The Anti-Hero (The Goode Brothers, #1)(14)

And now this. The biggest slap in the face of my life.

“Get some rest, son,” my father says, clapping that heavy hand on my shoulder again. The look on his face is smug enough to punch, but I know that’s not possible. So I punch him in my head—hard enough to knock him out.

Then I smile like the good son I am and walk out the door.





Six

Adam

T he radio is turned down and the GPS is guiding me through the dark city streets as I grow closer and closer to my destination. The address on that property title is now stored safely in my phone, and I’m too damn curious to let it go.

There’s something oddly familiar about it, but what’s really drawing me to see it for myself is the fact that my father doesn’t own any properties outside of the church and his house.

So why, all of a sudden, is he in possession of a deed for some downtown warehouse? And why wouldn’t he tell me about it? He usually tells me about all of his business dealings

—more so to boast, I’m sure. On occasion, he’ll assign me tasks, like organizing a book signing or a public appearance at a soup kitchen.

But keeping me entirely in the dark on whatever this is only feeds into the bitterness I’m already feeling toward him.

My hand squeezes the steering wheel as I replay the events in his office tonight. That smug look on his face when he reassigned the sermon writing to Mark. The way he brushed off my loyalty to him and the church. Because, deep down, I know my father doesn’t care about any of it. Not the congregation. Not God. Not his family.

The only thing he cares about is himself.

My brothers know that. They picked that up a lot faster than I did, which is why they jumped ship years ago.

Not me. I spent my entire adulthood living up to his standards. While my brothers went to parties and wasted their years away having promiscuous sex and discovering themselves, I was at home writing his sermons and patting myself on the back for being the good son.

Did he ever really care? My career and my future mean nothing to him. The only time he ever truly valued having me around was when I made him look good. During the press

release of my book, Footsteps, he stood by my side, not as support to me, but as publicity for himself. He congratulated me when his following increased, not when my book, a memoir about growing up as the son of a preacher, hit the best seller’s list.

This downtown district is quiet, but as I get closer to my destination, the buzz of people on the streets intensifies. A brightly lit taco truck parked on the side garners a line, and I peer out my window to check out the people standing there.

Most of them are dressed in the sort of fashion you’d expect for a night at the club—leather and skin.

There’s a chain-link parking lot on the right, and I pull in, backing into a spot as the GPS informs me that I’ve arrived at my destination. I’m facing a black-brick warehouse on the corner that appears to be some sort of nightclub, judging by the young people milling about on the sidewalk outside.

Another car pulls into the spot across from me, and a couple emerges from the four-door sedan. To my surprise, it’s not a pair of twentysomethings but a man and woman who look to be in their thirties. They’re not scantily clad either. If anything, they almost look dressed more appropriately for church than a club.

My features tighten in confusion as they walk hand in hand toward the building. The man pulls open the black metal door, ushering his lady through, and they disappear together into the dark abyss of the warehouse.

Why on earth does my father hold the title for a place in the city?

As people come and go from the building, a neon sign above the door catches my eye. I hadn’t seen it until now, but the word Pink glows against the black brick.

The hairs rise on the back of my neck. In a rush, I fumble for the card still sitting in my wallet. As I pull it out, I suddenly realize why the address sounded familiar. I read it on this very card two weeks ago.

My mind scrambles to make sense of this.

Sage works at this club.

And… my father holds the deed?

Is this some ridiculous coincidence?

I pull my phone out of my pocket, and with shaking fingers, I google the name of the club. My head swirls with confusion and disbelief as I stare at the search results.

Pink is a premier sex club located in Austin, Texas.

My heart is hammering in my chest.

What…the fuck?

Why on earth does my father, the most prominent pastor in Austin, hold the deed to a sex club? What could he possibly gain from this?

This must be part of his plan to have it shut down. For as long as I can remember, my father’s main objective was to clean up the city of any clubs like this. He’s had two shut down since he started his church. But I’ve never known him to take this route…to own it first.

Normally, he’d preach about them in his sermons. Uncover scandals and abuse taking place inside. He has connections in the city who would help him.

So, this just doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he’d tie himself to a place like this.

My fingers tighten around my phone. Why didn’t that asshole tell me about this? He didn’t include me in whatever the hell his plan is here, and that pisses me off more than anything.

Just knowing he has anything to do with Sage only throws fuel on the fire. She and I had a connection. Sure, she’s just a stranger, but we had a moment, and it’s all gone to shit now that I know her club is this.