by Addison Fox
They stood like that for long moments, just holding each other in the quiet. When she finally spoke, it only added to the tenuous spell that seemed to weave around them.
“We don’t have to give this up. Not yet. Please, Fender. Please tell me not yet.”
He needed to leave. The world outside the apartment—outside of them—would see to it they couldn’t have something together. Although his father was the ostensible and immediate threat, they’d both known from the beginning that entering into a relationship would put a strain on those they loved. That reality hadn’t suddenly gone away because they wanted it to.
Trent was a threat, but Fender’s father wasn’t the only sticking point. Would he ever be welcome in Gretchen Reynolds’s home? The brunch Harlow had mentioned she’d shared with her mother and brother the Sunday before would never stretch to comfortably accommodate him. And on his side, for as welcoming as his mother was, would she ever be at ease having a meal with Kincaide’s daughter sitting opposite her? A living, breathing reminder of Louisa’s fall from grace?
He knew the answer to both questions, and it didn’t favor a relationship between the two of them.
“Let’s go back to bed. Just for a little while.” Her hands reached for the sheet, tugging at it until he let it drop. He reached for the hem of her T-shirt, lifting it over her head and tossing it away.
Fender eyed the chaise lounge over her shoulder. “Who needs a bed when we have a very accommodating piece of furniture right here?”
He moved her backward, following her down onto the chaise. And let the world fall away for a few more minutes.
* * *
Harlow worked her way through a stack of invoices and fought the urge to yawn. She hated inventory, but people liked being paid and it was her job to see that it happened. The Dellaport exhibit had been quite profitable for them, and she’d already begun the negotiation to handle his next event the following fall. It seemed so far away, yet she knew how fast the year would go. How one event ran into the next, a reminder that life was constantly marching forward.
Would Fender be a part of her life then? The answer was likely no, and they both knew it.
“Maudlin much?” She hissed at herself under her breath as she toggled out of a spreadsheet and back into the accounts-payable software they used. She’d been like that all morning, a mix of focused energy and aimless, meandering thoughts that left her feeling empty and sad.
The previous night had been amazing. Making love with Fender had been all she’d dreamed and quite a few moments of wonder she’d never expected. He was tender, something she’d not imagined from him. And with that tenderness, there was a subtle yet determined thread of respect in the way he touched her, looked at her, and spoke to her.
While she’d often found heating up the sheets to be enjoyably bawdy and a little bit raw, there had been a streak of gentleman in him that hadn’t fully faded, even in the throes of sex. He was considerate of her, yet she’d never felt that he held back. Or kept her from seeing who he really was.
Yet again proving that the man was unexpected.
She’d said good-bye that morning and knew they’d left things fluid, but also believed him when he said he’d come back that night. So she’d wait and take it day by day and try not to get her head wrapped too far around the future with him. That was for upcoming exhibits and work plans.
With Fender, she would stay focused on the here and now.
“Harlow!” Jennifer’s voice broke through her thoughts. Her colleague stood at the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I said your name like four times.” Jennifer grinned. “Doing billing again?”
“What else?”
“Sorry to interrupt, but your mom’s here. Can I send—” Jennifer didn’t get the rest of it out when Gretchen breezed into the office.
“I hardly need to be announced.”
“Thanks, Jen.” Harlow fought a grimace as she stood to give her mother a kiss on the cheek. “Of course not, Mother. You never need an announcement. Thankfully I wasn’t with a client.”
They’d worked together long enough—and Jennifer knew more than she needed to about Gretchen—that she read the signs and pulled the office door closed on her way out. Harlow silently thanked God for understanding coworkers and gestured her mother toward the sitting area. “Can I get you anything? Coffee or some sparkling water?”
“Caffeine messes with the skin. Sparkling is fine. For both of us,” Gretchen added.
“Of course.”
Harlow pointedly stared at her Starbucks Venti where it perched at the center of her desk but avoided saying anything. Her mother’s moments of domination were just that—moments—and she’d learned long ago to ignore them.
Or more specifically, to see them for what they really were. Her mother’s grasping attempts to control the things she had no say in.
With fresh Perrier lightly fizzing in two glasses, Harlow walked to the couch. Her mother’s attention was focused on the exhibit guide they’d printed for their next show, and Harlow took the moment to focus on her.
Gretchen’s hair was immaculately swept up, the champagne color setting off the high cheekbones and blue eyes so like Harlow’s own. Her mother was a beautiful woman, well-maintained for her early sixties, yet Harlow saw the cracks beneath the façade. The darkness that Gretchen hadn’t fully concealed beneath her eyes. The listless set of her shoulders.
She wasn’t sleeping.
“How are you, mother?”
“I’m fine. I just saw you on Sunday, and I spoke with you Monday evening. How else would I be?”
“Obviously unable to take a kind greeting, I see.”
Gretchen’s mouth shot down in a frown before she seemed to catch herself. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me.”
“It seems to be happening more and more of late. Is everything okay?”
“As a matter of fact, it’s not.”
Had something happened? To Gretchen? Or to Charles? Harlow set down the glasses and reached for her mother’s hand as she sat beside her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’d like to know who you were seen out and about with on Sunday and then again last evening. I’m getting reports from our friends, yet, as I pointed out, we saw each other Sunday morning and spoke on Monday. Who is he and why do you feel you can’t discuss him with me?”
She dropped her mother’s hand. “It was a few dates. Nothing more.”
The lies tripped off her tongue, Fender’s words a drumbeat in her ears.
I never lie.
It was one of the things she liked best about him, yet here she was, unable to emulate such an admirable quality.
“Word has come back that he’s rough around the edges.”
“I’m not sure what that means, but I can assure you it’s far from the truth.”
“You know what I’m talking about. Jeans. Scruff on his face. A look about him,” Gretchen added with barely concealed contempt. “That’s hardly fitting for a date.”
Harlow pulled back her claws and focused on the problem at hand. Her mother wasn’t going to let this go, no matter what she did, so she might as well hit it head on. “Last time I checked, people were allowed to dress casually on a Sunday. I believe they call it a day of rest for a reason.”
Gretchen’s eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp. “Who is he?”
The demand caught Harlow off guard, especially as it flew in the face of the usual complaining, whining, and wheedling to get information that Harlow had long since grown used to.
“I’m a grown woman. I’m not required to share the details of my personal life with you, nor am I at all interested in responding to idle gossip by small-minded people.”
“Small-minded? I actually got a call from Wilhelmina Patterson about this. Her soon-to-be daughter-in-law saw you out having coffee. Willie is managing this year’s cancer gala. I’d hardly call her small-minded. Or unimportant.”
And there they had it—the
real root of her mother’s upset. The value of being seen as important.
Whatever that really meant.
“If she’s so important then I can’t see why she cares a whit for me. I’m hardly worth her notice.”
Gretchen stood and paced the small space, her heels tapping on the floor. Although her mother had given up the stilts Harlow was still fond of, she hadn’t eliminated the elegance of a lower pump from her wardrobe and used the tapping to best advantage.
“Harlow.” Tap, tap, tap. “It’s important to maintain your reputation.” Tap, tap, tap. “If you must find your personal enjoyment slumming around, perhaps you could do it outside the neighborhood.” Tap, tap, tap.
Harlow let the orders sink in, an evenly matched display of snobbery and disgust. And in the reality of her mother’s ire, she had some of her own.
She was so sick to death of living under a microscope. That a simple coffee date had turned into a major drama was only part of it. She was sick of the endless parade of well-heeled acquaintances who made up her life. The perfect wardrobe. The constant exercise and gym time to look a certain way.
She did it all.
At first she’d sought to please her mother. The ability to bring a smile to Gretchen’s face when she had little to smile about had been important, and Harlow had reveled in her ability to do so.
To help her mother find joy.
After a while, it had become habit. A way of life that was as easy as any other. She knew her place—heck, she had a place—and she lived it each and every day.
When had that begun to feel so stifling and dull?
It was easy to point to Fender, but he wasn’t the only cause of her dissatisfaction. It had started long before him and had picked up speed, taking shape and form, when her mother’s inappropriate targeting of Louisa Mills had come to light.
“I’m not sure when you began thinking of me once more as a child, but I’m not interested in discussing your opinion of my social life. Was there any other reason you came for a visit?”
“Damn it, Harlow. Who is he? Are you in a relationship? And if you are, why haven’t you mentioned it? Do you have no respect for me at all, that I have to hear from friends that my daughter is out and about with a man?”
“His name is Fender Blackstone. I met him a few weeks ago.”
A series of emotions flitted across her mother’s face, from surprise, to anger, to out-and-out shock when she finally placed the name.
“That woman’s son?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t be serious.”
* * *
Fender had no interest in seeing the old man, but he had even less interest in a surprise attack. Better to go on the offensive and deal with the problem head-on.
Or understand just how big a problem it was going to be.
It hadn’t taken much nosing around to find out where Trent had been spending his time. Old habits died hard—by morning he’d found evidence of his father at Trent’s favorite watering hole. If the shitty decor and unwashed tables even deserved the label watering hole. Decrepit shithole seemed more apt.
Park Heights had come up in the world over the past decade, but it still had its dodgier areas. Life had grown more prosperous for some but not all in their little corner of Brooklyn, and Duckie’s Ale House fell, sadly, into the not category. It had been a hole when Duckie was alive, and his son hadn’t done much to improve things since his father passed.
Fathers and sons . . .
The irony wasn’t lost on Fender as he pushed his way into the darkened interior.
He’d spent his life in and around bars and knew it was how people spent their time. Hell, he’d spent more than a fair number of nights of his own in bars, a figure that had only grown larger since his brother bought one. So how was it that there seemed to be a dividing line? One that separated enjoyable nights out from persistent habits?
He wasn’t one to judge and he didn’t mean to start now, but he couldn’t fully ignore the air of hopelessness that pervaded Duckie’s in a way he never felt at the End Zone.
“What can I get you?” The question came winging his way in a gravelly voice out of a grizzled face. It took Fender an extra second to realize it was Duckie Junior, in the flesh.
“Hey, Duck.”
“Blackstone?” They’d only been a year apart in school, but both had kept to themselves. His father had tried to encourage him to run with Duckie when they were young, but Fender hadn’t wanted anything to do with him and had maintained a wide berth.
“Yep. Heard my dad’s in town. You seen him?”
“He was in here last night.”
“Tell you when he’s coming back?”
Duckie’s eyes narrowed. “What do I look like, your brother? I don’t ask personal questions to anyone sitting at my bar.”
“You deaf, too? Don’t you listen to them?”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Fender took it in stride and snagged a seat. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome, so he figured he might as well just get what he came for. If it bothered Duckie, any indication of upset didn’t make it past the sneer. “He tell you where he’s staying?”
“No.”
“What he’s working on?”
“No.”
“Where he came back from?”
“No.”
Fender had to give the guy credit—Duckie did stupid asshole well—so he settled in as he sought his next move.
And he didn’t have to wait long.
“Beer, Duck.” Fender felt the air change as someone slipped into the seat next to him.
And came face-to-face with his father.
“My boy.” A sly grin split Trent’s face as he clamped a hand on Fender’s shoulder. “How you been?”
“Good.”
Time seemed to bend on itself as he took in the assault on his senses. The hand on his shoulder. The lingering scent of cigarette smoke he’d always associated with the old man. And the wizened face that showed far more living than Trent’s actual years on earth.
The old man had gotten, well, old.
“What are you doing here? Heard you got yourself a fancy shop now?”
The question was causal—the sort an old friend would ask—yet it made Fender instantly wary. “I’ve got a shop. Not sure I’d lay fancy on the description, but it’s mine.”
Fender didn’t miss the subtle flash of interest, fascinated to watch how quickly it was veiled behind a broad, generous smile. “That’s good. Real good. What brings you in here?”
“Looking for you, as a matter of fact. I was surprised to hear you’re back in town.”
“Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker.”
“Suppose so.”
“Brooklyn’s come up in the world.” Trent leaned closer, his gaze conspiratorial as he glanced around the bar. “Not that you’d know it from this place.”
“Things have changed.” But not nearly as much as he’d have liked, if the sick slosh of acid around his stomach was any indication.
“Barely recognize the place.”
Fender eyed the scarred bar, impatient to get the getting-to-know-you routine over and done with. “Why are you back?”
“Man’s not welcome in his hometown?”
“Not my question.”
“I had some business to attend to. Figured I’d come back here to get back on my feet. It’s been a tough few years.”
And here it was, Fender thought. The con.
“Spent some time in Ohio. Hooked up with a real nice gal there. Almost married her. And then she got the cancer.”
“What kind?”
“Hmmm?” Trent’s eyes were vague as he tipped a cigarette out of the pack.
“Her cancer. What type?”
“Tits, I think.” Trent nodded as his lighter flared. “Yep. Tits. Sad thing, ya know.”
“Sure is.”
If there even was a woman—and Fender was on the fence about that—his father’s compassion
was overwhelming at close range.
Not.
“So I’ve got to get going.”
“Stay. Have a beer with me.”
“Can’t.” Fender shrugged. “I need to get back to things.”
“Too busy to catch up with your old man?”
Fender shrugged again, forcing a casualness he didn’t feel. “We talked. We’ve caught up. There’s not much else to tell.”
“Some reunion.”
“I wasn’t looking for one.”
Trent’s eyes widened, smoke from his exhale spilling from his nose. “What are you here for?”
“Just checking up on you for myself. You know.” Fender stood and stared down at his father from his height over the bar stool. “So we could get the small talk bullshit out of the way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Trent hollered at his back.
Fender turned, determined to ensure his message was clear. “It means stay the hell away from me.”
* * *
Fender ordered a meatball sub at Gino’s and thought of Harlow. He briefly toyed with adding a second sub to his order and bringing it to her place later but knew from experience the bread wouldn’t hold up until then. Maybe he’d just plan on bringing her back here and they’d share one.
And then he thought better of it when his gaze flitted between Daphne and Landon and remembered the reason he’d asked them to lunch.
The two of them ordered, and Fender pulled out the cash to pay for all three. When Daphne began to protest, he shook his head. “My treat.”
In moments they were settled into a booth with fresh fountain drinks, the lunch crowd loud and boisterous around them.
“Thanks for lunch, Fender. I appreciate it.”
“Me too,” Landon added to Daphne’s thanks, his gaze narrowing. “Everything okay?”
“Can’t I buy a pretty woman lunch?” He shot Daphne a pointed wink, pleased when Landon let out a huff.
“I’m not saying that,” Landon said. “I just mean what’s going on? You texted us both a little while ago, and now you’re buying lunch. What’s up?”
“My father’s back in town.”
Twin looks of awareness matched on their faces, and it was hard to miss Landon’s added “shit” at the news.
