Burn (Barlyle) (COMPLETE)

23

Phillip laughed and hiccuped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Another one," he slurred, pushing the empty glass toward the bartender.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"Another one!"

Eyeing him, the bartender slid the man another drink. He grinned and closed his eyes as he chugged—

"Mother? Father? What are you doing here?"

"You invited us for supper, remember dear?"

—it, nose wrinkling at the familiar burn sliding down his throat. He finished and slid the glass back over—

"What's that on your sleeve, Phillip? Is that ink?"

—to the bartender. Head lolling to the side, he motioned vaguely for another one. He could—

"Father, please, I can explain!"

—barely keep his head up.

"Stop it! Stop it, stop it, John, you'll kill him!"

Groaning, Phillip picked up the glass. It slid from his fingers and shattered to the floor.

"You bastard! Do you understand how much that pen was worth?"

Phillip looked up at the bartender. The man's lips were moving, but he couldn't make out what he was saying.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—please!"

His vision faded to black and Phillip Carlyle fell to the floor.