The Offer

by Karina Halle

  Maybe he finally knows just what he is to me.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bram

  “Hey, fuckface,” Linden says as I answer the phone.

  “Hello, Linden,” I say politely. I’m in the middle of a meeting with the board of directors from San Francisco’s Inner City Initiative and even though a coffee break has been called, there’s no way in hell I’m going to greet my brother like I usually do.

  “Caught you at a bad time, eh brother?” he says. “I’ll call back later.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Just wanted to check in with you,” he says, sounding defensive. “Jeez, your own family can’t see how you’re doing. I haven’t talked to you since you got back from your Disneyland excursion. Which, by the way, thanks a lot. Now Steph is harassing me wondering why she hasn’t been whisked off to the happiest place on earth. I don’t know how you did it with an actual child in tow.”

  His comment makes me flinch, as most of those types of comments usually do. “I did it for Ava,” I tell him, “as well as Nicola.”

  “Fine, fine,” he says. “I’m just saying, you’re a saint. And I never thought I’d call you that. She must be really getting under your skin. Don’t tell me you’re going to pull a Jerry Maguire and go all ga-ga over the kid. I can’t imagine Ava telling you how much the human head weighs.”

  No, but she would tell me the names of a lot of the dinosaurs from the Jurassic period. But I don’t mention that to Linden. I don’t want to give him any ammo.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I tell him, lowering my voice so the people at the end of the table sipping their water and making small talk, don’t hear, “I am ga-ga over Nicola. She’s a shag like you wouldn’t believe.” I had to throw that part in there or Linden might accuse me of being a body-snatcher victim.

  “I bet she is. Why else would you still be around?”

  I breathe out slowly through my nose, trying to not let him get to me. I knew my brother would never understand any of this, any of what I feel and anything that I’ve been through before. There is so much he doesn’t know about me, so much that no one knows, and lately I’ve been feeling like it’s all boiling too close to the surface.

  “You just watch out, Linden,” I tell him. “Pretty soon Steph is going to start harassing you for wee babies and then where the fuck are you going to be? You’re going to be taking them little shits to Disneyland and I’m going to be having the last laugh.” I pause. “And yes they’ll be little shits, because you were an epic shit when you were young and that will be your bloody karma.”

  He’s silent for a change. “I’d say the same to you,” he eventually says, “even though I know no girl in her right mind would ever want you to be her baby daddy.”

  And again, straight into the gut. I take another deep breath and remind myself that Linden has no idea.

  No idea.

  “Is that all you wanted to do?” I ask him, trying to sound unaffected and bored. “Trade barbs with me?”

  “Where are you anyway?”

  “Busy,” I tell him, not about to get into the specifics. He and my family still don’t know about the potential charity work, about my building and ideas. No one outside of Nicola knows and I much prefer it that way. Although tonight there is a black-tie gala for a fundraiser that attracts some pretty important local people. If Linden followed the news or local politics at all, he might get an idea.

  Thank God he just sticks to flying helicopters, though that’s obviously no small feat on its own.

  “I see,” he muses. “Well, whenever you’re not busy and you’re not shagging the single mum, come by and we can dip in some beers.” There’s a patch of silence. “Sometimes I miss you, brother. Just not this time.”

  “Fine,” I tell him. I whisper into the phone, adding, “Fuckface.”

  I hang up and then realize that the people at the end of the table – Mr. Arterton and Mr. Bayswater – have heard what I’ve said.

  I give them an apologetic smile. “Wrong number.”

  Thankfully the rest of the meeting goes well. Everyone is on board with my idea. It’s just that no one has the money. It’s kind of the same story everywhere I go. I guess things are a bit easier for me because the money has already been put down – I’ve bought the building and that’s a huge chunk of fundraising I don’t have to ask anyone else to do. But I need to have income coming in in order to pay the mortgage and that’s where people are always coming up short. They believe in it – they just don’t have the means to help.

  I leave them feeling particularly despondent about the whole thing. When I get home though and see Mrs. Williams in the hallway, the aging and disabled woman with too much heart and not enough strength, I’m reminded of why I’m doing this. I do want to help, to feel like I’m of fucking use for once in my life. Maybe it’s partly selfish – I don’t think you can make money unless you are – but it’s giving everything purpose.

  And so is Nicola. She’s not working today since we have the gala tonight, so before I even head to my apartment, I do what I usually do and go to hers first. I have a key now – well, I’ve always had one – but now I’m using it because I’m her lover and not her landlord.

  Lover. It’s not exactly the term I want to use to describe what I am to her, but I’m not sure what else will do. It’s funny how lover is seen as more appropriate than boyfriend when lover has, well, deeper connotations. But Nicola has seemed a bit cagey ever since Disneyland, which was a week ago, and I don’t want to push her.

  The truth is, I consider us together. I consider her my girlfriend, though I wouldn’t dare say it in case it freaks her out. Still, she has to come around sooner or later. I know I’ve not been completely honest with her and I know I have a few skeletons in my closet that could bite me in the arse. I know this. I just figure it will all come out in time, and when I’m ready. I want to establish trust first, a strong layer of it, that won’t shatter when she really gets to know me.

  It’s close. She’s close. I’m just not sure what I can do to make her let go with me. She’s come so far, become so open and free and, fuck, so sexually awake. But until I really get through her defenses and her fears, I don’t think she’ll trust me one hundred percent.

  Still, when I open the door and step inside her apartment, breathing in that familiar smell, that combination of coffee and plastic toys and her sweet skin, I have hope that the trust is there. That this is the day she lets go and gives herself to me completely. And I’m not talking body – I’ve had that all along. I mean her heart and her soul, the rarest things of all.

  “Hi,” she says brightly when she sees me. She’s dressed in just a towel, though her hair is all done and piled on top of her head and her makeup is perfectly applied. Too bad all that does is make me want to throw her on the bed, open up that towel and proceed to mess up all that time and effort.

  But I don’t. I ignore my cock twitching in my pants and stride over to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. That delicate shower-soft skin so intoxicating beneath my hands then I kiss her on the neck. She smells like a dream. I could be buried here.

  “You smell incredible,” I tell her.

  She giggles, squirming a bit. I know my stubble tickles her but that’s always half the fun.

  “Don’t get carried away,” she warns. “It took an hour to get my face and hair just right.”

  I pull back and inspect her. “Don’t you always look this way?”

  “Ha ha,” she says. “I need to get dressed and put in my earrings. But I’ll be ready in about twenty minutes. Ava’s just having a nap and Lisa should be here soon.”

  “It takes you twenty minutes to get dressed?” I ask her, as I sit down at the kitchen table and split open a banana from the bowl.

  She disappears into the bedroom, her voice carrying. “You know me. And you know I want to look good for this. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a black-tie event before.”

  “That’s no
t true,” I tell her mid-bite. “There was Linden’s wedding. And I know you’ll get a kick out of this, but guess where the gala is?”

  “Where?”

  “That same yacht club on the other side of the bridge. Same as the wedding.”

  I look over and I see her paused in the doorway of the bedroom, a long olive green dress in her hands.

  “You’re kidding me,” she says.

  “Nope.”

  She looks impressed as she considers that. “Wow. It’s like we’ve come full circle.”

  We’ll see, I think to myself as she disappears into the room.

  Thirty minutes later – not twenty – we’re in the back of a black town car and heading across the Golden Gate Bridge. The sun is setting over the pacific, illuminating the stray patches of fog and low-lying cloud that clings to the downtown buildings. It’s absolutely beautiful.

  And so is Nicola. She’s wearing a floor-length red gown with gold detail. It has a low back that just begs for me to lick up and down her spine, but a modest front. The material feels better than silk and thinner than a condom between my fingers and I deduce she’s not wearing any knickers either. I can see the outline of her breasts and it’s no wonder that I’m hard the entire ride. She used to lament that she couldn’t go without a bra because she had child-bearing breasts, but she’s become a little more free in that department and I’m grateful for it. In my opinion she has incredible tits.

  Actually, she has incredible everything. As we get out of the car and enter the gala, everyone there dressed to the nines, the tuxedoed waiters going around and handing out canapes and shrimp cocktails and foie gras and truffles, there’s no doubt that she’s the most beautiful woman around.

  And to think, to fucking think, she has no idea.

  “You’re so gorgeous it should be illegal,” I tell her after we grab two flutes of champagne off a server and slowly walk around the grounds.

  “You’re so handsome, it makes girls stupid,” she says and then jabs a thumb at herself. “Myself included.”

  I know she’s completely joking but it’s something she used to say and believe so often, back before we hooked up, that it smarts just a little.

  But I brush it aside and we continue to do the rounds. The truth is, situations like this have always made me a little nervous. I’m okay once I know someone, but here I don’t know a soul. I paid for both of us to be here and now that we are, I’m not sure who to approach. I’ve done my research and met with a lot of people thus far, but no one looks familiar.

  It isn’t until a bit later, when some speeches start being made about the fundraiser and the need to further develop San Francisco into a city that’s accommodating to all people with the emphasis placed on jobs, that I see Mr. Bayswater from earlier today. He wasn’t the one who invited me and I had no idea he would be here, but then again, I was talking their ears off earlier about my plans that I probably wasn’t listening.

  To my surprise though, at the end of the speech, he mentions my name. I have to do a double-take and Nicola nudges me in the side. I swallow, straightening my bow-tie, and stand up to show myself as Mr. Bayswater has asked.

  Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything, he just mentions my project and what I’m trying to achieve and then moves on. But when the speeches are all done for the night, I find myself being accosted by a reporter and a cameraman.

  “Are you Bram McGregor?” the woman with caked-on makeup and glow-in-the-dark veneers asks. When I tell her I am, and that I’m the man that Mr. Bayswater mentioned earlier, she thrusts the microphone in my face and starts interviewing me.

  I don’t recall giving her permission to do so but this is a great opportunity and I use every second of it. Actually, it feels really good to be discussing it with the potential of it really getting in people’s ears, all while Nicola looks on proudly in the background.

  The whole interview takes about five minutes and the reporter – Chelsea Chain, such a fake-arse name – says they’ll probably whittle it down into a quick soundbite for the section they are doing. Doesn’t matter to me. I finally feel like I’m behind something that could have legs.

  “That was fucking hot,” Nicola whispers to me once the reporter moves on to someone else.

  I glance down at her while she slides her dainty hands underneath the lapels of my tuxedo. “Was it now?”

  “Oh yeah,” she says, looking hungry and not for food but for cock, the best kind of hungry.

  I know it’s probably a risk in asking her this, lest it conjure up some bad memories, but I say to her, “How about we go back into the past and finish what we started?”

  Hesitation washes over her brow for just a second, her glossy lips held in a pout, then a sly smile tugs them apart. “Sure.”

  I grab her hand and lead her through the crowd, remembering the path that took us around the building and to the garden.

  Sure enough, there is no one back here and the sounds of the gala are muffled, sounding far away. Fucking brilliant, the stone bench is still here too.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I tell her, sitting her down on the bench. “And by comfortable, I mean scootch over to the end here and get on all fours.”

  “Wait,” she says, lifting a finger. “Did you screw that blonde chick here?”

  “No,” I tell her, knowing she’d ask that. “It was in the bushes over there. And it wasn’t very fun to be honest. No one wants a thorn up their backside. At least, I don’t.” I pause, giving her a delicious grin. “But perhaps you’re game for something a lot bigger than a thorn.” I wiggle my thumb at her.

  She rolls her eyes and I know she probably won’t graduate beyond my thumb for a long time.

  She’s still not moving though, so I tell her again and she finally gets on all fours and backs up till she’s at the end of the bench. I stand behind her and flip up her dress so it’s gathered around her waist. Her arse looks so fucking amazing, I can’t help but cup her cheeks in my hands, my fingers digging into her soft flesh. My need is wanton, elicit, and real. I squeeze and kneed them for a bit before my dick starts to ache in my pants, begging for attention. Then I unzip myself free and bring out a condom from my jacket pocket.

  “Always prepared,” she comments and wriggles that decadent arse in front of me.

  “Stop teasing me,” I warn her, smacking her lightly on the cheek. “I’d rather not come all over your dress.” I see her shake her head slightly. “Okay, I would totally love to shoot my cum all over that expensive piece of fabric you’re wearing and cover you in it from head to toe. But I won’t.”

  “Because you’re a gentleman.”

  “Oh that’s right.” I smack her other cheek. “The best kind.”

  So I have her right there on that stone bench, the way I should have had her last year at the wedding. I take her rough and hard and wild and we don’t care who the hell hears us because we can’t be filtered.

  But the truth is, I’m glad that it didn’t happen that way, that we didn’t have sex at the wedding. I would have never gotten to know her and knowing me, she would have just been another shag. Sure, I would have seen something challenging in her, maybe I would have been compelled to let that wild child out. But it was her resistance to me, her devotion and dedication to her child, to everything but herself, that made me obsessed with her to begin with. It may have taken time for our paths to cross again, but I’m eternally glad they did.

  “Everything in due time,” I say after we’ve both come and we’re catching our breath. I zip up my pants and dispose of the condom in the nearest trash can.

  “What?” she asks, her voice dreamy as she straightens out her dress. She looks so unbelievably beautiful after sex that I often have to pinch myself. Or herself. And then pinching just leads to more sex and the circle continues.

  I grin at her. “That’s my motto. I told you last time we were here that I didn’t have one, and well, now I do. Everything in due time.” I pause. “And yours is live with no regrets
.”

  She nods and walks toward me. “What do you mean, everything in due time?” There’s hope in her eyes, something that wasn’t there earlier.

  “I mean,” I say as she wraps her arms around me. I gaze down at her, lost in her charm, in her very soul, “that if we had shagged back then, we wouldn’t be where we are now. That in some way, we were meant to be together. That we were meant to part and then come together again. Maybe we both had to change in the smallest of ways in order for this work.”

  “Well, I got fired. I wouldn’t say that change was in my hands,” she says. Her tone is joking but there’s this depth to her stare, a wistfulness over her brow.

  “In due time, it all works out,” I tell her. “This is working out, isn’t it?”

  For one wee second I’m deathly afraid that she might tell me it’s not working out. My heart seems to rattle in my chest.

  But then she smiles, so softly, and places her hands around my neck. She licks her lips, nervous. “It’s more than working out, Bram,” she whispers. She swallows and traces my face with her delicate fingertips. I close my eyes to her touch, to her, to everything she makes me feel.

  “Bram,” she says, sounding hushed. “I’m in love with you.”

  She’s in love with me.

  In love.

  With me.

  My chest bloody aches. It’s not what she’s said. What she’s said makes my soul want to sing, maybe scream a little. Tell the whole world that for some fucking reason, Nicola Price is in love with me.

  It’s so much, so heavy, so…bloody undeserved.

  But my chest aches and my gut feels heavy, weighted, because I know I can’t say the words back. Because I’m just not there yet. I’m almost there, but I won’t lie to her. I wouldn’t lie about something so rare and complicated as love.

  In due time, I want to say again, I will feel the same.

  But I can’t say that either. Things are far, far too complex than she even knows and if she knew the things I’m keeping from her, the things I’ve kept from everyone, she’d probably take it all back.