TENACITY

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Monday, October 17, 2016
Robinson Manor

Trey got out of the car he'd parked in front of the house in which he'd spent most of his childhood. Twirling the keys around his finger, he walked up the stairs of the imposing mansion, not surprised when the door opened right on cue.

His father's butler, Roland, was effective if nothing else.

"The prodigal returns?" he asked quietly, and those who knew him as well as Trey did, knew this wry tone was as close as the man got to humor. He took no offense since doing that would be useless anyway. The man was just as unfeeling as Andrew.

"You should be welcoming me in that case," he muttered, eyes crinkling on the sides like his mother's did when he smiled.

"You are very welcome then," the older man conceded, bowing as low as he possibly could; he was mocking, Trey knew that. Yet, once again, he decided to ignore it.

"Where is he?" he asked instead, heading to the reason for his visit.

Roland closed the door behind him, then asked, "Your old man?"

"Any other man living here that I should know of?" Trey asked, his pent-up frustration surfacing. There was also an element of sarcasm, one he was sure the graying butler would not appreciate.

And he was right.

Roland gave him a nasty and equal part haughty look that affirmed Trey's suspicions of him having served regals when he was younger. He was every bit a haughty English man, and Trey had never liked that.

"He's in his study, endlessly drinking scotch, I presume," the butler finally replied, huffing his disapproval. Another thing Trey had never understood was why Andrew still allowed Roland to work for him despite how much they never got along. "Go there and you'll find him. If not, head to his room and see if you'll find him there."

"Thank you," his deeply ingrained manners—manners that had been beaten into him, caused him to say.

He went down the hall and found the door to his father's study slightly open. He knocked once, then stepped in, revealing himself. "Good morning, Andrew."

The man took a look at him. "How many times have I told you not to call me that?"

Trey managed a perplexed look; as always. They'd fallen into the routine so easily that it was usually the only thing they did—argue. What was there to talk about when both men were as different as night and day? "But it's your given name, isn't it?"

"Yes, I know that," he replied sourly, eyeing Trey, "but I'm your father."

"You sired me, and to a point, you were a father, one I was proud to call dad. However, you seized being my father when you threw me out of the house because you couldn't handle hearing my mother's name. As a result, I don't see it fit to address you as though you still are a parent to me," Trey corrected.

His father sighed. "It was an absurd reason, wasn't it?" he asked ruefully, referring to the reason why he'd kicked Trey out.

Trey shrugged indifferently. "You tell me."

His father stood out of his seat, staring out of his glass paned windows at the estate's shriveling garden, an area which held a lot of memories of Ashley. She'd made him happy, Andrew mused, but she wasn't and could never replace her.

"I know it's still early in the day," Andrew said as he turned away from the view, "but would you like a glass of scotch?"

Trey shrugged. "With how things are going, I think I need a bit of it in my system."