Losing My Balance (Fenbrook Academy #1.5)

by Helena Newbury

  I miscued, almost ripping the baize. The other bikers had fallen silent, but now they burst out laughing.

  “My question,” she said. “What do you do for money?”

  No way could I tell her what I actually did. That was so far from her safe little world, I’d lose her immediately. And however doomed this thing was, I wasn’t going to smash it into the ground deliberately. So I told her the truth, in an abstract way. “I use probability equations to make moment-by-moment decisions and grow an investment.”

  “You’re a day trader?” She looked doubtful. I didn’t blame her. I couldn’t imagine me staring at a stock price on a screen either. But—strictly speaking—I hadn’t lied to her and what she had in her head was a lot more acceptable than the truth.

  “Somethin’ like that,” I told her. “Your shot.”

  There was only one ball left on the table and I had a sinking feeling inside—if she made the shot, I knew she was going to go all-out with the question. She turned quickly to the table and sank the ball, barely bothering to check it had gone in before she turned back to me. “Last question,” she told me. “What is this?”

  We stared at each other for a long moment.

  “I’ll answer,” I said at last. “But not here.”

  “Awww!” chorused the listening bikers.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She had her chin tilted up, her gaze steady. She’s not afraid of me, I realized. And for some reason, that turned me on even more.

  “For a ride,” I told her.

  Chapter 8

  Clarissa

  Outside, he indicated his Harley. “Get on,” he said.

  “Or…we could take my car. Which, you know, has seats and doesn’t end with us under the wheels of a truck.”

  He gave me a look. “You came to find a biker at a biker club. You found him. You want to know where this thing is goin’? Get on the damn bike.” He got on, leaving space for me behind him.

  I’d never been on a bike. I thought of all the airbags and seatbelts and comforting, cocooning metal that Bartholomew had and the Harley didn’t.

  I started this, I thought. I could have just waited for him to call.

  I slung one leg over the saddle. I wasn’t sure if Harley Davidson had really built it for two, or just for one person with a large butt. Certainly, we were going to have to cuddle in close. I settled in, my groin against his ass.

  He passed me the helmet that was hanging from the handlebars—an old-fashioned bowl that would leave my face exposed. As I started to strap it on, he yelled to one of the bikers who was lounging around outside the clubhouse, asking to borrow one of theirs for himself.

  He must have caught my surprised look because, as he strapped on the borrowed helmet, he asked, “What? I’m a biker. I’m not stupid.”

  He reached down and grabbed my hands, then pulled them around his waist. I pressed up against him, my breasts squashing against his back, the scent of warm leather in my nostrils.

  He started the bike, the familiar thump thump ringing in my ears, and we roared out of the gate.

  ***

  I’ve driven fast in Bartholomew. Not often, but if it’s been a bad day and it’s late at night and the road is empty, I’ll sometimes hit the gas. Driving fast like that, music cranked up and the world rushing by the windows, feels almost like being in a plane—you’re isolated from the world in your own little aluminum and glass capsule.

  This was not like that. This was the exact opposite of that. The city was right next to me, the road in touching distance—sometimes literally. The wind seemed to be trying to rip my clothes from me while hammering air down into my lungs. I was petrified—and excited—and all I could do was cling onto Neil’s broad back and let him take me wherever he wanted.

  We raced through crowded city streets and then out into an old industrial area littered with crumbling buildings. The bike slowed to a crawl and I felt brave enough to lift my face away from his jacket and take a proper look around.

  The place was a dump—literally, in some areas. It was also completely deserted. It felt uncomfortably close to the sort of place gangsters take people in movies when they want to kill them. What if I’ve completely misjudged him? I thought. What if I’m about to wind up in a shallow grave?

  But however weird it was, I knew I was safe. I had that deep, warm certainty that he’d never hurt me. So what the hell are we doing here?

  He turned the engine off and got off.

  “Interesting choice,” I said, prompting for an explanation, but he just indicated that I should follow him. He led me down a path scattered with broken glass and into a huge brick building that was little more than a crumbling shell. We walked straight through it to the far side, where he stopped in front of a fire door. There were no windows. Whatever lay beyond the building, I wouldn’t be able to see it until he opened the door.

  “Why have you brought me here, Neil?” I asked. Despite my certainty that I was safe, there was just a tiny edge of fear in my voice.

  “Because I wanted to show you this.” He swung the door wide and I gasped.

  It was a funfair. Only it was a funfair like you see in old pictures, with everything made of wood and steel, hand-painted and elegantly carved. There was a Ferris wheel and a carousel, a ghost train and some dodgems. There were novelty machines that told your fortune or tested your love for a nickel.

  It looked like it had been sitting outdoors, without protection from the elements, for decades. The paint had mostly gone, everything now the same wind-polished gray, like a park bench. The carousel had survived best of all, because its awning gave it some protection.

  It was beautiful. And heartbreaking. And the fact he’d brought me there to show me it was just about the most unexpected thing he could have done.

  We wandered through the attractions and, after a few minutes, he took my hand in his.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Story goes…some guy has a dream of runnin’ a fair. So he borrows money and spends years gettin’ all the attractions built, really takes his time to get everythin’ just right. Way behind schedule, he’s just gettin’ ready to open…when he’s murdered. See, he borrowed money from the mob, and they got tired of bein’ kept waitin’. They left his body in the coffin you go past on the ghost train.”

  I blinked at him. “Is that true?!”

  “I got no idea,” he deadpanned. “Wanna go open the coffin and find out?”

  He led me over to the carousel and helped me on. The wood felt like wet cardboard in places. We sat side-by-side on something that might have been Santa’s sleigh, or might have been some sort of undersea fantasy chariot—it was difficult to tell, with the paint peeling off.

  I’d never known anywhere so quiet. There weren’t even any birds and the only sound was our breathing. It felt like we were the only two people on earth.

  “You said you’d tell me what this is,” I told him. “So what is it?” My heart was thumping in my chest, because I knew we were speeding towards a crossroads, and that I was the one driving us there. I had to know, but I was suddenly starting to realize how scared I was of what the answer might be. I liked him—physically, at least. Sexually, definitely. Beyond that…I wasn’t sure. But I wanted to have the opportunity to find out.

  Neil took a deep breath. “Are you havin’ fun?” he asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did you have fun on Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday—and now, today?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Can’t we just leave it at that?” he asked. “Can’t we just enjoy it?”

  I looked at him for a long moment. Why did I suddenly want to argue? What was wrong with just sex? But something inside me was churning and twisting at the thought of it just being cold, emotionless sex. “And what does that make us? Fuck buddies? Casual sex partners?”

  He stared back at me. “Sex doesn’t have to be casual.”

  I knew what he meant by that
. I knew he meant the part that was utterly new to me, the part where the talked to me in that way and my body and brain went onto autopilot. The part that scared me as much as it aroused me.

  I was way out of my depth.

  “That’s not me,” I told him.

  “What’s not you? Casual sex? Or”—he caught my eye—“being submissive.”

  Hearing the word made it real. The shock of it hit me right in my soul—up until that point, I think I’d been kidding myself that I was just imagining the whole submissive thing.

  “Both.” I told him.

  “Bullshit.” He didn’t say it cruelly or even harshly. He just said it as a simple statement, and I found I was looking at my feet. “Do you know why I brought you here? Because there’s no one else for miles. No one to hear you.”

  “No one to hear me scream?” I asked, trying to make a joke out of it.

  “No one to hear you be honest with yourself,” he said.

  “You think I’m lying to myself? You really think you know me well enough to say I’m…submissive, after three days?”

  “I knew you well enough to say that after three minutes.”

  I flushed, right down to my toes. Could that be true? Was I sending out something—some signal I hadn’t been aware of, that guys could pick up on? Just him, or all guys?

  I went on the attack. “You say I’m lying to myself, but you’re not exactly Mr. Open and Honest, are you? What’s an MIT post-doc doing hiding out in a biker club anyway?”

  “Who says I’m hidin’?”

  I looked him right in the eye. “Me.”

  I saw the flicker of surprise cross his face again—and with it, just a hint of approval.

  “It’s nothin’ I want to explain,” he said eventually.

  “I don’t like secrets.”

  He put his hands out, palms facing me. “That’s why I only ever wanted this to be casual. That’s what I’m offerin’. That’s all it’s ever goin’ to be. You don’t want that? Go find yourself a guy in a suit.”

  He was laying down the rules and daring me to accept them…or walk away. That was the real reason he’d brought me out here—this was our one big chance to talk and, after this, it would go back to monosyllabic responses, whispers in ears and more of those orders.

  I wasn’t sure I could live with that, with a relationship purely based on sex. But I wasn’t sure I could live without it, either.

  The real question was: why? Why did it have to be this way—sex, and nothing deeper? Why didn’t he want anything more from me? I’d come here looking for answers, and he was just as mysterious as before.

  “Is it me?” I asked.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  I gave him a hard stare. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. But is that why you don’t want anything more? Do you like my….” I could barely bring myself to say it. “My body but not me?”

  He sighed. “Clarissa Forsberg-West, not everythin’ in this whole damn world is about you.” And it didn’t feel like he was trying to spare my feelings. So what, then, was the problem? If I kept pushing, I knew I’d lose him completely.

  “Fine,” I said quietly. Then again, maybe more for my own benefit, “Fine. It’ll be just sex.”

  He shook his head softly. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s not just sex.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant, then. But I would come to.

  ***

  He dropped me back at the biker club and I picked up Bartholomew. I sat there in the driver’s seat, saying goodbye to him through the window and feeling utterly confused. Was I now in a relationship? Because if I was, it was so radically different to any relationship I’d had before that it didn’t seem to deserve the same name.

  And then, just as I was at my most lost, he leaned through the open window and kissed me. Not one of the urgent, hungry kisses he’d given me before—this was slow and tender, much gentler than I’d have thought him capable of. And right at the end of it, something fluttered through my body, butterflies made of hot, crackling silver. It wasn’t sexual; it was something much deeper.

  When he broke the kiss, I sat there stunned, my eyes closed. It felt as if I’d break the spell if I opened them and I wanted to memorize the feeling, to chase those butterflies down into the dark caverns so I could catch one last glimpse of them.

  I’d thought I was confused before. Now I was completely at a loss.

  “I gotta go out of town,” he told me in that heavy, bass rumble. “Be back a week next Tuesday. Okay?”

  I nodded. And mentally counted the days.

  He straightened up and ran his hand along Bartholomew’s shining roof as I drove away, giving his trunk a noisy pat as we passed, as if slapping my ass. I felt myself jerk in my seat and heard him laugh.

  Chapter 9

  Clarissa

  It was Thursday. Nat and I were both moping around the apartment while our men were away—well, she was moping. Obviously I’d never mope. I mean, I was spending a lot of time slobbing around in sweatpants and both ice cream and the orange Skittle-flavored vodka had made an appearance, but I’d only joined in out of solidarity. It would be crazy to miss someone who’s just a casual sex partner.

  I sat there staring at his Facebook page. He’d finally accepted my friend request, but it looked like he barely bothered to update his timeline. There were gaps of weeks and sometimes months between posts.

  Since we’d said goodbye at the biker club, there’d been no word. Not an email, not a text, not a phone call—I didn’t even know where he was, other than “out of town.” At least Nat had had a couple of text messages from Darrell. I felt a pang of jealousy, which was ridiculous. I mean, she was in a proper relationship. Maybe—definitely—she was falling in love too fast, but at least it was love. Neil and me, that was…almost like a business transaction.

  I felt my eyes go wide at that thought. No! Definitely not like a business transaction. Bad analogy! But there were no emotions involved. It was just sex—two people with needs coming together to have fun.

  I sat back on my bed and hugged my knees to my chest. Have fun really didn’t describe it. Nothing about the relationship felt light-hearted or frivolous. It felt powerful and very, very serious.

  I’d never experienced anything like it. I’d never known sex to be such a powerful draw, to control me utterly. And it was just sex, right? That was what I was feeling? It couldn’t be love, because I barely knew the guy. Yet it didn’t feel like simple lust, either—it felt deeper and darker and more…part of me, in some way. People talk about finding a soulmate, when they talk about love. I’d never experienced that…and this couldn’t be that, could it? Not when it was so based in sex? And yet it felt like that—like the two of us were made for each other.

  I groaned, put my hands over my eyes and fell back on the bed.

  Nat shuffled past my doorway. I didn’t have to open my eyes—one of the nice things about just the two of us sharing an apartment (even if she does take far too long in the shower) is always knowing who it is you can hear around the place. “Hear from Darrell yet?” I asked.

  When she answered, her voice was brittle with pain. “No. Not yet. I might just hang out in my room for a while.”

  I liked Darrell, but right then I wanted to throttle the guy. He didn’t know how fragile she was—the last thing she needed was to have her heart played with. This sort of thing was exactly what I’d worried about happening when I saw her falling for him so hard. I knew that hang out in my room was code for punish myself on the exercise bike. Soon, I’d hear the pedals start to whir and then, maybe, some loud music to cover the sound of her crying. It broke my heart, but it was better than her cutting herself and there was nothing I could do to stop her—I’d learned that clutching her too close would only freak her out more. I’d accepted—once I’d got over the guilt and recriminations that it had been going on right under my nose—that all I could do was be there for support. When she’d gone, I got up and closed my bedroom doo
r to give her some extra privacy, then returned to mope. Okay, okay, I was moping.

  A few minutes later, I heard her cell phone ring and then her voice. The walls of our apartment are pretty thin—something I’d have to remember if Neil came over again—so I deliberately tuned out her words because I don’t want to pry. I could hear her joyous tone, though. Darrell. He’d made her day—her week—just by calling. Okay, maybe he isn’t all bad.

  It worried me to see her so caught up in a guy, so quickly, that he had that kind of power over her…but Neil had the same hold over me and in a much darker way. I was unhealthily fascinated in him. He was like a drug that your parents warn you about, and you nod solemnly and say you’ll never mess with alcohol or weed or coke or whatever. But there’s this deep longing inside you to experience what you’re missing, even though you know it’s bad for you. I wondered if Neil would be bad for me. I knew he wasn’t right for me, by any rational measure. I’d never wanted something that’s so wrong, so much.

  Through the wall, a noise that caught my attention: the ringtone for an incoming Skype call. Nat answered almost instantly, as if she’d been expecting it. Darrell must have asked her to switch from phone to Skype. But why would they….

  Oh.

  I heard classical music start—presumably to mask all the pants and moans. I tried very hard not to listen, but smirked when I heard the rustle of clothing coming off.

  I put my sweatpants and top back on and padded through to the kitchen to give them more privacy. Good thing Darrell was only away for a week. God, it would suck to be in a long distance relationship.

  Then it hit me that I didn’t actually know where Neil lived. That was exactly the kind of small talk we hadn’t done, the sort of thing that seems stupid and meaningless…until you don’t do it. He had to live in New York, right? He was Darrell’s buddy. Yeah, of course he did.

  I made coffee. I can’t think without coffee. Then I stood there leaning against the kitchen counter, trying to figure it all out.