Chapter One
Aidan jolted out of his nightmare to find himself facedown on the kitchen table. Sweat trickled down his face. He raised a trembling hand to swipe it away. That was when he realized it was tears, not sweat, soaking his cheeks. He hadn’t had a nightmare about Amy’s accident in years. It only took a second for him to remember what had brought it on.
Emma.
Everything he thought he had felt for Amy was magnified a million times with Emma. He had only thought he knew what love was. Without even trying, she had managed to illicit feelings in him he never could have imagined. And now she was gone.
A defeated cry of agony slipped from his lips.
“I see we’re back to the nightmares, huh?”
Aidan jumped before jerking his gaze over his shoulder. “Hello to you too, Pop. How’d you get in?”
Patrick gave him a tight smile. “I have a key, son.”
When he whirled around in his chair, Aidan’s head spun, and he had to grip the table to steady himself. “Yeah, well, whatever happened to knocking?”
“I did, but you never came to the door. Now I can see why.”
Aidan stared up at the blurry double images of his father’s frowning face. One look of absolute and total disgust would have been enough, but damned if in his drunken state, there had to be two.
Patrick leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Son, I do believe you’re shit-faced!”
After snorting contemptuously, Aidan’s face smacked hard onto the table. His chest rose and fell in laughter at the fact his father had actually said the word shit-faced. Of course his level of inebriation also made it funnier.
When he finally composed himself, he exclaimed, “Actually, Pop, I was shit-faced five beers and three shots of Patron ago. I think it’s safe to say I’m fucking plastered.”
“So is this where we are again?” Patrick huffed.
Raising his head, Aidan furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”
Patrick’s face clouded over in anger. “You know exactly what I mean. You’re starting the same damn patterns as you did nine years ago, right down to the drinking like a lush.”
“I called you because I wanted your help, not a lecture. So if you came over here to yell at me then you can just fuck off!”
The next thing Aidan knew Patrick had yanked him up by his hair and was glaring down at him. “Don’t you ever speak that way to me again! I’m still your father, and you will show me respect. You got that?”
“Just leave me alone!” Aidan blared, trying to pull himself away.
Patrick tightened his grip on Aidan’s hair, causing him to wince in pain. “All right. That’s it. I’m going to treat you just like I would a prick of a recruit in The Corp who had screwed up!”
Before Aidan could protest, Patrick dragged him out of the kitchen chair. It clattered noisily to the floor. “Didn’t know you still had it in you, old man. You’re pretty agile for a seventy-two year old,” Aidan mused.
“You better shut up if you know what’s good for you!” Patrick snarled before shoving Aidan towards the hallway. He might’ve passed out again if Patrick hadn’t kept a firm hold on the scruff of his neck along with his belt buckle.
When they got into the master bedroom, Patrick pushed him in the bathroom. Aidan whirled around to catch Patrick locking the door. Dread washed over him. Nervously he staggered back as Patrick stalked over to him. “Shit, Pop, you aren’t gonna beat my ass again like the time in high school when you discovered that pot stash under my bed, are you?”
Ignoring him, Patrick went to the shower. After flipping on the water, he grabbed Aidan’s arm and jerked him into the stall. Ice cold water rained down on him. Even through his clothes, each droplet felt like a jagged knife piercing his skin. He tried to get out, but Patrick slammed the shower door shut. “You’re going to stay in there until you can sober up and discuss what happened like a man!”
Aidan thrashed against the door, but Patrick held firm. “I’m too old for this bullshit, son. I may not be around in nine years when you try to pull another stunt like this again. At least let me die in peace knowing that you’ve got a wife and child to love!”
Patrick’s words froze Aidan more than the cold water pelting him. Just the thought of how he had hurt Emma sent pangs of regret reverberating through him. Instead of protesting any further, he turned and stood under the shower nozzle, letting the icy water sting him like the lashes of the whip. Hanging his head, he wished it was a whip. He deserved to be beaten for everything he had said and done in the last few weeks to Emma and in turn his son. Physical punishment would be a welcome relief to release the emotional torment within him.