Page 32 of Inflict

The girl who did all the piercings for clients.

“And Killian?” Connor asked.

George glanced up at his boss. “I don’t know about him.”

Connor cocked a brow. “Pardon?”

“He’s been in and out. I figured you would know more about him, since he only uses this place as a rest stop, anyway.”

That was true, to an extent.

Killian was a … friend. Of sorts. He also ran a crew for Connor’s father, which took up a great deal of his time. Connor didn’t ask a lot about it, because he didn’t care to know, and Killian didn’t offer information. He did use the shop as a getaway of sorts, when he needed to clear his head.

Connor understood that need.

“I’m just saying that you could probably open up the room for a full-time artist, if this isn’t what Killian wants to be doing on a regular basis,” George said.

George basically ran the place since Connor had to come and go sometimes. He understood where the artist was coming from. “I’ll make a call, and see what Killian has to say.”

“Sure, sure.”

Connor turned away as George’s phone buzzed on the counter, ready to go set up another room in case someone did walk in spur of the moment.

“Well, fuck,” George muttered.

No one said whatever fancy family George had come from did a damn thing for his crassness.

“Problem?” Connor called from the next room.

“Client canceled.”

“Cac.”

George poked his head into Connor’s room. “Yeah. You need something new to add, right? And hey, I’ve got the room ready. Luck of the Irish. Interested?”

Connor smirked. Was that even a serious question? He never said no to ink. “Boyo, I already agreed, when you said I needed something new.”

Connor stepped off his Harley, and hung his helmet on the handle bar. Running a hand through his hair to smooth back the strands, he eyed the two-level house he’d parked in front of. His father’s house, actually.

He’d gotten home from the shop, only to find a note pinned to the front door of his brownstone. In no uncertain terms, Sean demanded Connor’s presence before it got dark. He made the two-and-a-half hour drive on his Harley.

The slight movement of the front curtains caught Connor’s attention, and he sighed. His arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, which just meant the longer he stayed outside, the more pissed off his father would likely be. He headed for the house.

Of all the things Connor hated most in life, this place was at the top of his list. This was the one place he tried to avoid more than anywhere else.

The longer he stayed inside, the more time he was forced to spend in his father’s presence while he was here, and doing so made him think … how similar was he to his father? How truly alike were they, when they stood side by side? How much of Sean—of his numbness, his coldness, and his evilness—had Connor taken with him as he grew up?

He didn’t want the answers to those questions.

He didn’t want to know.

The door was unlocked, and no one waited to greet him when he let himself in. Connor wasn’t the least bit surprised, since Sean was home. Everyone in the cozy, safe suburb knew better than to go onto the O’Neil property, anyway. Not unless they wanted some kind of trouble to come their way.

“In the main room, lad,” Sean called out, his voice carrying through the hall.

Connor didn’t bother to remove his jacket or kick off his boots. That way, there was no impression he intended to stay for longer than was needed. He found his father waiting exactly where he had said, with the added addition of a quiet woman sitting on the floor at his side in a kneeling position.

The sight alone had Connor’s blood pressure ticking up higher.