The Offer

by Karina Halle

  I must have only been asleep for about fifteen minutes when I hear a knock on the door break through the fog. I get up without waking Ava and close the door behind me as I go across the apartment.

  Even though I’m tired, my heart is lodged at the top of my chest, ready to pop like champagne. Am I actually giddy from just opening a damn door?

  But yes. I am. Bram is in the hallway, his lips pursed in concern.

  “How are you doing?” he asks, looking me over. “You look like shit.”

  “Always the charmer,” I say dryly, even though my heart is beating fast and I can’t help the smile on my lips.

  He shrugs casually. “You told me you liked it when I’m a jerk.”

  “I say a lot of things,” I tell him. “That’s the first thing you should know about me.”

  “Oh, I already know a lot of things,” he says. “After all, I was here last night going through your photo albums, just like I said I would. Is it strange that I think we would have been boyfriend and girlfriend in high school? I saw you with your hair short and purple, with a Lovage t-shirt. Girl after my own heart.” He looks over my shoulder at the apartment. “So, are you going to let me in or what?”

  I step aside and gesture for him. “Come on in. You can see over there the attempt at putting together one of the couches. I’m pretty much an epic fail today. A hangover and no cordless drill make Nicola a dull girl.”

  He raises a finger in the air. “Just one moment.” And then he’s turning around and heading out the door into his apartment. I watch his high, firm ass as he goes. He’s dressed in a suit again, which makes me think he’s been doing important things all day.

  When he comes back in he’s holding a toolkit.

  “Well, aren’t you a handyman,” I tell him, as he opens it and starts taking out tools and placing them on the ground.

  “I’m more than just a pretty face, I can tell you that much,” he says with a wink and soon he produces a cordless drill. He revs it a few times and I’m glad I closed the door to the bedroom so Ava can keep on sleeping. Even so, it’s not that loud.

  But it’s definitely hot. Bram takes off his grey suit jacket and throws it on the couch, then rolls up the sleeves of his black dress shirt, showing off those gorgeous forearms again and gets to work. If watching Bram jerk off was the hottest thing I’d ever witnessed, then watching him be all take charge and manly man with the tools is the second hottest thing. I guess it says I’m a pretty basic bitch to find that attractive but hell I’ll own up to it.

  “So,” Bram says while I try and hold together one part of the frame while he connects another. “What do you remember about last night?”

  I groan, not wanting to relive this. “Everything. At least the last half of the night.”

  “You said you made out with some Giants fan. Almost had sex with him.”

  I swallow uneasily and glance at him. His face is almost as neutral as his tone, though I can see this dark intensity in his eyes that betrays him.

  “Almost,” I remind him.

  “Are you sure you didn’t earlier and you just don’t remember?”

  “Oh, come on,” I hiss and then lower my voice. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t blackout, blackout. Things just got fuzzy.” I inhale deeply. “Hey, look, I’m sorry I came home such a wreck and I’m sorry you had to take care of me.”

  “I wanted to,” he says simply and puts the drill on pause and stares right at me, his arms resting on the frame. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Well.” I look away, embarrassed. “Thank you for that. But I’m sorry you had to see me in such a state. I went looking for you today and when you weren’t home, I figured maybe you were keeping your distance because you thought I was such a wreck.”

  He slowly shakes his head, an awed smile spreading across his face. “Are you kidding? That’s what you thought. Sweetheart, first of all, I have some stories to share with you. Only I won’t, because then you’ll probably want to keep your distance from me. And I can’t have any more of that, you already hold me at arm’s length. Second of all, Nicola…as much as you hate how you were last night, as much as you’re paying for it now, you were real. You were wild. Maybe you got a little carried away and in the wrong direction, I mean that could have been my tongue wrapped around yours. But you were true and honest and I’m glad you told me everything you did. Now I know why you have such a giant stick shoved up your arse. Babe, there are better things to stick up there.”

  So many things to ponder, I don’t even know where to begin. I guess the main thing is he doesn’t think any less of me, even if I do. The other things are the mention of his tongue wrapped around mine and the idea of him sticking anything up my ass. Both of those flood my head and body with a crazy kind of yearning.

  I push it aside.

  “Then we’re cool?” I say slowly.

  “We’re cool,” he says and he stares down at his hands for a moment. “And for future reference, you don’t need to pound back the shots or whatever you gals drank, in order to feel wild and free. Believe me, I know this. I lost many years of my life never remembering the nights, all in an attempt to escape, to forget, to be something else. It never amounted to anything except guilt and regret, the very things I was trying to escape. It just doesn’t work that way. Whatever you hope to drown, the booze only feeds it, makes it stronger. It has gills you see. Not to say I don’t have my fun, but there’s a line and I left it in New York City. I hope you learn to leave your line at last night.”

  I nod, impressed by this wise version of Bram. I never thought he’d regretted his party life on the east coast, I thought he had to give all of that up on account of his parents or something like that. I didn’t think it was a conscious choice, nor one that he was glad to make.

  “Is that why you moved out here?” I ask him. “To put it all behind you.”

  “One of the reasons. I just wanted to start over, really. And when Linden was hurt, I thought I might as well be close to the only person on earth I’m actually close to.” He laughs to himself. “The funny thing is, Linden and I aren’t even that close. But compared to my parents, he’s the one who has been there through it all.”

  “I thought you were close with your parents and Linden was the one who wasn’t?”

  “Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “As you know, my father was a diplomat and my mother was all high society. What they really wanted was for me to follow in his footsteps. Not even make a name for myself in something else, but follow in his footsteps exactly. Any other achievement was ignored, maybe even looked down upon. At least, that’s the impression he gave off…actually, still gives off. You’d think that maybe owning this building and investing my money would have brought him some kind of pride for his son, but no.”

  I’ve never heard him talk so frankly about his family. I want him to go on and on. Selfishly it makes me feel so much better to know that even the rich and powerful have problems. I also want to learn as much about him as possible, storing away each fact and revelation to draw upon later. It reminds me when I was in grade school and there was a kid I liked called Joey. Every little thing I learned about him – that he drank Pepsi instead of Coke, that his mother’s name was Beth – I held onto like gold.

  “I guess I’m kind of screwing up your investment though,” I tell him.

  “You’re not,” he says. He bites his lip for a moment and I want to do the same. It’s amazing that I’m able to think or feel anything sexual at the moment, given what happened last night and my current, foggy state of mind, but the whole handyman thing really has me wanting it. Hell, at this point, I think I’d want him no matter what.

  But as long as he stays on that side of the couch, as long as our relationship never diverts from being good neighbors, then I have nothing to worry about.

  So, why am I afraid?

  He eventually releases his lip, brows bent in thought. “Can I tell you something and you promise not to laugh?” He catches
himself. “All right, well you can laugh but just don’t laugh long.”

  “What?” I ask eagerly.

  “Well, everyone thinks – assumes – that I bought the building in order to make more money in the end, to have as an investment. But that’s not exactly true. It’s what I want them to think but I have bigger plans.” I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “You know Richard Branson?”

  “The bajillionaire?”

  “Yes. That is the correct term, I believe.”

  “What about him? Oh my God, are you going into space?”

  He laughs. “No. Bloody hell. Space is terrifying.”

  “Agreed.” I add, “No one can hear you scream.”

  “Right,” he says. “Anyway, Richard Branson, when he was only twenty, set-up a mail order record business. By twenty-two, he had Virgin Records. We all know what happens after that. He invests, he makes smart decisions, he never stops trying new things or learning something new. Nothing is impossible for this guy, not even space apparently.”

  “So you want to become the next Richard Branson,” I say. “That’s a great goal but it’s not exactly a strange one.”

  “It’s not just that.” He licks his lips and looks off into some imaginary future. “Branson has said, there is no point in starting your own business unless you do it out of a sense of frustration. I bought this building out of frustration but not because I saw an opportunity for myself but because I saw an opportunity for others, one that wasn’t there before.” He looks at me and his eyes are bright sparks of grey and blue. “There is a distinct lack of affordable housing here in the city, especially for those in need. I’ve never seen it so bad before. Normal people can’t even afford to live here, so what about the poor, the ones struggling with families, those that have lost their jobs, their savings, their everything? Where do they go? The Tenderloin? To live on the streets with the crackheads, to share shelters with thieves and addicts? I don’t think so.”

  He’s starting to sound worked up and he takes in a deep breath. “I wanted to make a difference. It’s a really long process because you need support from the city. You need investments from people who want to help a charity-type cause. You need a lot of things. But I’m here, I have the building and nothing but time.”

  “What happens to the people already living here?”

  Bram smiles shyly. “Most of them are already people in need. No one here is paying full-rent. I’m just not sure how long I can afford to keep this up without the city’s involvement. So that’s what I’m working on now. Had a meeting at city hall today.”

  “Oh.” I think that’s one of the most surprisingly noble things I’ve ever heard. “And you’re hoping that the tax break you got for letting me live here will allow you to be able to do it for everyone in the building?”

  “Tax break?” Then he grins. “Oh, no I lied about that.”

  My eyes bug out. “What? Why?”

  He shrugs. “Because there was no way you’d believe me if I told you I wanted to help you out of the goodness of my own heart. And if I told you the other truth, you would have run the other way.”

  “What other truth?”

  “That I wanted to win you over.”

  I blink. “That’s why I’m living here? You wanted to win me over?”

  “I’ve done outlandish things for a girl before, but nothing like this,” he says, almost to himself. “But yes. I wanted to help you and I wanted you to think of me just a little bit differently. I wanted you to get to know the real me.”

  “But the real you is still an arrogant manwhore,” I point out, feeling far too many emotions about this whole thing. Strangely enough, none of them are bad.

  “Perhaps, an arrogant manwhore with some endearing qualities.” He waves the drill at me. “Like, being handy.”

  “You certainly are handy,” I comment, still feeling out of sorts. Dizzy swirled around. It must still be the hangover. It can’t be learning that Bram did this all for me because of, well, me. “I still don’t know what this has to do with Branson though.”

  “He’s a huge humanitarian. He’s been able to do so much with his fortune. I want that. I want both – the money and the means to help.”

  “Why is this such a secret? I would think your parents would be proud of you for this. I mean, your father is a diplomat, he must have many ties to charitable organizations.”

  His mouth quirks into a quick smile. “Even Linden doesn’t know. No one does, except the city and you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people like to hold onto their ideas of what you are and who you are. They put you in a box and no matter how hard you try to show them what you’re really like, they can’t wrap their heads around it. They won’t. They only want you to be a certain way, the way they see you. To change that messes with their heads. I’ll always be Bram the fuck-up to them, the party-animal, the playboy. It doesn’t matter if I tell them my plans or not, they’ll never take me seriously. I could do this for fifty years, I could become the next Branson, and they would still see me in the box they put me in.”

  I can’t help but relate to his every word. I know that the moment I tell people I’m a single mom, I’m slung into a box that I have no hope in escaping. I don’t think many people have met me and then seen that I’m more than just my title, my circumstances.

  Not like Bram has seen me. The thought hits me like a bullet.

  He’s studying me and when I meet his eye, my face perhaps held in surprise, he clears his throat. “The only problem with the whole thing is that Branson has had a fifteen year head-start. I pissed away my twenties and early thirties on booze, drugs and women. While I obviously enjoyed it at the time – as you know, women are still my weakness – I could have done so much if I had just gotten my head on straight at an earlier stage.”

  “You know they say it’s never too late,” I tell him.

  “In some ways it feels like it,” he says. “You know I had a great idea a few years ago for a social media site comprised of just pictures. Pictures of me. You know, after a swim, running on the beach, taking off my shirt. I called it Insta-Bram.”

  I watch his face carefully, knowing he has to be joking. “Insta-Bram?”

  But his expression is stone cold serious. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Then he breaks into a wide, shit-eating grin that lights him up. “Hey, I gotta let my ego come out to play sometimes.”

  I shake my head. “You’re the worst.”

  “I’m the best.” He taps the side of the couch frame. “Come on, this couch won’t build itself.”

  So we get back to work on the shitty little couch and when we’re nearly done, it really does look like the cheapest crap I could have bought. I’m starting to think about throwing them out and just keeping my torn-up but reliable one.

  “I’ll need your help with this,” Bram says, muffled. He’s inside the large swath of fabric that is supposed to slip on over the frame, covering him like a yellow ghost from head to waist. “I need to zip onto those white pads that are somewhere out there.”

  I spot the pad behind me and dip down until I’m under the couch material with Bram. It’s like being inside a very tiny tent and there’s barely enough room for both of us to stand under here. Our faces are bathed in a yellow glow.

  “Here,” I say, holding up the edge of the pad that has a zipper pull. I’m wildly conscious of how close I am to him and I try to keep my breath contained, my voice down. It’s getting hot under the canopy and all I can smell is his beautiful skin.

  Shit, shit, shit, I think to myself. Get out of this situation.

  But I don’t. He pulls down the zipper track inside of the fabric and I hold up the mattress pad and we struggle for the zipper pull and the track to connect. His brow is furrowed in concentration, I’m trying to hold everything just right and I feel like neither of us are breathing.

  Then the zipper catches and slides along and the pad is attached. I think we both bre
athe out a sigh of relief and then he ducks under the pad, lifting it behind him so we’re still under the tent of fabric, but both pressed up against each other.

  He’s smiling. I’m smiling.

  And a flash of danger comes across his eyes.

  Maybe it’s lust.

  But it’s all danger to me.

  Beautiful, delicious danger.

  For once, for once, I’m ready for it.

  But before that thought even has a thought to process, the look in his eyes smolders, drunk with desire and he grabs my face with one hand, the other hand going behind my hair and he’s kissing me.

  Kissing me.

  Kissing me.

  I thought I was ready for this but I wasn’t.

  His kiss.

  It’s more than I remembered. It does more than knock me off my feet. His tongue is insatiable, explicit as it thrusts into my mouth hungrily, his lips crazed and needy. It’s wet and violent and makes the want inside me throb, over and over. His hand at my head is gripping my hair as if he’s holding on for dear life and each tug shoots fire down my nerves. Every part of my being feels alive, soaking it all in, desperate for more of his touch, more of him, more of everything.

  He pulls back half an inch, just for a second, just enough time to let out a moan while his other hand holds my face in place, captive. His heady-lidded gaze fixates on my eyes, then my lips, as if I’m some sort of apparition.

  Then I grab his shirt collar and yank his lips back to mine. The need in me builds and builds and I’m dying to wrap my legs around him, to feel every inch, to feel his want for me. I think I whimper. I gasp. I kiss him with the same kind of abandon as he’s kissing me, his mouth all encompassing as if wanting to swallow me whole. I wouldn’t mind his mouth somewhere else.

  As if he reads my thoughts, he grabs me around the waist and quickly lowers me backward to the ground, the padding inside propping my shoulders up. We’re lucky that the couch frame or coffee table wasn’t in the way but I’m not even sure if that would have mattered. To hell with all the furniture.