst drying damp patches. A streak of blood had dried to the color of sun-baked brick along his jawline. His knees were wet from the sprinkler and he left footprints wherever he stepped.

When he’d rushed in carrying the crying child, she’d flown into nurse mode and snatched Tyler from his arms. She’d assumed the accident was much worse until she assessed things. There had been a lot of blood. But Tyler was wet, his hair dripping pink, making it seem like much more than it really had been.

Removing the corn bag and swinging the little boy onto her hip, she crossed to the table and dropped him gently in John’s lap. She picked up one thick wrist and began timing his pulse. John tried to pull away but she tightened her hold.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh.” Eyes locked on the ticking clock,

Andrea counted. “Your pulse rate is a little high.”

“You think? He scared the shit out of me.”

“You said a bad word again,” PJ piped in, the hastily retrieved towel drooping around his slender shoulders. “You said a whole lot of bad words on the steps. Even the really, really bad ones.”

Andrea smiled as John’s lips went tight.

“I know, PJ. I’m allowed.”

“When can I say them?”

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She had to fight a laugh as John bit back another bad word. “When you have hair on your chest.”

Deciding he was in no danger of passing out from anything other than nephew fatigue, Andrea stopped her silent monitoring. “Give Tyler some Motrin, dab on some more Neosporin, and try to keep him quiet. Watch to make sure he doesn’t start slurring words or walking off balance, those types of things. Really, I think he just got a bad booboo.”

John nodded and stood, hitching Tyler onto his hip. “Thanks, Andy.”

“Oh, one more thing.” She dug in the freezer and produced two Popsicles. “A liberal

application of flavored frozen sugar water. Cures most any ailment.”

PJ snagged the purple one so she handed Tyler the orange. The trio headed for the door, John’s large hand guiding a wet PJ not to touch anything.

“Playing daddy isn’t easy, is it?” She laughed.

John stopped cold. Her smile froze on her face.

Without turning, he shook his head. “I’m not a daddy, Andy, and never will be. I’m an uncle.

That’s enough for me.”

One hand holding the kitchen curtain back, she watched them walk across the lawn with a frown.

How could Livvy end up a soccer mom if the man in her life wasn’t going to play ball?

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Livvy climbed the wooden stairs, pulling her hair off the back of her neck. She needed a shower in the worst way. John’s file had left a film more disgusting than sugar and flour ever had.

“Hey.”

Livvy screeched. Too many monsters lingered in her mind for such a fright. John chuckled in the moonless dark.

“Damn it, Murphy, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing out here?”

“Soaking in the silence. I think PJ used up both of my eardrums tonight.”

Dropping her bag, Livvy kicked off her shoes and strolled to sit beside his bare knees on the chaise lounge. “He sure can talk, can’t he? You didn’t have to wait up.”

But that he had meant the world to her. She studied his shadowy outline. The images invoked by what she’d read were too vivid in her mind to see him clearly and not cry.

“It’s not that late, the boys have only been down about an hour.”

“How’s Tyler?”

He snorted. “The little brat’s fine. He ran around all evening like a mini tornado.”

His smooth tone flowed liked a soothing salve for her aching heart. The lounge shifted as he moved, his hand reaching for her cheek. The 306

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coolness of his fingers and the scent of beer reached her seconds before his mouth.

Livvy had never cared for alcohol, sticking with fruity mixed drinks when she did indulge.

But served on his lips, the flavor held more appeal.

The taste was potently sexual and she savored the brew.

Abruptly, he broke away. “Liv, have you been crying?”

Guilt spun until she was dizzy with a thousand feelings. Her eyes closed to hold yet another rush of tears at bay.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

The casual endearment was nearly her undoing.

A few tears dampened her lashes before she forced them back. On her lips, the lie was heavy.

“It’s just been a long day. I’m tired…and a little hormonal, I guess.”

The firm hand at her cheek slid down to her neck and massaged with gentle fingers. Fingers she now knew had been broken. A calloused palm that long ago had wept with second-degree burns cupped her shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s get you to bed, then.”

His hand found hers before pulling her to a stand. His knees cracked and her heart cried out.

The beer bottle flew from his hand as she rushed into him, wrapping her arms around his neck with Inez Kelley