Page 1 of Kings Don't Break
PROLOGUE - BLAKE
October 1998
“Boy, if you don’t get away from that fucking window...”
My face is pressed into the glass, causing all sorts of smudges, my eyes glued to the moving truck parked against the curb outside. At Pa’s growl, I jerk away from the glass like I’ve been electrocuted.
“But, Pa, they’re blocking our driveway.”
He’s settled in his big recliner in front of the TV. The game’s on, and he’s got a can of beer clenched in his hand.
His three favorite things in the world—leather, beer, and sports.
“You think I give a fuck if somebody’s got a moving truck outside?” he grumbles. “They ding any of our cars or my Harley?”
“No, but?—”
“Then I don’t give a damn. Stop being a nosy little shithead and grab me a fresh one.” He rattles the empty beer can in his hand.
My shoulders slump from the sigh I let out. I do as he says, taking the empty Texas Brew and plodding over to the kitchen to grab him another.
Our kitchen’s like the rest of the house—squashed-in and reeking of cigarettes. Stacks upon stacks of Ma’s order-by-phone catalogs rest on the counters and bags upon bags of recyclables take up a whole wall space.
I pull open the door to our faded yellow fridge and snatch the last can from Pa’s six-pack.
“OH, C’MON!” he roars at the TV. “Chop block! That was a fucking chop block!”
His rant continues. The longer he goes on, the more F bombs he drops. The louder his voice grows.
I wait it out and instead curl the beer can in my arm like it’s one of those dumbbells at the gym. I run a finger down its icy-cool aluminum sides and then pop the tab out of curiosity. Taking a sniff, I shudder at the gross stench.
It smells like that skunk me and Mason saw at the ravine that one time. How does Pa drink this stuff?
“Took you long enough,” he snarls when I finally head over and hand him the fresh can. He barely looks at me before he returns his attention to the TV.
The Longhorns are down by eight.
It’s made his already bad mood even worse.
I take it as a cue to get the hell away from him. Pa doesn’t take losing well. Anybody that happens to be around becomes the target of his anger. A lesson I don’t really want to learn again. I sneak out the backdoor.
Normally, I’d ride my bike around the block. Maybe go hang out with Mason and his big brother, Logan. But since it’s Sunday morning, their mom’s dragged ’em to church.
She’s real religious. Which is funny ’cuz Mr. Cutler’s not. But Mason says he goes along with the family church outings to make his wife happy.
With nobody fun around, I decide to snoop on the moving truck and people carrying stuff into the house next door. It takes me a few tries, but I wrap my arms around the branch of the lemon tree in our front yard and climb up by stepping off the bark with my feet. Sweat breaks out on my face and a sliver of wood sticks me in the palm of my hand, but I pull it off.
I prop myself up on the thick branch and stare down at the people like I’m some neighborhood watchman.
There’s four of them. A dad, mom, boy that’s older than even Logan, and a small girl that might be even younger than me.
Golden-brown skin. Kind eyes. Clean, like-new clothes.
They almost look like they don’t belong in a neighborhood as dusty and worn down as Pulsboro.
The dad walks up to the truck and takes a box from the mom, scolding her about carrying things that are too heavy. She tinkles out a laugh and mentions something about going inside to unpack the kitchenware.
“Come help me put away the pots and pans, Korine baby,” she calls out to the little girl.
