Chapter Eleven
B rady
Brady scrolled through the month’s report, but he could not focus at all. Despite having a meeting with investors in a couple hours, he’d read and re-read the distribution and profit numbers three times. Still nothing stuck.
His head pounded like he’d drank a bottle of whiskey. Maybe he should have.
Like father, like son.
He’d slept like complete shit. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying the escapade with Jane in the locker room of her yoga studio or the look on her face just before he walked out on her. Again. He’d done exactly what he’d been trying not to do. He’d hurt her.
She’d left him on “read.” He’d sent her a few text messages last night apologizing. He noticed she’d read them this morning but did not respond. She always responded.
“Uh, Brady,” Sam, the bartender, peeked his head into the office. “There’s an older gentleman out here. Says he’s your father.”
His stomach plummeted and the room spun. What the fuck ! Richard Hinckelson hadn’t made an appearance in over a year. And he typically only showed up when he wanted something. What now? More money, he supposed.
He swallowed the bile that percolated. “Tell him to wait outside. I’ll be right out.” He hardly recognized his own voice.
“He looks in rough shape, man. Maybe a half a bottle in of something hard already today.”
He glanced at his watch. It was only noon, but Richard was likely more than a half a bottle in.
“Thanks, Sam.”
Sam turned and left the office. What nerve his father had showing up here at his work. It had been at least a year since he’d seen his father and that last meeting had ended in a huge argument. He took a few deep breaths before he pushed to standing. Could this day get any fucking worse?
He strolled out of the office and weaved through a few of the early customers to get to the front door. He pushed the door open and inhaled the still-cool Florida winter air. But the sight of his father stopped him in his tracks.
Richard slumped over one of the picnic tables. His once-dark hair was even more a ruffled white mess atop his head than the last time he’d seen him. Lines etched the skin of his hands and the side of his face. He almost felt sorry for his father. Almost.
“Richard.” He inched closer to where his father sat.
The old man lifted his chin and he could see the yellow of his eyes. Jaundice? Not surprised the liver wasn’t working properly.
“Son.” Richard shifted on the bench so the table supported his back.
He hated when his father called him “son.” His entire body went rigid every time he used that endearment. Being his son never meant anything more than being a punching bag or now, an ATM.
Shadows circled below his father’s dark eyes, which had a hollowness about them. His wrinkled khaki pants were baggy and several brownish colored spots stained his red polo shirt. He looked homeless. He could be.
It wasn’t his problem.
“What do you need?” His tone was sharp on purpose. He hated this man.
A maniacal laugh fell from his father’s lips. “That’s a silly question.”
Just hearing that laugh dragged him back to childhood—the hatred, the fists, the helplessness.
A vise clamped around his chest, each breath harder than the last. Black spots flickered at the edges of his vision.
No. Not here. Not in front of his father.
Brady forced himself to breathe—slow inhale, steady exhale.
He would not spiral. He would not give his father that satisfaction.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Brady?” Richard barked. “I’m talking to you, boy.”
He lifted his head. “I don’t take orders from you anymore. I told you last time to stay away from me. I want nothing to do with you.”
Richard coughed, the sound ragged and violent, like his lungs might tear loose. “Well, I’ve never taken orders from you.”
It might have only been sixty-five degrees outside but the heat that rose up his neck and across his face made him feel like he was standing in the sun in the dead of an Orlando summer day.
“What do you fucking want? I am working and you are here disrupting our business.” His voice lowered but deepened.
“Son, I need money.” He tried to push himself to standing but stumbled and sat back down. “The motel I’m staying at said I need to vacate if I can’t come up with this week’s rent.”
“I’m not your bank, old man.”
“The fuck you aren’t. I’m your father. I took care of you as a kid. Now it’s your turn.”
He released a bitter laugh. “Took care of me? If calling me worthless and throwing punches my direction counts as parenting, then sure—Richard, you were father of the year.”
“You had a roof over your head. Food on the table. Your no-good mother left us. I did the best I could.”
“Save it, Richard. We have this same conversation every time you come begging for money.”
Richard lurched to his feet, unsteady but defiant. He staggered toward him, jabbing a trembling finger in his face. “I don’t beg.”
The smell of bourbon blasted him and almost made him drunk. Jesus Christ. How much did this man drink? “Sit the fuck down before you fall face-first into one of these tables.” He stepped away from his father.
“Sounds like a million-dollar idea.” Richard wobbled back to the table and plopped down on the bench again.
He wouldn’t be surprised if his father intentionally injured himself on the brewery property in an attempt to collect some sort of insurance proceeds. Anything for a buck to get that next bottle.
“I’m not giving you money, Richard.”
“The fuck you aren’t.” His voice shot up, drawing curious glances from a couple leaving the brewery.
Brady clenched his jaw. This man wouldn’t stop until he’d wrung every last shred of pride from him. He’d already stolen his childhood—he wasn’t getting his future, too.
“What will your investors think, huh? Your business partners? When they find out you won’t help your own father in his time of need?”
He narrowed his eyes. “They’ll think you’re a drunk and insane. Because that’s exactly what you are.”
Richard’s face twisted. “You care about your image, don’t you? Always have. Look at you. Pristine suit and tie. Hair all done like you’re on the cover of GQ . Nails filed like you’re some goddamn Wall Street prince. You run a brewery, not a Fortune 500 company.”
“And you’re a bitter old man looking for a handout.” Brady stepped forward, his voice low and final. “But not from me. Not anymore. Not ever again.”
He clenched his hands into fists. He’d never been good enough. He’d never be. And he needed to stop thinking at some point his father would realize all that he had accomplished, all that he’d done in spite of everything.
“Let me call you an Uber.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket and clicked on the Uber app.
“I’m not leaving here until I get what I came for.”
“Well, then, the police it is.” He dialed the local precinct number. “Good afternoon. I’m calling from Dog Tired Brewery. We have a drunk guy outside who is threatening people and refusing to leave.” He nodded as the dispatcher spoke. “That’s correct. I tried to call him an Uber but he refused it.”
He glanced at his father, who glared at him with narrowed eyes. Fuck him .
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll watch for the patrol car.” He closed the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket.
“Can’t even lend your father a few hundred dollars,” his father spewed. “You son of a bitch.” He spit at his feet.
He stepped back. “We’ve established that already. You can wait here for your ride .” Brady spun on his heels and marched toward the brewery entrance.
“Your mother should have aborted you. You’ve never been good for anything...”
The bile of hatred poured from his father, unrelenting, until the brewery door slammed shut behind him.
His voice was ice as he snapped at Sam, “I called the police. They are on their way. He’s not allowed back in here.”
He stormed into the office, shutting the door with force that made the frame rattle. Then he leaned back against it, folding over, palms braced on his knees. His chest rose and fell in jagged bursts.
God damn that bastard.
That pathetic, venomous man was his father.
His blood. His history. The man who made his life a living hell—and still managed to find new ways to twist the knife.
They shared DNA. Shared years under the same roof.
What terrified him the most ... was the fear they shared something darker.
The capacity to ruin the people who loved them.
He forced air into his lungs. Again. And again.
No. He wouldn’t become that man. He couldn’t.
He stood tall, jaw set, eyes burning. Whatever it took, he’d never bring that kind of darkness to her door.