The Anti-Hero (The Goode Brothers, #1)(13)

And yet…I still get the feeling that there’s a catch to his comments tonight.

“I like writing them. You know that. But I can’t help but feel like there’s something you have to criticize.” I send him a crooked brow and half smile as I take a sip from my glass. “In short, cut the bullshit.”

He laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You’re writing them for you, not me.”

My jaw tightens and my heart starts to race. Is he implying what I think he’s implying?

“I’m writing them for the congregation,” I reply proudly.

There’s another low chuckle before he shakes his head.

“Smart-ass.”

“Well, what are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that…” He swirls his whiskey in the glass before throwing it back and emptying the contents. Here it comes. If I’m reading the situation correctly, my father is about to offer me the position I’ve been waiting for.

“I think your talents would be better suited for your own ventures. We’re giving the sermon-writing job back to Mark.”

There’s a beat of silence as I stare at him, waiting for the punch line of this joke.

My mouth goes dry, and suddenly, I realize my leg is bouncing. We sit in tense silence for a moment longer as his words fill the room like noxious gas.

“Your writing is so good, Adam, and I hate to see you waste that energy on sermons. Why don’t you work on your book? Or write for the podcast again.”

My knee is bouncing like crazy now. “Everyone loves the sermons. They relate to real people and real issues. No offense, but Mark’s sermons are based on antiquated values.”

“Mark’s sermons are based on the scripture.”

“And mine aren’t?”

His brow furrows, but he stays silent.

He can’t be serious. This can’t be happening, but I bite back my surprise. I refuse to let my father see me falter.

A familiar feeling starts to resurface. Something I’ve buried deep for years—my whole life maybe. I’m sure it has a name. Resentment. Bitterness. Spite. But I’ve never voiced it, and I’ve never paid it much attention.

Not since that night.

He’s my father. He provides for me and my brothers and has for years, but there’s a price for the luxury of his love, and that price is my pride.

“I’m just thinking about what’s best for the church, Adam,” he says in a casual tone with complete disregard for how this actually makes me feel. “Use this as an opportunity to focus on more important aspects of your career. Did you really plan on writing my sermons for the rest of your life?”

As I let out my next breath, it sounds a bit too much like a disgruntled sigh, but I don’t respond. He stands from his seat and goes back over to the whiskey bottle on the drink cart, he keeps talking, but I’m no longer listening.

Something dark and sinister stirs around in my brain.

I wish I could call him an asshole to his face. I think about what it might feel like to sock him square in the nose with my

fist. I imagine how delightful it might feel to see him cry or beg for mercy.

These thoughts are vile, and I should feel ashamed.

I should, but I don’t.

I just do what I’ve always done when these malicious thoughts and visions surface, I quickly shove them back down.

I bury them right along with the memories that triggered them in the first place.

My unfocused gaze is on his desk, but I’m not reading a word typed on the mess of pages. Not until I spot the word Deed. My thoughts quiet, and my eyes focus.

Behind me, my father is still droning on and on, and I’m not catching a single line. Instead, I lean forward and try to read as much of the document as I can. The other papers on his desk seem to be things like sermon notes, press releases, printed articles, and proposals.

This page is an official document, crinkled at one edge with a coffee stain on the other. The most I can make out from here is an address I don’t recognize and a name I’ve never seen before.

I peer behind me to see my dad with his back to me, so I move fast, pulling out my phone and snapping a quick pic of the document before he can turn back around.

“Are you listening to me, Adam?” His sharp tone rips my attention away from the paper.

“Yes, sir,” I lie.

“Well, aren’t you going to argue with me? Defend yourself, for fuck’s sake.”

My nostrils flare and another growling sigh emits from my chest. “It’s late, Dad. I’m tired. I was up all night writing your sermon, remember?”

“Watch your tone, boy.”

When I stand and face him, he lets out another chuckle of laughter, this time darker and more sarcastic than before.

Sometimes, I wonder when he looks at me like that if my father even likes me.

Sometimes, I wonder if he hates me.

I don’t wonder about my brothers. I know he doesn’t like the twins.

And I know he hated Isaac.

Hates not hated.

But me… I’ve stood by his side since I was a child. I’ve doted and dedicated my life to his mentorship. Because I thought that’s what he wanted. A son to carry on his legacy. It was the only way to earn his love.

Yet, as the two of us grow older, I can’t help but wonder if my father would like his legacy to die with him. Too greedy to share the spotlight, even after his death.