“You’re the lamb.” “What’s that, Joey, lad?” my father called out from where he was kneeling in the bathroom, with his back to the landing. “Nothing, Tony,” Joey called back, not moving one muscle as he turned his attention back to me. “You’re the sweet, innocent lamb that’s hell-bent on playing with fire,” he said, walking me backwards until my legs hit my bed. “So, you might want to stop hunting me, Molloy.” His hands moved to my hips, and he literally tossed me down on the mattress. “Because if you don’t?” With my wrists pinned to the mattress above my head, he stepped between my legs and
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