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"Yeah," Aidan confirmed.
An uneasy feeling settled in my gut and though I knew it might open a can of worms, I muttered, "I don't like that priest."
"Father McKenna? What's not to like? He gives us fewer Hail Marys than Father Doyle. Plus, his sermons don’t drone on for-fucking-ever.
"Shit, I almost wish he’d take over full time. Does Father Doyle really need to come back from the Vatican?"
There was no denying the sermons were shorter, and the confessional ‘punishments’ weren’t as taxing, but some guys just gave off a vibe, didn't they? A creep factor. I knew how that worked. My dad had that in fucking spades.
Nerves hit me, even though it was stupid to feel anything other than stuffed full after Lena had crammed roast pork down my stomach like it was going out of fashion. It wasn't like Mom hadn't fed me, but food just tasted better here.
Maybe because I was safe?
Because I knew nothing could touch me inside these walls?
I knew how it felt to feel vulnerable inside your own home, even worse I knew how it felt to see a man look at me likethat.
Like I wasn't some kid, a nuisance, but as if I were tasty.
Conor was a weirdo, and he definitely did unusual shit but if Aidan said he looked like he could puke, then there had to be a reason for it.
Cautiously, I asked, "Do you think he's one of them? That’s why Conor’s scared?"
The pounding of the hacky sack against the ceiling slowed. "One of them, what?"
"A perv."
"Who?" His eyes bugged as he gaped at me, and I knew then and there he'd never thought anything about the new guy other than the fact that he was better than Father Doyle because his sermons were shorter. "The priest?" he rasped. "A fucking pervert?"
I growled, and it was stupid to be pissed but I couldn't help it. I was glad he'd never been a target of a sick fuck but his disbelief grated on me—in my short life, I hadn't been so lucky. "Yeah, Aidan, the fucking priest. Not Conor. Jesus."
He rolled onto his side. "A kiddy diddler?"
"Yeah," I said gruffly.
"Shit, I just thought Conor was being picked on at choir practice or something. That's a big leap, Finn. Anyway, Da wouldn't just castrate anyone who touched his kids, he'd—"
Butting in, I countered, "Haven't you noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"How McKenna is?" I grumbled. "He's always touching."
"He's Irish," Aidan said slowly. "You know it's their way. Da hugs and kisses me. He ain't a pedo."
"He's usually drunk when he does too," I retorted.
"True." Aidan scowled. "You've given me a bad feeling, Finn."
"You're the one who started it."
"Being bullied and being messed with are totally different things."
I just shrugged.
He wasn't wrong.
Maybe I was projecting my own experiences on this. Hunting for shadows where there were none to be found.
