Have Me

by Jo Leigh

  To what?

  The donor dinner. Duh.

  Rebecca blinked at the text, the message not fully computing for a full minute. She wasn’t going to invite Jake to the donor dinner. He’d feel horribly out of place. Although she would certainly prefer sitting next to him rather than her cousin Reggie, not so affectionately known as Peckerhead, at least by Rebecca and Charlie. She took a sip of coffee before she set to typing again.

  I can’t invite him. Awkward.

  For who?

  Him!

  Really? CW

  Hey, who let you into this convo?

  Sorry, he read over my shoulder. Stole my phone. I’ve slugged him.

  Charlie, go away.

  Is he a porn star? A gigolo? Missing teeth, perhaps? CW

  Bite me.

  Rebecca started typing instantly, before Charlie could get a text in edgewise.

  It’s not his kind of thing.

  Says U. Ask.

  Yeah, ask. I’m still betting missing teeth. Front uppers. CW

  If I’d wanted a pain in the ass relative, I’d have had a brother. I have to go back to work.

  Think about it. CW

  Rebecca got out of her text screen and put her phone in her right-hand drawer. She glanced at the report, but didn’t linger. Her mind was far too occupied by the notion of inviting Jake to the banquet. The idea had grown roots during that brief, weird conversation. Not all of them pleasant.

  Jake in a tuxedo? That she could deal with. In fact, she wanted to see that very, very badly. Something tailored, fitting those broad shoulders and tapering to his waist. Black, almost traditional, but perhaps a hint of cerulean blue in his cuff links? It would have to be subtle, not even his pocket kerchief, a mere spot of blue. Maybe Burberry or Tom Ford, definitely single button and razor-sharp lapels.

  She realized she was smiling when she reached for her coffee, but the grin faded quickly. What would an ex-policeman from Brooklyn do with a Tom Ford tux? The people she was hosting, these were men and women used to every luxury the world had to offer, and the most casual among them knew who was and wasn’t one of them.

  She’d grown up among the highest of the classes, and as much as their excesses bothered her, she had to be careful lest she not include herself. Just because she made it her mission to spread the wealth of the Winslow Foundation to a much broader and less-fashionable base, she didn’t exactly live an ascetic’s life. Her home was worth over three million dollars and that was just the space. She considered it a long-term investment, a clever buy at a time when the economy had taken a dive. But it was also what she was accustomed to.

  She’d never lived in a building without a doorman. Never had to work. Her salary at the foundation was put right back into play as a donation, partly for the tax benefits, mostly to compensate for the guilt. It was convenient to think she was being generous when in truth, she could live extraordinarily well for the rest of her life on her trust fund. As it was, she barely touched the principal.

  Her cup was almost empty, and she walked to the private lounge in a daze of sleep deprivation and hazy discomfort. Bree had come into her life, and therefore into Charlie’s life, as a result of another pang of elitism. Rebecca had been invited to the lunch exchange by a professor she knew from NYU who no longer belonged to the group. They’d originally met in the park. Rebecca had never told Grace her last name, although she was fairly certain the English prof had recognized her. Grace had probably thought she was offering a chance for humility. Looking back, Rebecca agreed that she had.

  Bree never spoke about it, about the disparity between their lifestyles. Rebecca imagined she and Charlie had talked. Knew they had, because he’d been so very famous as the creator and editor in chief of Naked New York. He was a celebrity in his own right, one who had used his wealth and influence to build his singular empire, one that had shouted clearly and loudly that he wasn’t one of “those” Winslows.

  As she poured a fresh cup of coffee, she thought about herself and Charlie, how they’d been so close growing up. Uncomfortable with the trappings of their heritage, but not enough to walk away, not completely. In Charlie’s case, he’d replicated the success and influence, but in his own style. In hers, she’d decided to use her power for good. Going to law school had been hard, but worth it, as had learning everything she could about running a foundation and fundraising. Her sacrifices were tiny. Miniscule. Complaining about any of it unforgivable.

  Which brought her in a roundabout way back to Jake and the question of his invitation. Once at her desk, she took out her purse and pulled out his trading card. God, he was ridiculously handsome, but his looks weren’t what attracted her most now that she knew him. Maybe Charlie and Bree had been right to question her easy dismissal. Because it had been a knee-jerk reaction, that immediate no. Not, she realized, out of the goodness of her heart and concern for Jake.

  She was honestly too tired to be having an existential crisis about her entire life. In another hour, she’d leave, go straight home to her mansion in the sky and put herself to bed. Tomorrow, when her brain wasn’t packed with cotton, she’d think again.

  “OKAY, HIT ME,” JAKE SAID, taking a deep breath and letting his aggravation at being walkie-talkied to death wash over him like a passing breeze.

  “What did the cop say to his belly button?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. What did the cop say to his belly button?”

  “You’re under a vest!”

  Jake shook his head as he listened to the laughter coming from the front porch. After thirty or so seconds, he figured his old man was finished for the moment, and he could release the button. At least this joke hadn’t made him groan. And where the hell they kept coming up with the vile things, Jake had no idea. He’d have guessed the internet, but not a one of them had a computer, or a cell phone with Wi-Fi. As for listening to anyone long enough to learn how to turn any internet-related device on, forgetaboutit. Stubborn old goats.

  But, what the hell. He was something of a Luddite himself when it came right down to it. His needs were simple; he didn’t have to have every new gadget that came down the pike. His laptop wasn’t new, but it let him watch DVDs, get the scores, read the headlines and, from time to time, he’d even streamed a feature film. The screen was too small to make a habit of that last one, but it had come in handy when he’d been recuperating. Walking had been a real pain for quite some time, but as long as he had the laptop close, he didn’t die of boredom. He was especially grateful for online books. They’d gotten him through some tough days.

  Now, though, he wished like hell he’d never started this remodeling job. Putting up tile had to be the most tedious job in the world. It had all looked simple on paper but, as he couldn’t escape learning, there was a great difference between remodeling and remodeling well. The bane of his existence wasn’t the repetitive motions or the heavy lifting, even though those aggravated his wounds, it was the level. He could never tell when that water bubble was straight. He’d even sprung for one with a laser, and he still had trouble.

  It made him long for the days of hiding in plain sight, hanging with drug dealers and fearing every breath would be his last.

  The dreaded beep from the walkie-talkie interrupted his self-pity and he clicked on the button. “Got another one so soon?”

  “Nope. Not quite.”

  It was Liam. Liam, who hardly ever used the walkie-talkie.

  “We could use some help down here.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jake dropped the trowel onto the tarp at his feet and hurried down the hallway, his senses on overdrive. He ignored the burn in his thigh as he raced through the living room to the front door. Throwing the door open, he saw the problem, and he had to stop himself from just lunging to his father, who was sprawled awkwardly on the sidewalk directly in front of the stairs that led up to the porch. He hadn’t made the turn. It had happened once before, and Jake had promised to extend the porch but his dad had refused, insisted they would just move th
e damn card table they played on, move it back so he had more room.

  “He’s okay,” Pete said. “I caught the chair before it hit his head.”

  Jake didn’t see any blood. Liam was bent over, holding Mike’s head in his big pale hands.

  “I’m fine. Don’t panic.” Mike waved his crooked hand at Jake as if he was being a bother, and the way he glared at Liam it was clear the old moron hadn’t wanted Jake to know.

  Jake got down the steps faster than he had in weeks and squatted by his dad. “Anything hurt?”

  “Yeah, my ego. Stupid ass wheelchair. I need to get me one of those sporty ones, the kind they race with.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what you need.” He put his arm behind his father’s shoulders, the right arm because there was no way to use his left, not for this, not when a failure would matter so much. Screw it if the whole shower broke into a million pieces. Not this.

  Liam helped, and together, they made one reasonably strong person able to lift Mike to his feet. The terrible claw of his hand grabbed on to Jake’s upper arm, and while it hurt him, it had to be fiercely painful for his father.

  “Come on. Let’s get you in the chair you’ve got. See if it still works.”

  His dad nodded and took one unsteady step while Jake looked at him with every ounce of his attention. He didn’t seem to be favoring anything more than usual, and he wasn’t bleeding that Jake could see. But he’d still make an appointment with the doctor, get Mike checked over. So far, none of his spills had done anything too damaging, but it scared Jake to the bone each time it happened.

  Whatever his own future held, it would include full-time care for his father. Maybe that would be Jake’s job, and maybe it would last until he grew too old to get upstairs himself, but that was okay. He’d have plenty of breaks and time for himself, because they lived on Howard Street, in Windsor Terrace, and they were surrounded by a community who gave a shit when it counted.

  Pete brought the wheelchair down the ramp, but not right up to Mike, which was good because Jake needed to watch him for a few more steps. Then they pushed him up. Pete and Liam did. The bastards slipped themselves into place, not giving Jake an option.

  He could have made it up the ramp, goddammit, but it would have been a strain. He wasn’t the man he used to be, not when it came to ramps or doing the job he was born to do or making love to a beautiful woman. He was a different Jake now, but the reality and his self-perception were still at war. Time, his physiotherapist had said. He had to give it time—

  His cell rang, and as he limped up the steps after the old men, he put it to his ear. “Hello.”

  “Jake.”

  He paused, one foot on the porch. He felt a rush of heat down his back, settling low. “Rebecca.”

  “This is completely rude and please feel absolutely free to say no, but I’m actually in Brooklyn. Not far from your place, and I was wondering if you’d mind if I dropped by.”

  Every bit of his cop’s instinct said it was a bad idea. Jake himself looked like a poor excuse for a day laborer. His father seemed to be okay now, but he’d be in a lot of discomfort and there was every possibility that seeing Rebecca Winslow Thorpe show up on his doorstep would be the final straw that did him in, and the house looked like shit. Not to mention Pete and Liam were about as tactful as three-year-olds. “Sure,” he said, and with one word, he was doomed. “You know the address?”

  “Well, yes. I know, creepy, but Google.”

  “It’s okay. Come on over. Just be aware, you’re gonna get what you get.”

  “That’s all I want,” she said. “I can be there in ten. Unless… I’m standing not five feet from Luigi’s Pizza, which seems to be popular, given the crowd. I could bring one? Maybe some beer?”

  Jake shook his head, more at the weird way this day was going than her offer. It was almost five, and he hadn’t given a thought to dinner, knowing he’d either scrounge or they’d have something delivered. Rebecca didn’t need to come with food, but as surreal as it was that she had called at all, it was also pretty brave, and she’d probably feel more comfortable if she came bearing gifts. “That’d be great, except there’s four of us. My old man, his buddies, me. So how about you tell Gio behind the counter that the Donnellys need a couple pies and he can put it on our tab. Tell him to deliver ’cause it’s gonna take him a little while if I know Sunday night at Luigi’s. I got the beer covered, but if you want anything fancier than that, you’re on your own.”

  She laughed. “I’ll see you soon.”

  He clicked off, stared at his phone for a minute before he put it in his pocket. This was not his life.

  8

  REBECCA HAD ARRIVED IN picturesque Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn, at four-fifteen. Delivered by cab to what she guessed was the middle of town. It was certainly a busy street. Lots of people walking, businesses booming. Well, that was an exaggeration, if you didn’t count Luigi’s and the nearby bar.

  But there were people on the streets moving at a pace that wasn’t close to the speed of Manhattan, and there were families with strollers, dogs on leashes, dogs off leashes. Groups of teenagers, a startling number of whom were accessorized with not only tattoos, although those were plentiful, but metal. Industrial-looking rings embedded in earlobes, some stretching the skin so much it made her cringe. She couldn’t help thinking of the long-term effects, but then that must be either a sign of her age, or that she was even more rigid and conservative than she’d thought.

  The likelihood of her reaction coming from her class bias was mostly the reason she’d come to Brooklyn in the first place. After a long overdue excellent night’s sleep, she’d continued to be bothered by the idea that she hadn’t even considered asking Jake to be her date for the banquet.

  After she’d run through all the reasonable issues—the fact that they didn’t know each other that well outside of the bedroom, that they weren’t technically dating and that he’d probably be bored out of his mind even if he did agree to go—she’d been left with a giant bundle of uncomfortable doubt. She honestly had no idea if she’d discounted him because she was being thoughtful or prejudiced.

  It had taken her over an hour of walking up and down the big street to finally give in and call him, even though she was still confused and unsure. She could be calling him out of liberal guilt. She could be wanting him there because she liked him. What if it was both? What then?

  No answers yet, but the deciding factor had been the pleasure she felt when she thought about him sitting next to her. Being able to look into his amazing blue eyes when she felt overwhelmed.

  It was a novel sensation, liking him the way she did. Normally her turn-ons were more cerebral and practical. She liked brains, business acumen, elegance, good taste and a liberal bent. A sense of humor was a nonnegotiable must-have, although difficult to find in combination with the rest of her requirements.

  Jake was clever and he had a broad scope of interests. He made her laugh. She had no idea about the rest and hadn’t cared that she hadn’t known. Because he was for sex. Only, that wasn’t how it was turning out.

  She had arrived at the corner of Howard Street. One left turn, a few blocks, and she’d be there, at Jake’s home. She’d meet his father. See the work Jake was doing on the house. There would be no sex involved. And while she was pretty sure she was going to ask him to be her date Wednesday night, she was leaving that option open.

  The pizzas would arrive in the next ten or so minutes, according to Gio, who turned out to be the owner, so she should get a move on and stop stalling. Turning left, she looked at the row houses lining the wide street. The homes were virtually identical except for the front porches, which were wide and uniquely decorated, mostly with furniture that wouldn’t be damaged by snow yet could be heavily used in more temperate months. She liked them, each of them, some with religious statues, some with art that gave a great deal away about the owners. The big old front porches were unheard of in Manhattan and she wondered what it would be like t
o grow up in a place like this.

  The whole neighborhood felt as if it was from another era, and from what little she’d read about it in her Google searches, that was the point. The folks who lived here protected the ambience, and while they couldn’t slow the gentrification of the main thoroughfares, they could maintain the residential streets in their old-fashioned glory.

  She was nearing his place, and she hesitated again, her hands buried in the deep pockets of her thick wool coat, her boots clicking on the bumpy sidewalk and her nervous heart signaling her flight-or-fight response.

  There were men on the porch, sitting at a card table. Old men, gray-headed and wrinkled, laughing at something. They weren’t looking for her or even glancing in her direction. Jake hadn’t told them? Okay. Fair enough, he knew the players.

  She wasn’t naive enough to think these men wouldn’t know who she was. They would also have opinions about her family, and she would bet those opinions weren’t favorable. The Winslows were not well-known for their charity and kindness despite the foundation.

  She took another few steps and the laughing dimmed. The one with the most hair, the one facing her, had grown quiet. Seconds later, the two other men turned, making no effort whatsoever to hide their blatant curiosity.

  She doubted they’d arrived at the Winslow part yet, but they would certainly know she was an outsider. “Hello,” she said, smiling as she reached the front steps of the row house. “I’m here to see Jake.”

  “You are, huh?” The man who spoke was Jake’s father. The one who’d spotted her first. This close, she could see he was in a wheelchair, see his gnarled hands. His accent, even with three small words, was epic.

  “Yes, sir. He’s expecting me.”

  “Then you’d better come on up,” he said.

  At the top of the steps, the appeal of the porch was made vividly clear. The large space heater did a terrific job of keeping out the bitter chill. She imagined only big storms would keep these troopers indoors. The card table was strewn with dominoes and coffee mugs, a couple of pens and a pad of paper. There were walkie-talkies, not cell phones, in front of each man, which must be their intercom system, a way to get Jake outside pronto.