Only You

by Addison Fox

  Yes.

  She’d known it all—could practically see the consequences in her mind’s eye whenever she’d toyed with the idea of dating him—and yet she’d gone and done it anyway.

  “Well, you needn’t worry any longer.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Fender and I are no longer seeing each other.”

  “Why not?” Gretchen’s gaze grew sharp, her mouth turning down in a frown. “Is the man blind? You’re the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  The one-eighty was startling, but the outright shock that painted Gretchen’s face was the real surprise. “Are you listening to yourself?”

  “Yes, and I know exactly what I’m saying. It’s one thing for you to end the relationship out of kindness to me. It’s quite another to be . . .” Her mother’s frown deepened, “dumped.”

  “I wasn’t—” She broke off at that, the hot, bitter tears welling in her eyes. “He did dump me.”

  Gretchen pulled her close, her arms warm as they wrapped around her. “I’m not going to say I’m sorry for it. But I am sorry you’re hurt.”

  If it didn’t hurt so badly, Harlow might have laughed at her mother’s need to clarify. As it was, all she could do was stand there and take what little comfort she could from the one person on earth who was pleased she was no longer dating the cause of her heartbreak.

  “Did he tell you why?” Her mother’s voice was gentle, her tone soothing as she stroked Harlow’s hair.

  “He said we’re too different. That our backgrounds are too far apart.”

  “He’s not wrong about that.”

  Harlow pulled back from the embrace and wiped at the hot tears on her cheeks. “Really? You’re going to be a snob now?”

  “It’s not snobby to acknowledge the truth. You don’t have to agree with it, but your lives are different. To ignore that is as shortsighted and as narrow-minded as that man is being.”

  “That doesn’t mean our differences are insurmountable.”

  “No.” Her mother shook her head. “But it does mean it takes even more work than relationships normally do.”

  The urge to argue was strong, but so was the pervasive sense of sadness that had covered Harlow like a blanket the moment she’d walked into her apartment. There had been such an overwhelming sense of finality to her exchange with Fender in the car. Like he’d made up his mind and that was all there was to the matter.

  It was infuriating. And hurtful. And the culmination of his behavior for the past week.

  Ever since the night they made love for the first time—the night he’d come over to tell her he wanted nothing to do with her—he’d managed the boundaries of the relationship. Could she honestly say she wanted to be with someone who had so little care for her needs and opinions?

  So little acknowledgment of her feelings in everything that had happened?

  She’d spent the past few weeks amazed and impressed by his chivalry. How disappointing to realize that same sense of chivalry hid a man who was unable to truly share the load.

  She wanted a partner, damn it, not someone who couldn’t see her strength, or her commitment, or her ability to care for herself. He consoled himself with the idea that their differences were the driving force behind his behavior. Or his father’s re-emergence in his life.

  But all it really meant was that he wanted to make the rules. Well to hell with that.

  Her mother gestured toward the couch. “Are you feeling better?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose that’s the way of it.”

  The past months with her mother had been exceptionally hard, and Harlow considered all those moments of frustration. “What suddenly changed your mind, and what have you done with my mother?”

  “No one hurts my baby.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Harlow wanted to believe her mother. But Gretchen had shown willful determination throughout the summer to work against an agenda that lived only in her head. Was it possible she’d changed her tune that quickly because of seeing her child suffer? Or was something else at play?

  “Forgive me if I’m not quite ready to buy the change of heart.”

  Gretchen shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.”

  As answers went it didn’t amount to much, but Harlow was suddenly so tired, she realized it didn’t matter. She was tired of questioning and trying to figure it out. More, she was tired of feeling so many feelings that had been disregarded by Fender as easily as the empty food wrappers they’d disposed of at the Glen.

  She wasn’t disposable, nor were her emotions or the way she felt about him. And whatever his outward behavior suggested, she knew Fender didn’t see the world that way.

  So how did she make him see reason?

  And if she couldn’t, how was she going to live without him?

  * * *

  The three beers he’d had with his brothers did nothing to take the edge off, but Fender was smart enough to know he wasn’t getting in his car, either. He’d gotten to the End Zone early enough to get a spot in Nick’s small parking lot, and the bonus of being brother to the owner was that he didn’t risk a tow.

  “You only had one beer. You driving me home?” He eyed Landon across the expanse of Nick’s office.

  “Yeah. I have a big presentation tomorrow, hence the responsible routine. I’ll give you a lift.”

  The temptation of another beer was great, but Fender tamped it down. He had a fridge full at home, and since he was miserable company in public, he might as well be equally miserable in private. Plus it would get him out of the way of his brothers’ knowing gazes.

  What had started out as a bitch fest had quickly morphed into a strategy session, and he didn’t like it. Trent Blackstone was his problem, and he’d be damned if he wanted Nick or Landon poking around in that mess. Nick had a great business going, between the End Zone and what he and Emma were building at the Unity Brewery. They didn’t need to get on the radar of any small-time thugs in the neighborhood.

  And Landon was hooked up with a cop. Fender appreciated the extra attention the NYPD was placing on his father’s return to the neighborhood, but Landon needed to stay far away from the nastier specifics of Trent’s choices. The last thing Landon’s decorated detective and soon-to-be wife needed was having her fiancé take a run at someone so not worth his time.

  Nope. He’d handle this on his own, despite his deepest gratitude that his brothers had his back.

  Just like always.

  Fender dragged his bags from his trunk, then shoved everything into Landon’s SUV before climbing in himself. Geez, even the car had the reminders of Daphne in it, with a lipstick rolling in the cup holder and a pink phone charger sticking out of the cigarette lighter. “Nice charger.”

  He offered the comment up as a lame attempt at humor and only got his brother’s large, dopey grin in return. “Daphne likes pink.”

  “And she’s branded herself all over your car. I’m guessing that’s not your shade of lipstick,” Fender pointed toward the small cylinder in the cup holder. “I’m also guessing that’s not your tutu I saw in the backseat, when I put my bag back there.”

  “Daphne’s niece. We drove her to ballet on Saturday.”

  “Just so long as it’s not yours.”

  Landon’s good-natured laugh couldn’t break through the thick heartache that had accompanied Fender since his car ride with Harlow, but it did go a long way toward lightening his spirits a bit. His brother had always been good for a laugh, and the easy camaraderie was appreciated more than Fender could say.

  “You want me to come up?” Landon asked a few blocks from Fender’s apartment. “I’m hungry, and I wasn’t in the mood for one more round of fried food at Nick’s.”

  “He does serve salads.”

  The finger gesture in response was swift and immediate. “You know what I meant.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Although he had planned on some time alone, the offer of
dinner with his brother would keep him occupied for a few more hours, and Landon wasn’t quite as bloodthirsty as Nick. With the proper nudge, he’d likely get his brother off discussions about going after Trent. “Swing by the corner and we can get a couple of gyros at Zorba’s.”

  Landon did as he asked, and Fender ran in for the food. Stefan was always good for a quick meal, and the man had the gyros made and wrapped in barely five minutes. Fender snagged the paper bag, the warm scents of lamb and pita rising up to greet him.

  “Smells good,” Landon said before executing an impressive K-turn to back into a spot in front of Fender’s building.

  “Hey,” Fender remembered, “How’d the zombie pitch go? It was this morning, wasn’t it?”

  “It went well. And they’re interested.” Landon’s grin lit up the car as he put it into park. “Very interested.”

  Fender kept his own smile high, but a shot of remorse lasered through him, gutting him as cleanly as the zombies. “You should be out celebrating.”

  Landon tapped the bag before he pushed out of the SUV. “Looks like I am.”

  Fender ignored the gratitude that pricked the back of his eyes, suspiciously like tears, and snagged the bag of food and his duffle from the back of the car. The scents of warm food wafted up toward him as he headed for the door. He was more than ready to shake off the day with dinner, a few more beers, and whatever ball game he and Landon could dig up on the TV. And he wanted to hear all about the zombie pitch.

  It was a good plan—a fine plan—even if it didn’t include Harlow. And it all came crashing down the moment Fender walked through his front door.

  “Fuck me.”

  “What?” Landon nearly ran into him before stopping short. “What’s the problem?”

  “Son of a fucking bitch.” The words tore from Fender’s throat and seemed to echo in the small entryway of his apartment. “Someone’s been here.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Fender paced the living room. The baseball game was turned on low. The noise was a steady din—he heard none of it beyond a persistent hum—but it was nice to have the company as Daphne stood at his kitchen counter and called in the situation.

  He and Landon had made quick work of checking out the apartment, but it was empty. His father wasn’t there, but his stamp was imprinted on every damn inch of the place, including the case of beer he’d guzzled out of the fridge. A full case, as evidenced by the empty cans he’d left in a garbage bag by the sink.

  It was the garbage bag that really stuck in Fender’s craw. It wasn’t bad enough his father had broken in, but those fucking cans were proof of just how long he’d spent in the apartment, making himself at home. Living off his son like a leech.

  Daphne tapped the face of her phone and pulled out the earbuds she’d used to make her calls. “I’m really sorry about this, Fender.”

  “No one saw him?”

  She shook her head. “No one. The super will be up in a bit to change the locks, and the uniforms are going to canvas the building and surrounding areas to see if anyone saw him, but he laid low all weekend.”

  “Yeah, I figured that based on the beer.” Fender had also checked out his depleted fridge and freezer and the bowls still in the sink, and he knew he’d had company all weekend.

  The anger that had ridden him throughout the afternoon sparked again, only instead of frustration at his own actions toward Harlow, he now had a ready outlet with his father. He’d been expecting the old man to come nosing around at work. He’d even braced for the possibility of a showdown at one of Mama Lou’s events. But to shack up in his apartment all weekend?

  Feelings he’d believed long buried curled in his stomach, curdling there like sour milk. Ever since Nick had filled him in and let him know Trent was back, Fender had fought the subtle, insidious feeling of his past encroaching in on him. Closing in around him with thick, insurmountable walls.

  There was only one person on earth who had the power to make him feel that way, and it was Trent Fucking Blackstone, Park Heights’s leading candidate for father of the year.

  “You want to bunk at my place?” Landon stood beside him, right where he’d been Fender’s entire life. Or the years of his life that counted.

  “Nah. You and Daph—” Before he could get the words out—could deny just how badly his skin crawled and how much he wanted out of his own goddamn home—Landon had him pulled close, in a tight hug.

  “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to find him and do something about him.”

  Once again, Fender was forced to admit his brother might be long, wiry and deceptively lean, but he was strong and solid, too. “Thanks, L. But he’s mine to deal with.”

  Landon’s arms tightened before he added a solid smack on the back of Fender’s head. “We’re brothers, you asshole. You’re not dealing with this alone. Nor are you a ten-year-old kid trying to stay off his radar. We’re going to handle this. You don’t have to go it alone.”

  So how did he explain that he did have to go it alone? That the same forces that had shaped him had made him absolutely certain his father would make problems for those Fender loved. Trent Blackstone was a miserable bastard with a mean streak like a snake, and once he got his teeth in something he didn’t let go.

  “It’s like I’ve been marking time, you know?” His throat was raw, but suddenly it was deeply important to get it out. To rid himself of the words. “Like no matter what I’ve done, or what I’ve worked to build, all it took was a flick of his wrist and my father managed to tear it all down.”

  “I know.”

  And Landon did know. His rediscovery of his birth mother around the same time he’d met Daphne had stirred up feelings that had nearly busted them up before Landon had figured out how to deal with all of it.

  Before he’d found a way to live with his past.

  In L’s case, it was learning to live with his mother’s poor decisions that had spilled over onto him. Since she’d gone straight and worked to clean up her life, she’d begun to rebuild all the damaged pieces, and Landon was a part of that. But his mother wasn’t violent, mean, or ill-tempered. She wasn’t a thief, and she didn’t carry around a vendetta.

  Trent Blackstone did.

  “We’ve got your back, Fender. Whatever your father is planning, we’ve got you. He’s not going to succeed.”

  Fender fought returning to that place in his mind where he’d buried memories of his father. The crappy, rundown apartment across town that still lived in his memories and reached up to claw at him in nightmares every now and again. The fists that had bunched and pummeled when he did something wrong. And the snake-mean words that had consistently told him what a burden he was and what a little shit he’d turned out to be.

  He fought it with all he had.

  But even he knew, sometimes the best of fighters lost. And the knockouts were often the punches you never saw coming.

  * * *

  Heavy metal throbbed out of the back of the garage, which meant Junior Timmons had won the toss that morning. His guys, along with Annie, had a system for deciding what went on the radio. A complicated mix of gambling, rock-scissors-paper, and an occasional plea for mercy when three days in a row of anything had begun to chafe against the best of spirits, dictated what they played on the satellite radio at Blackstone’s Auto Body.

  Personally, Fender preferred his rock a bit less death-metally, but he’d get by.

  Fender called a quick meeting of his staff, going over and over in his mind what he wanted to say. In moments, everyone who was in that day had surrounded him in one of the bays, one of them thoughtful enough to turn down the radio before joining the team huddle.

  “I appreciate you all holding down the fort while I was gone.”

  “That was a great race this weekend,” Junior piped up from the back.

  “It was,” he agreed, swallowing around the tightness in his throat. “So look, somethi
ng happened over the weekend.”

  Gathering his thoughts, Fender took a deep breath and pushed through it. The details of his father’s return. A description of Trent as best as he knew it. And a recounting of the break-in and subsequent holiday his father had spent squatting in his apartment.

  “I need you to be alert, and don’t feel you need to engage him.”

  His crew nodded their agreement, and every one of them was understanding and encouraging, offering their support as they walked back to their various jobs around the garage. Which left Annie Foreman as the last one who lingered.

  “Boss? Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  Annie motioned toward an alcove off the main garage, which housed their fridge and small kitchen area. Fender had known Annie for a long time and had never seen her upset. But the quivering lip and tear-filled eyes were impossible to miss.

  “Annie? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m the reason your dad broke in.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  Tears continued to fill her eyes, spilling over as she shook her head. “It’s true. He was in here on Friday, and I met him and talked to him. I was the one who told him you weren’t around all weekend.”

  “But Annie, this isn’t your fault.”

  “Sure it is. If it weren’t for my big mouth, he’d never have gone to your place. I saw Barbara trying to shake him off at the front desk and thought she was messing with a customer, like how she can get with her snooty attitude. And then when he said he was your dad, I saw a bit of resemblance. And then I ran my big mouth.”

  Fender comforted her for a few more minutes, piecing together what must have happened after Trent visited the garage on Friday. Annie had given him the details of race weekend, and his father had done the rest. The busted locks and garbage at his apartment told the rest of the story.

  Once he finally managed to console Annie and assure her that her “big mouth” wasn’t responsible for anything, he made a quick call to Daphne. The news in return—that Trent still hadn’t been sighted—only added to his building anger.