Page 23 of Inflict

Connor hadn’t even reached the bar before the bartender slid a shot of whiskey down the wood top and a fresh pint of Guinness, too. He wasn’t the kind of man to drink first thing in the morning, but when it came to Tuesdays, and his father, drinking was the very least he did in order to be cordial.

Downing the shot in one go, Connor relished in the heady burn sliding down his throat. He took the liquor with him as he headed toward the back office where he knew Sean would be waiting with Lachlan, as he did every Tuesday.

Sean liked his routines.

Before Connor could even see the door of the back office, he’d downed half the bottle. He finished it entirely before he reached the door, tossing the pint into a rubbish bin. As was the rule made by Sean, Connor knocked once on the door, and waited to be called inside. His irritation bubbled the longer he was made to wait, especially when he heard the clinking of glasses and rumbling laughter coming from within the office.

Finally, Sean called out, “Come in, Connor.”

He wasn’t even surprised that his father called him out by name, as who the hell else would be waiting outside the office on a Tuesday morning at this early hour?

No one but Connor.

The familiar sight that waited for him inside the office did not give him that same comforting feeling of nostalgia as walking into the pub did. It was because of that—seeing his father waiting, glass in hand, familiar black eyes surveying—that he wished he didn’t have to come to the pub at all; it was why his memories of the place were stained with the sense of filth.

“You’re almost late,” Sean noted.

Connor took his usual seat in the corner, not bothering to greet his father as all the man’s underlings would with a proper handshake, or even a kiss to his hand. He didn’t give a feck for those sorts of pleasantries, and he wasn’t like all of his father’s underlings, anyway.

“Almost isn’t late, though, is it?” Connor asked.

Lachlan scoffed from his high back leather chair, positioned across from Sean’s desk. “You’re in a mood this morning.”

Sean waved a hand high. “He’s always in a mood.”

“Only on Tuesdays,” Connor replied dryly.

With a heavy sigh, his father leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “My apologies. Does my interest in your life affect your doodling time?”

Connor bristled. He didn’t give his father the response Sean was probably looking for either, when he said, “Warm this morning, isn’t it?”

“Better warm than cold. Do you want an inch of feckin’ snow on the ground or what?”

Deflection done, Connor mused.

“Rain would be nice,” Lachlan said.

“Cac,” Sean barked. “Rain makes my bones hurt.”

“My head is starting to hurt,” Connor put in before he could think better of it.

Sean grunted, passing his son a sharp look that used to terrify him when he was a young lad, but did nothing now that he was an adult. “Don’t irritate me today. I have things to do later, and I don’t want to be in a mood because of your nonsense.”

So be it …

Connor knew better than to poke at the monster his father was hiding, but the bit that didn’t give a shite about Sean’s predilections to violence, found the challenge in his father’s words.

That was probably half the problem with Connor.

He just didn’t know when to quit.

“Why do you bother calling me down here every week, anyway?” Connor asked. “I know it isn’t because you like seeing my face.”

Sean’s features blanked. “Can’t a father depend on a visit from his son?”

Not this father.

And certainly not this father’s son.