Page 1 of Unholy

ELIJAH

“DAD!”

“Yes, son. You bellowed?” I hear him shout from his office, sounding sarcastic.

This motherfucker.

It’s gone too far this time. I don’t need this shit on my phone.

The door to his office is ajar. I throw it open and hear the knob crash into the wall behind it.

“Elijah! Was that really necessary?”

That question is not worthy of a response. My chest heaves as my hand clenches around my phone.

My dad, Nathaniel Sinclair, is standing behind his wooden desk, tattooed hands resting on top with a cigar burning in the ashtray. A crystal glass of whiskey—two fingers, maybe three high—is on a coaster in front of him. He’s acting completely oblivious to what I’m here about.

I throw my phone at him, waiting for his gaze to move from me to it.

Twisting my bat in my other hand, I remain standing and wait.

It’s a stare-off.

“I could do this all day, old man,” I taunt.

The corner of his mouth curls. Challenge accepted.

Our eyes pierce into each other’s. The silence adds to the tension.

My phone vibrates against the desk. Lifting my bat into the air, I point it at him, not backing down.

And in that exact moment, I know I have him. Curiosity always killed the cat.

My dad’s eyes look down, out of habit, to see who is calling. And in that exact moment, he blinks.

As his focus remains on my phone, his voice is clear and calm, and his words are firm. “Drop it. You don’t point that at me in my home. Do you understand?”

I’m pissed off. But he’s right. Goddammit.

Giving a subtle nod, I lower my bat and wait for him to inspect the phone.

“It was Rain.”

“I’ll call her back after you tell me why that shit is on my phone,” I say, side-eyeing him.

Lowering to his chair, he adjusts his slacks before sitting. Wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms and a gold watch adding to the decorations on his inked skin, he reaches for the phone and swipes it open.

A breath of air blows out from between his lips and his head shakes in disbelief. “She really did it.”

Leaning back in the chair, a smirk follows, which confuses me since nothing about this is funny.

Taking one more look at the phone, my dad erupts in laughter and chucks the phone back on the wooden desk.

Furious, I threaten to declare war against his best friend. “Tell Delacroix I’ll smash the windows of his car if he sends me this shit again.”

My statement only sends my dad into a more hysterical fit of laughter.

Taking his gold-framed glasses off, he wipes his eyes from the tears beginning to stream out of them.

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