23 - Like Father, Like Son
Logan
I drove Cordelia home once I’d stuffed a Costa coffee and half a toastie down her pretty swan neck.
She was still pissy about being made to go to Delaney’s funeral.
Can’t say I’m over the moon about it either, but the nature of our life is to conform, maintain appearances and keep our fucking mouths shut.
That’s the way we live to see another day.
It’s no secret that guys in criminal organisations die young every day, gone without a trace.
Just like we did with Fionn. Deleted every possible scrap of him, starting with his digital footprint - which, because the guy was such a social butterfly; aka, serial fuckboy - took a lot of effort. If Cordelia hadn’t taken that damn photo, we would’ve gotten away with it too.
She’s currently staring out the front window; eyes fixated on the road.
Her golden locks are scraped back into their usual high ponytail, and she’s doing this pouty thing with her lips.
It’s making me want to perform an emergency stop and jump her bones in the middle of the London traffic.
I’m not sure if she’s aware of what she’s doing to me, although I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a sly little vixen.
We’d spoken in depth about our night of rough and tumble.
Stayed up until the early hours talking on the sofa about what she was and wasn’t comfortable with.
I’m dominant in the bedroom. But Cordelia’s inexperienced in that department.
Turns out she loved playing dirty and was eager to experiment some more.
The last thing I want to do is anything that pushes her too far. I don’t want her to fear me. I may have carnal desires, but I’m still a man who knows how to respect boundaries.
Unlike Clarke. I’d once walked in on him during one of his sessions.
Two women, hands secured behind their backs, mouths held wide open with some sort of leather gag.
He glanced over his shoulder from where he stood towering above the two girls on their knees.
I think in the moment I’d cursed, something along the lines of ‘what the fuck?’
He’d just chuckled, this harsh, unhinged sound echoing through the room. “I’m teaching them,” he’d said, dark eyes sparking with madness. “To suck cock. Whoever takes me the best gets to fuck me. You can have the other if you want?”
I’d blinked, eyebrows raised, utterly speechless.
“Erm, nah mate, I’m good, thanks.”
He shrugged, and I left. We never spoke of it again. Pretty sure his dad, i.e. Scar has paid for women to service him in the past. Because he’s dangerous but allowing him to walk around with a loaded gun is a disaster waiting to happen.
I pull up outside Cordelia’s house, and she spins to face me, still pouting like a child who’s been told they can’t have a cookie. With a brow raised in her direction, I dip my chin.
“Be ready for pickup tomorrow at nine sharp,” I tell her, giving her a no-nonsense stare.
She scowls at me with just her eyebrows, maintaining that damn pout. When she opens her mouth to throw shit at me, I place my finger against her soft lips. Those beautiful eyes round, taken aback; innocent. I shake my head, holding her gaze.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I cut her off firmly, because I’m not down for having this argument for the third time today. “Now get out of my car before I bend you over my knee for pouting like a petulant child.”
For a second I think she might try to bite my finger off. But then she swings open the car door, steps out, and slams the damn thing shut so hard, the whole bloody chassis shakes.
I growl to myself and hammer my foot down to the floor.
The drive back home is torturous. My dick is so hard it fucking hurts, and every agonising second that passes, the need to come ignites a burning frenzy that has me panting like a bitch in heat.
My brains telling me to make a U-ey, storm back to her house and fuck her senseless over the dining table - if she has one.
I have no idea—don’t fucking care either.
Not the point. But I doubt she’ll be thankful for that after the day we’ve had, so I guess my right hand will have to do.
Now, if I hadn’t had to brake at every shitty red light this side of London, I’d be back home.
In my bedroom by now with my cock in my fist.
Finally, I pull up on the drive, and I’m so ridiculously wound up that I don’t even make it through the front door. Instead, I jerk off in my fucking car, all over my jeans - like a randy teenager.
What the hell is this girl doing to me? How has her carrying my children made me so bloody horny? Made me want her even more.
As the jizz sinks into the fabric – I think about that rosy-lipped pout. Heaving a breath, I grab a tissue from the glove compartment and clean myself up as best as I can.
Dad’s home. I can hear his fingers bashing the office keyboard from downstairs. I do my best to sneak stealthily through the hallway. My fingers grip the handle to my bedroom, so close to the sanctuary that lies beyond.
“Logan. A word.”
Dad’s deep tenor stops me in my tracks, and I freeze mid-step. I backtrack a few steps until I’m in line with the open door. Music filters into the hall, a haunting melody laced with gritty edges and quiet fury. A melancholic piece reminiscent of the tortured man forever bleeding on the inside.
Our eyes meet in the middle, vivid blues practically identical in colour. His gaze skims over me before zeroing in on my stained crotch.
“Change,” he demands through clenched teeth.
I don’t argue. Marching down the hall to my bedroom, I whip off my jeans and pull on a clean pair of joggers.
Then I head back to his office, anxiety crawling up my throat with each foot I put forward.
My father is an intimidating man, rigid as they come and carries authority around with him like a bloody handbag.
He’s not always been that way, but since Mum died, our relationship severely deteriorated.
We no longer joke around, and laughter is like a long-distant memory in this house.
I step inside his office, and the vision of him screwing some bird over his desk rushes back to me.
I drop my arse onto the wooden chair opposite.
There’s a framed photograph propped up on his desk of him and Mum.
They’re barely eighteen, riding the teacups at a local funfair.
Mums got her eyes squeezed shut, mouth wide open in a scream, and my dad’s licking the side of her face with a whop off grin smothered across his lips.
It’s his favourite picture of them, and I can see why. Both young and so, so alive.
“She threw up on my brand-new Valentino’s as soon as that ride stopped,” he says, eyeing me over the top of his laptop screen.
I scoff. “Serves you right for wearing them to a funfair,” I give back, forcing the tears to stay put. I drag my eyes away from the photo. “Doctoring the accounts?”
It’s dad’s job to make sure all the money laundered through the organisation can’t be tracked. With the vast amount of businesses Scar has under his belt, it’s a full-time job.
He straightens up, closing the screen with careful precision. With his hands clasped loosely together in front of him, it’s like I’m about to be put through a rigorous interview process.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he states, resting his chin on his hands, one dark eyebrow raised suspiciously.
“Way to state the fucking obvious,” I scoff again, rolling my eyes towards the ceiling.
“Eyes, son,” he growls, making me jump.
Nevertheless, I angle my gaze up.
“Are you okay with me dating?” He asks, angling his head to observe me with curiosity.
Ah, man. I really don’t want to have this conversation right now.
“Sure.”
“Don’t lie to me, Logan.”
I blink, grinding my teeth together so hard my jaw aches.
“You’re betraying her,” I reply, tight-lipped.
He nods slowly, pursing his lips, weighing his next words carefully.
“Do you not think five years is long enough?” He asks, pinning me with that harsh, measured stare. “Have I not suffered enough, son?”
“No.” He wants honesty, he’s going to fucking get it.
“Oh?” he challenges, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
“You fucked up,” I snarl, not breaking eye contact.
His Adam's apple quivers as he swallows, clearly taken aback by my new brand of frankness. Behind his scowl, pain swirls deep in his eyes. He breaks contact for a second, and the light reflects off his unshed tears. Dad’s not an emotional man—in fact, I’m pretty sure the last time I saw him cry was at the hospital when I woke up from a three-day coma.
When he had to tell that distraught, confused, sixteen-year-old boy that he’d never see his mother again.
Never touch her soft skin, never hear her sweet melodic voice, and never experience her warm embrace.
Dad clears his throat, pulling me back to the room.
“Not a day goes by that I don’t feel that guilt, son,” he says quietly.
“That I’m not being torn apart from the inside.
I hate myself. I have done every day since that night,” his voice cracks, raw emotion spilling from his lips.
His eyelids fall closed as he takes a moment to recompose himself.
His hands are shaking—with anger, guilt, fear, who knows what else.
“I put you both in danger. I’ll never forgive myself.
But it’s time to move on. Anna would be furious to know that we’re still living in the past. That we’re not strong enough to continue living on without her. ”
A small smile finds its way to my lips, despite the sombre subject.
Because he’s right. Mum would be furious.
She was compassionate, loving, and had a heart of gold.
But above all else, she was fierce and protective.
She did everything in her power to mould me into an independent, respectful human being, and it would break her to know I’m failing.
I nod. And he offers me the smallest of smiles back. I’ve always masked my emotions, but when a single tear trickles down Dad's cheek, I’ll be damned if I don’t mirror him. He plucks a tissue from the box on his desk and hands it to me.
“I’d like you to meet Trixie,” he says, dabbing under his eyes with the tissue.
“I’ve already met— “
The glare he shoots me cuts me off, and I chuckle because he’s so easy to get a rise from.
“Alright, alright,” I yield, waving my hand. “I’ll meet her.”
His chin dips, seeming satisfied. An awkward cough escapes me.
“Erm, whilst we’re in the midst of being honest with each other,” I mumble, and before I can change my mind, I pull out the scan photo from my jacket pocket. “You’re going to be a grandad, old man. Double time.”
Dad’s eyes bug at the monochrome print I lay on the table in front of him. And his expression shifts the second he reads the name in the top left corner.
“What the— “
“Don’t kill me,” I beg, arse hovering off the chair in case I need to make a hasty escape.
“Sit.”
And I do. He continues to stare at the photo in his hands. They’re no longer trembling; his cold composure is back.
“You said you used protection,” he reminds me, dropping the photo and tapping his fingers rhythmically on the desk. Probably so they don’t end up around my neck.
“We did,” I sigh. “I’m a dick, aren’t I?”
His reply is immediate. “No, you think with your dick. There’s a difference.” A heavy silence engulfs the air around us before he speaks again. “Shall we go for a beer, son?”
I blink, now totally confused by his reaction. He wants to go for a beer? Like a normal functioning father-son relationship? I shouldn’t pass up this opportunity.
“Sure.”
Dad drives us to The Wandering Pint, and we sit and talk, and drink like adults.
It’s the first time in a long time that we’ve managed to be this civil, and if I’m honest, the whole thing is so surreal.
After Mum passed, our relationship hit rock-bottom.
Hey, if I’d known all I needed to do was get a girl knocked up, I’d have done so sooner.
Dad didn’t take kindly to my sarcasm and went on to tell me the grim realities of having kids, but also the positive ones too.
He’s excited to be a granddad, which shows in the way his eyes light up as we chat about the arrivals. He’s eager to know what names we’re considering, if we plan to find out what sex we are having; all questions that I promise to answer once I know for sure myself.
He tells me Mum would be proud of me, and I struggle to hold back blubbering in front of the locals. And then he says he’s proud of the man I’ve become, and I have no chance of stopping the floodgates.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, smiling as he fails to suppress a massive grin that mirrors my own.
The mood shifts and his smile fades. “You know you need to tell your uncle, Logan. He’s going to be pissed, no doubt.”
I let out an exasperated breath. “Thanks for the reminder. Yeah, I know. I’m working on it.”
He gives a firm nod. It’s never going to be a ‘good time’ to tell Scar about what I’ve done–am doing. And honestly, I’m going out of my mind envisioning how he’ll react. But the longer I leave it, the worse it will be.