Only You

by Addison Fox

  He’d believed that he’d gone through every emotion the day before, so it was humbling to realize there were a whole host of them he hadn’t experienced yet. All along with a ferocious wrath that burned in his blood and pushed him toward a desperate desire to act.

  Underpinning it all was the continued ache that he’d sent Harlow away. Even in the midst of all the bullshit with his father, she still found a way into his thoughts.

  And his heart.

  * * *

  Harlow worked her way through the day, focused on the mental equivalent of putting one foot in front of the other. She diligently worked through her to-do list, checking off one item after the next. That sort of productivity would normally make her feel like an accomplished ass-kicker, but today, it was just a glum reminder of the fact that she had nothing better to do.

  No dinner dates to get to. No plans to rush home for. And not one single outreach from Fender.

  Although their discussion in the car and all that had come after had seemed horribly final, somewhere around three that morning she began to wonder if they could find their way past it. He’d been surly at dinner the week before and gotten over it. And Friday afternoon had been the same. Things were new between them, and they’d moved fast.

  Maybe he was just processing things, her three A.M. self whispered.

  Only things hadn’t gotten better in the bright light of day. Nor had he called. Or texted. Or emailed.

  Or just come by.

  She toyed with marching over to Brooklyn to do it herself, but something held her back. The self-righteous indignation that had carried her through her conversation with her mother and on into the night had faded, replaced with the finality of Fender’s choices.

  He had dumped her.

  And that hurt, way down in the places she avoided looking at too deeply. Fender’s rejection now lived alongside her father’s, Kincaide Reynolds’s extracurricular activities as much a betrayal of his family as they were of his marriage. Those rejections lived beside the expectations of others, who believed her interest in art was frivolous and simply a pastime until she found a husband.

  All of it sat uncomfortably atop her own thoughts about herself. That she’d spent her life preparing for it to start, and maybe the sad truth was that it already had. And what she had to show for it was empty, vapid and unsatisfying.

  * * *

  Fender plowed through the paperwork that had piled up over the weekend. Barbara had already taken the deposits to the bank, but he still had to process invoices from some of his vendors, and reorder any needed inventory. He went through the motions, the usual satisfaction he took from being a business owner nowhere in sight as he slogged through each page.

  Landon had been on his ass to automate, and he’d taken a few steps in that direction, but maybe he needed to do more. Maybe the mind-numbing focus he’d need to change gears and redo his business was just what he needed. Or fuck the automation. He’d been eyeing a sweet GTO that was going up for auction in a few weeks. The car needed a shit-ton of work and restoring it to its former glory would give him something to focus on.

  Something that wasn’t Harlow.

  “Look at you, my boy. A businessman in Brooklyn.”

  The scent of cigarette smoke hit him seconds before the scratchy voice. Fender glanced up; a lifetime’s worth of anger and pain and grief stood in his office doorway. A million ways to play the scene flitted through Fender’s mind, but he ultimately opted for keen disinterest. “Heard you were back in town.”

  The darkness that hooded Trent Blackstone’s gaze—and the clear disappointment he’d not gotten a rise out of his son—gave Fender the boost he needed, and he added another jab before his father could speak. “Saw you were back in town, come to think of it. With the shit-ton of garbage you left in my kitchen, it was hard to miss the news.”

  Trent did grin then, the harsh, craggy lines of his face grooving deep. “I could hardly make a sound around the neighbors by trying to dump out the trash, now could I? Plus, I figured it made for a nice calling card.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Always were an eloquent little shit.”

  Trent dropped his cigarette on the ground and stomped it under his boot before taking the chair opposite Fender’s desk. He propped his feet up on the edge of the scarred wood, the dark stain of ash still riding the tip of one boot. “Neighborhood’s changed.”

  “You’ve been gone from it a long time.” Refusing to pull any punches, Fender pressed on. “Why are you back?”

  “Man’s not welcome in his hometown?”

  “What were you expecting, a parade?”

  “Maybe.” Trent shrugged. “Maybe not. This town always was a piece of shit anyway. I was happy the day I got the fuck out of here.”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Few places. Better places than this shit hole.”

  Fender doubted it, but he remained quiet, strangely curious to hear where his father had been all this time.

  “Spent the last few years in Ohio. Lots of work there. Texas before that. Oklahoma before that.”

  “A rolling stone.”

  “Man’s gotta make a living.” Trent twisted in his chair, his gaze roaming over the cars up on the lifts, visible through the window of Fender’s office. “You’re making one here.”

  “I get by.”

  “That’s a BMW 8 series up on the lift. Don’t bullshit me, boy. You do more than fine.”

  Fender had done more than fine, and he was proud of it. He took something he loved—a personal passion—and channeled it into his life’s work. And he’d be damned if he was letting his asshole father come in here and taint it. “We’ve caught up long enough. What do you want and what is it going to take to get you the hell out of town?”

  Trent pulled his feet off the desk, dropping them to the ground with a thud before he leaned forward toward. The move was threatening and vintage Trent, but Fender saw it in a different light.

  The eyes of a child had given way to the eyes of a man. And the aging, skinny shell of the man across from him didn’t hold nearly the power that he used to.

  “Seems you could show a bit more respect to your father.”

  Fender stood then, pushing back hard on his chair so that it slammed into the wall. “Seems like you could get a fucking clue about where you’re not welcome.”

  Trent came to his feet as well, his sneer the only advantage he had. “Always were an ungrateful little bastard.”

  “Yeah, well, I learned from the best. And I want you the fuck out of here. Out of my garage. Out of my life. You’ve spent the last fifteen years in a hole. Go crawl back into it.”

  * * *

  Trent rapidly calculated the angles, reluctantly impressed at Fender’s outburst. If he weren’t so goddamn desperate, he might actually be proud of his son. He’d spent his life messing up sniveling little assholes who couldn’t pay up on a debt, or who’d buried their lives in the bottom of a bottle and now needed to pay the mortgage, and not one of them had ever done anything but beg. It made a man feel big.

  Powerful.

  But standing there, watching his son stand tall . . . Hell, if he weren’t in such dire straits, he might be tempted to hug the little shit.

  He’d raised an ass kicker.

  “Look, all I need is a bit of blunt, and I’ll get out of your life.”

  Fender stood, coming around his desk to stand by the door. “You get nothing.”

  Trent eyed the BMW once more, rapidly cycling through his options. The whole trip back to Brooklyn had been a crap idea and he needed to get out. His contacts had all died or gone to jail, the new guys running the neighborhood didn’t have any respect for the way things worked, and even women were hard to come by. Before leaving Ohio he’d toyed with moving to Florida permanently—a guy he knew ran numbers down in Hialeah and needed a bruiser—but he’d had some romantic notion of coming home.

  Fuck that.

  He needed some cash to get set up
and settled, and he could build a nice life for himself in Florida. The state might be a fucking swamp, but he’d never be cold.

  Bright side.

  “You’re doing well. Least you could do is give the old man a piece of it.”

  “Why?” Fender cocked his head, his stare dead on. Trent remembered those eyes. Fender’s mother had them, too. That crazy, crystal green, and direct as a gun to the head. He’d never known what she would do and, for a while, he’d found that unpredictability sexy. He got over it real quick when she ran off and left him with the kid.

  “Why what?”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “Because I’m your father.”

  “You’re really not.”

  Something about the casual response, coupled with that dead-eyed stare, pissed Trent off. Yeah, he was desperate. And he needed the money more than he could say.

  But he’d be damned if he was going to take that shit.

  “Never did know your place. You’ll show me some respect.”

  “When hell freezes, old man.”

  Just like that, he was back in the old apartment he’d shared with the kid. Little shit needed to learn some manners.

  Some respect.

  The present folded in on the past, and Trent moved before he could check the impulse. He leaped around the narrow space of the desk, dragging at Fender’s shirt collar. He had a good grip and managed to pull the kid forward, slamming a fist into his stomach. That was the last solid punch he got before his hands were trapped against his sides, held tight so he couldn’t move.

  Fender kept on moving, the hard strength of his hold matched to the force of his motions, and Trent stumbled forward as Fender slammed him into the wall. His cheek rubbed against painted concrete as he struggled against the hold.

  “Let me go.”

  “Listen well, old man. You’re going to leave here, and you’re going to get the fuck out of Park Heights. I don’t care where you go or what you do, but I want you gone.”

  “You need to learn some respect.”

  “I don’t think so.” That hard grip tightened another fraction. “It’s your turn.”

  Trent said nothing, just stood there breathing hard and trying to figure out what he was going to do. Unbidden, the memory of that campaign pamphlet in Fender’s kitchen came back to him.

  Along with an idea.

  As it took shape and grew, Trent knew how he’d get his money so he could hightail his ass to Hialeah. And he’d get to give his kid one more lesson in the process.

  On who was really boss.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Gretchen glanced at the folded paper in her hands once more as she checked the address. She’d given the details to the driver, but for some reason, reading and rereading the paper made the unfamiliar landscape easier to watch through the car window.

  Brooklyn.

  She’d lived in New York her entire life and could count on one hand—likely three fingers, really—how many times she’d come to the borough. Driving through on a trip somewhere didn’t technically count. And the one time Kincaide had gotten them lost driving home from Kennedy Airport didn’t count either.

  This was where her daughter had been coming. And this was where the man she loved came from. Where he made his life and his home.

  Something had clicked the other night with Harlow, whether Gretchen wanted to admit it or not. Something had yanked her from the grief and anger and pain that had suddenly descended on her a few months ago.

  The memories of Kincaide—the ones she’d managed to keep locked away, unwilling to pull them out or think about them—had finally had their vengeance. The choices she’d made. The willingness to stay in a bad marriage. Even the mental pedestal she’d placed him on since his death.

  All of it had come crashing down.

  Those memories of Kincaide had twisted over and around her personal unhappiness at the possibility of facing the rest of her life alone. She’d not dared to mention it to any of her friends—their lunches were about polite conversation, discussions of the grandchildren she didn’t have but longed for, and their latest home-decoration projects. They didn’t discuss things like disillusionment, regret, or anger.

  Ever.

  She’d managed on with her life—or convinced herself she had—but it had all come to a head as she held her weeping daughter in her arms. How humbling to realize that all she’d refused to put into words had taken their toll on Harlow, too.

  Yes, it was painful to think about facing the child of Louisa Mills regularly. It was more painful to consider her daughter might lose her chance at happiness.

  The driver slowed at the corner and turned to face her. “Here’s the address you requested. The Park Heights Senior Center.”

  “Thank you.” Gretchen sat still for a moment longer, gathering herself through a quick application of lipstick before she climbed out of the car. It was time to apologize.

  And time to see that her daughter had a shot at the happiness she so deserved.

  * * *

  Harlow scribbled a few notes as she played with the palate of filters and dimmer switches they had built electronically into the gallery lighting system. She wanted a certain mood for the next exhibit—something diametrically opposite from Johnson’s show—and the lighting would play a huge part in that.

  She’d been at it for an hour and still hadn’t found the lighting cues that she was going for. Johnson’s work was dark and whimsical, but her next artist focused heavily on the use of rich oils, and Harlow wanted the exact right angle of light to highlight the pieces.

  “Harlow.”

  Jennifer walked over, her Friday flats hitting the floor silently as she walked. “We just got a strange ping on the car-service account.”

  “Neither of us have taken a car for a few weeks.”

  “That’s my point. Someone went to Brooklyn on our account this morning.”

  “Where?” A sinking feeling hit her stomach, and Harlow fought the rising anger.

  “The Park Heights Senior Center.”

  “Shit.” Harlow handed the small, handheld console over to Jennifer. “I need to go.”

  “Want me to call you a car?”

  “Nope. A taxi will be quicker.”

  As she ran to her office to get her purse, Harlow couldn’t quite get the past the strange turn of events. She’d spent the past few days debating if she should or shouldn’t to go Brooklyn. She’d opted to keep to her side of the bridge, and it was her mother, of all people, who was going to get her to cross to the other side.

  * * *

  Louisa smiled at the older couple and waved as they turned to leave. She’d known Clyde and Jane Roosevelt since the boys were small, the couple good friends with Turner and June Monroe. She hadn’t seen them since June’s funeral a few years before and it was good to catch up.

  It was also a good reminder that there were many people in Park Heights pulling for her. People who encouraged her bid for borough president. Yet another shot in the arm that she was making the right choice.

  Like Dave.

  He was the right choice. And one she’d spent the past few days wondering why she’d taken so damn long to make. The time they’d already spent together had been amazing and more than she had even expected it could be. The long walks, the conversation and the sex—God, it had been so long since she’d had that in her life. The past few days had been a spectacular end to that dry spell.

  It had also shown her that her stubborn insistence on ignoring that part of her life had been far more shortsighted than she realized.

  The companionship was good. The connection with another soul even better.

  While she had no interest in getting ahead of herself, it was funny to juxtapose the early, tentative stage of her relationship with Dave to the older couples she’d come to expect at these events. There was a pattern, Louisa knew, and a dynamic she’d come to recognize. There were a certain number of folks who wanted to come up at the end of
the session and talk. Some were content to sit at the back. And some enjoyed taking the mic during the question-and-answer period.

  Whatever the style, the discussions had given her an opportunity to hear the real situations people were dealing with, and the genuine hope they had that a public official could make a difference in their lives.

  With thoughts of Dave and their coffee date, where she was heading next, singing in the back of her mind, she gathered up her things and headed for the main office. After handing in the lavaliere microphone and thanking the director who helped set up the event, Louisa headed for the exit. Emily spent a fair amount of time at the senior center, and Louisa liked seeing the way the place functioned as both community center and entertainment area. Laughter echoed down the hall, and positive energy filled the building.

  Which made the quick shot of perfume and the crisply dressed woman standing at the exit stand out. If it were just the white slacks and black sweater set, that would have been enough. But the subtle disdain that carved the woman’s lips into a frown was the real indication she didn’t belong.

  Or that’s what Louisa told herself.

  In reality, perhaps it was the simple fact that a ghost from her past stood between her and the door.

  “Gretchen.”

  “Louisa.”

  The slightest nod was all she got in additional greeting, and Louisa fought the urge to smooth her blouse and pat at her hair. In Gretchen she saw shades of Harlow. The tall, slender figure. The elegant neckline. The subtle, refined air of confidence.

  What she hadn’t seen in Gretchen’s daughter was that layer of untouchability that the mother seemed to wear like a suit.

  She remembered that from the first holiday party, before she and Kincaide had become lovers, when she met Gretchen for the first time. The woman had struck her as cold, in a way that was lonely and sad. When Kincaide had spoken of her—had talked about their marriage being over—it was easy to understand why. It had been so easy to believe him.

  “What are you doing here?” she finally asked, the hazy memories of a holiday long past fading away.

  “I came to discuss our children.”