Page 3 of Connor (Total Sinners #2)

Connor

I shouldn’t have checked my phone again. But I couldn’t seem to help myself. I pulled it out of my pocket and returned to the group chat I had with the guys. Vic’s message was still waiting for my reply, but I didn’t know what to say.

Vic: Sorry man, can’t make it. Heading up to see Summer this weekend. Gotta check how she’s settling in.

I was the one who asked if he was busy. It was a casual, throwaway question. One I almost hadn’t sent, like some part of me already knew I wouldn’t like the answer. But then Vic had to go and type out her name and my mind was in turmoil all over again.

Two months.

It had been two months since she walked out my door, since I let her leave. Since I watched her disappear, knowing I couldn’t stop her, knowing I wasn’t supposed to.

I ran a hand down my face and locked my phone, setting it facedown on the desk.

The moment it left my fingers, I wanted to pick it up again.

I wanted to open up the last text message I received from her, the one that told me she’d arrived at her new apartment safely.

The one that told me to message if I needed anything.

The one that had been sitting on my phone for two months without a reply from me.

I wanted to reply now. Check if she texted me back. If she still thought about me. But I knew better than to open that can of worms. I pressed my thumb against the rim of my cup and dug it in, grounding myself in the sharp bite of pain. It was better than messaging my best friend’s little sister.

My office door was thrown open, and it slammed into the wall, leaving a crack in the plaster. I didn’t flinch.

"Where the hell have you been?" David McIntyre’s voice was cold, quiet—the kind of quiet that made your blood turn to ice.

I took a sip of coffee before looking up to see my father in the doorway.

David stepped inside and shut the door behind him, his jaw ticking and his steps quiet. Deliberate. His nose flared as he took in the sight of me.

It wasn’t a good sign.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, watching me, like he was already making his decision about how this was going to go. I knew that look, but for the first time in my life, I couldn’t have cared less what the fuck he wanted to do with me.

"Three hours late." His voice was calm. Too calm. "You were supposed to be here at eight."

I dragged my gaze to the clock, and yeah, it was a quarter past eleven. Any other day, I would’ve cared about that, but not today. I set my coffee down, leaned back in my chair, and shrugged. "Got held up."

His jaw ticked again. "Doing what?"

Thinking about Summer. Trying to distract myself with another blonde who sucked cock like it was her favorite thing in the world. He would’ve murdered me if I said that though, so I shrugged instead. "Sleeping."

The air shifted. Just a little. Barely enough to notice. But I felt it.

"You think this is funny?" His voice stayed smooth, controlled, but I could hear it—the edge. The thing buried under the surface.

I smirked. "You think I’d bother showing up if I did?"

His nostrils flared. "The client left. Aiden had to cover for you."

"Sounds like he handled it."

His fingers flexed at his sides, and I looked out the window, seeing the hundred or so sparkling new cars in the parking lot.

He’d chosen to come in now because everyone else was far too fucking busy trying to make their sales for the month that they wouldn’t hear if he shouted. It didn’t bode well for me.

That was the thing about my father. He didn’t lash out immediately. He liked restraint. He liked control. He liked making you wait for it.

"That’s not the point, Connor," he said, voice measured.

I tilted my head. "No? What is the point?"

"You’ve been fucking around for months." His tone didn’t rise, but his eyes burned. "Drinking. Showing up late. Talking back. Making a goddamn fool of yourself in front of clients. And for what?"

I let the words settle. "Guess I’m just tired of putting on a show."

Unlike him.

"Tired?" His lip curled into a sneer. “You’re not tired, you’re fucking spoiled."

I should’ve left it alone.

I should’ve nodded, apologized, let him believe he’d won.

But my chest was too tight. My blood ran too hot. And this—this was better than sitting at my desk staring at Vic’s fucking message, thinking about Summer.

So I leaned forward, resting my arms on my desk. "Must be exhausting, Dad. Keeping up the perfect businessman act when we both know you’re just a fucking—"

The punch landed before I finished the sentence. Fast. Hard. Bone against bone. I hadn’t even seen him leap over my desk, but he’d done it in seconds. Guess it paid to be a retired athlete.

Pain exploded along my jaw, sharp and brutal, my head snapping sideways from the impact. A breath caught in my throat. My ears rang. And for a second, I just sat there, still, my body processing the hit, the metallic taste of blood coating my tongue.

It wasn’t the first time I’d bit it. I learned long ago that it was easier to just roll with the punches, literally and figuratively, when it came to my father.

Blood smeared across my knuckles. "Feel better?" My voice came out low, rasping.

David shook out his hand like he wasn’t the one at fault. Like I’d made him do it. I bet it fucking killed him that I wasn’t on the floor, wasn’t apologizing, scrambling to fix whatever I’d broken. That’s the thing about growing up, though. You stopped reacting to shit you knew was coming.

“You better come in early tomorrow,” he said, his voice low. “I’m doubling your sales expectations for the month and if you don’t make it, then you’re out of here.”

Like I gave a fuck. I smiled, slow and sharp, and leaned back in my chair. "You done?"

His hand twitched. A flicker of movement, like he might swing again. But then his eyes darted toward the door. Laughter reached my ears, an employee entering the building. And just like that, he smoothed out his tie. The businessman act slid back into place. He exhaled, rolling his eyes.

But his voice was quieter when he spoke. "Get your shit together, Connor. Or I’ll do it for you."

Then he turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him. I sat there, blood on the back of my hand, jaw aching, pulse pounding in my ears. And for the first time that morning—I didn’t think about Summer fucking Blake.

The door didn’t open right away. I heard the knock first. Light. Two short taps. A pause. Another. Then it creaked open, and Aiden stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane and holding a bag of ice with his other hand. His green eyes flicked over me.

I sighed and wiped my mouth again, smearing more blood onto my knuckles. “You know, you don’t have to knock. You’re my brother, not my fucking secretary.”

Aiden stepped inside without a word. He closed the door with his foot, his cane tapping against the floor as he walked over to my desk. The limp was slight, but I knew he was in pain. He always was.

He tossed the ice pack onto my desk. “For your face.”

I glanced at it but didn’t pick it up.

Aiden dropped into the chair across from me, resting his cane against the armrest. "What happened?"

I huffed out a laugh. "What do you think?"

“You pushed him again, didn’t you?"

I smirked. "Define “push.”’"

Aiden didn’t look amused. He reached for the ice pack himself, popped it against my bruising jaw, and held it there when I didn’t move. The cold bit into my skin, sending a dull ache down my face. I sucked in a sharp breath and knocked his hand away.

"Jesus, I can do it myself," I muttered, snatching the ice pack.

He sat back, watching me. "You could’ve just shown up on time."

"You could’ve just minded your own business," I shot back.

Aiden didn’t blink. "Not when you pull this shit. Not when I know exactly what you’re doing."

I held the ice against my jaw, keeping my expression neutral. "Do you?"

"Yeah, I do."

I scoffed. "Alright, Dr. Phil, go ahead. Diagnose me."

Aiden didn’t take the bait. He just leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped low, even. "You wanted him to hit you." I went still, and he studied me, waiting for me to deny it. I couldn’t. He shook his head. "That’s not normal, Connor."

I let out a slow breath and shifted in my chair, tossing the ice pack onto the desk. The cold had started to burn. "Yeah, well, neither is growing up with him as a father. Can’t exactly get angry at me for being fucked after everything that’s happened."

Aiden dragged a hand over his face, exhaustion leaking into his features. He looked older than he should have. Some days, he felt like my older brother. Other days, he felt like the only adult left in the room.

"Look, I get it," he said. "You’re pissed off. You feel like shit. You think acting out is gonna make it better, but it won’t."

I smirked. "And here I thought you were the smart one. It already made me feel better."

Aiden’s eyes flashed with something sharp. "Do you think this is a fucking game?"

I arched my brow. "No. I think it’s a fucking joke."

His nostrils flared. Not because he was angry. Because he was frustrated. Because he’d been trying to pull me back from this edge for months, and I kept pushing further, seeing how close I could get before I finally tipped over.

Aiden let out a slow breath, steadying himself.

I expected him to start on his whole forgiveness bullshit again, but he didn’t.

His expression was carefully neutral—but I wasn’t stupid.

I knew that look. He was pissed. Not our father’s kind of pissed , not the simmering, restrained kind of rage that made the air feel heavy.

No, this was worse. This was Aiden being disappointed.

“You need to get your shit together,” he said. No preamble. No room for me to brush it off.

I huffed out a laugh and leaned back in my chair. “You and Dad are rehearsing your speeches together now?”

Aiden’s jaw twitched, but his voice stayed even. “No speeches. Just facts.”

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. I could feel him waiting. I stared at my desk instead, watching the way my fingers tapped against the wood. My stomach still felt like shit from the night before.

Aiden sighed. “Connor.”

“What?”

“You tell me. What the fuck’s going on, man?”

If I knew the answer to that, I’d be able to solve the fucking problem. But I didn’t. So, I scoffed, shaking my head. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

Aiden let out a slow breath, the kind that meant he was choosing his words carefully. “You were late. Hungover. Again.”

“And?” I shrugged.

“And,” he said, his voice low but firm, “Dad’s looking for a reason to be an asshole.”

I met his gaze now, smirking. “Why? He doesn’t usually need one.”

Aiden didn’t smile.

I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “Jesus, Aiden, you here to lecture me? Because if so, you can save your breath—”

“What’s going on with you?”

That made me pause. I knew this game. Aiden didn’t come at people head-on. He wasn’t like Dad. He pushed softly, gave you space to walk yourself right into admitting the truth. I didn’t take the bait. I stretched my arms, feigning a yawn. “Dunno, man. Just bored, I guess.”

My brother’s eyes narrowed slightly. Shit. Maybe that was too casual. So, I grabbed my coffee, taking a slow sip. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” I leaned back, forcing a lazy smirk. “Come on, you’ve seen me doing worse.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. Yeah. He had. We both had. That was the problem. Aiden sighed. “Mom’s staying with me again.”

My fingers stilled against the desk. I placed my coffee down slowly, leveling him with a look. “For how long?”

Aiden’s mouth twitched, hesitation flickering behind his eyes. That was all I needed to know. I sucked in a slow breath. “Connor,” Aiden said carefully.

I forced a smirk. “What, did she miss your cooking?”

He didn’t laugh and my smirk dropped. I breathed out, trying to push back the sudden tightness in my chest. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Aiden’s voice was too even. “I took her to the hospital. It’s only a broken wrist this time.”

“You’ve been pushing him,” Aiden continued. “Showing up late, talking back, making it real fucking easy for him to snap.”

I let out a slow breath. “Yeah, well, it’s not like he needs an excuse.”

“No, but you’re giving him one anyway.” My stomach turned at his words, and Aiden leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice softened—not gentle, but steady. A warning, not a plea. “You can fight him all you want, Connor, but Mom’s still the one picking up the pieces.”

Something cold settled in my chest. There it was. Reached for my coffee again just to have something to do with my hands.

I hated that he was right. I hated that he was sitting here, trying to get me to see the reason, trying to fix me before Dad made me someone who couldn’t be fixed. Hated that a part of me wanted to listen. I took another sip of coffee, swallowing the bitterness. “You done?”

Aiden studied me for a long moment. Then he sighed, shaking his head as he stood up. “Not even close.”

He didn’t wait for me to say anything else. He just walked to the door. Paused. Then, without looking back, he said, “You keep going like this, it’s not gonna be long before Dad finally loses his shit for real.”

Then he left.

I let out a slow breath, staring at the door long after it shut.