by Addison Fox
And Harlow.
Cade had made a point of stressing what actions Fender needed to take. If his father was going to become a problem—and they didn’t know yet if he was—Fender had to brace for the fact that he was the likely target. Trent’s suspicious lack of a visit only added to that probability and Fender’s own insistence on making a surprise attack likely wasn’t going to help.
Nick nodded, silent throughout Fender’s overview of the visit. “He said to be careful, so that’s what we’ll do.”
Fender knew he’d become almost paranoid thinking about what his father was capable of or what he might be planning—and he knew the visit to Duckie’s was probably ill-advised—but he couldn’t see his way past that fear. “Like it’s that easy, Nick. I know we talk like Park Heights is this small little burg, but it’s the middle of freaking New York. Over two million people live in the borough alone. If he wants to go to ground, he will.”
“But he doesn’t want to go to ground,” Landon said, his voice calm and focused. “If you’re right, and I’m not betting against you, he wants to make trouble.”
“So what do we do about it?” Nick’s question was simple and one he’d posed to the three of them more than once through the years. That question was the mark of their solidarity and the core of their foundation as a family.
As brothers.
They’d do what they always did, Fender knew.
They’d band together and battle the problem.
* * *
“I had a nice time tonight.” Harlow pulled a couple of glasses out of the cabinet, settling them on the counter before moving to the fridge. She hadn’t been sure if Fender was going to come up or not, but when he’d followed her without question, she’d taken her first easy breath since dessert.
“I did, too. I wasn’t sure what Daphne was up to when she brought it up at lunch, but it was a good idea. A fun one.”
“Your brothers are good men. And Emma and Daphne are crazy about you.”
It was sweet to see, Harlow had realized about halfway through dinner. She’d certainly observed the women’s ready defense of Fender when they’d initially visited her at the gallery, but it was even more evident during dinner.
“Nick and Landon are the best.”
“I know the circumstances that made you brothers were not good ones, but it’s amazing to see what you’ve all built together.”
“I think so, too.” Fender’s leg bounced as he sat at the small drop-leaf table in her kitchen. “I know we had shitty childhoods, and I’m not going to lie—there are times when that messes with you. But then there are times when I can’t really remember the days before Mama Lou and the guys. They are my brothers in every way that counts.”
Harlow filled the two glasses from the filtered-water tap in the fridge and handed one to Fender, taking the seat opposite him. She wanted him—that feeling was so pervasive as to be nearly overwhelming—but she also enjoyed the simple act of spending time with him.
Listening to him.
Talking with him.
Just being with him.
“Did it bother you? Louisa coming in and trying to adopt you?” The question was an intimate one, but she couldn’t hide her curiosity, either. While her own family might make her crazy, she couldn’t imagine a different life—one that was without them.
“For me it was a relief. I figured I’d cut and run if things weren’t good, so I had an exit strategy.” That steady movement of his leg stopped as Fender stared into the top of his water glass. He looked about a million miles away in that moment, and Harlow wondered at it.
At the memories that shaped them and molded them on the way to adulthood.
“An exit strategy?”
“Sure. I figured Mama Lou would be a nice lady, but if she got too demanding, or expected too much, or even messed with my plans, then I’d run.”
“When did you decide to stop running?”
He glanced up at that, a faint smile tilting the corners of his lips. “Oh, that took a while. Probably a few years ago.”
“You can’t be serious.”
That subtle smile grew broader. “I’m joking a bit. I did settle in at Mama Lou’s and quit thinking about running from the life she offered pretty early on. But I never did feel like I fully fit in. It took having my own business and employees before I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Adulting at its finest.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Or maybe just that moment when you realize you are where you belong.”
“The gallery was like that for me.” She wiped the condensation off her glass. “It was a big step, getting the chance to run it. And then one day I looked up, looked at the huge exhibit we were about to launch, and I realized I was exactly where I was supposed to be.”
“It suits you.”
The statement was a compliment—instinctively she knew that—yet something in it struck her. “What suits me?”
“Art is a refined and elegant profession for a refined and elegant woman. Sort of how I feel about getting under the hood of a car. It suits me.”
Harlow followed him—he wasn’t inaccurate—yet she couldn’t fully shake the feeling that his comments were a cop-out. Like somehow if you fit a mold or were “suited,” to use his word, then you couldn’t be other things.
Maybe she was just nervous about where they were going, but she couldn’t quite disregard that he was making a bigger point than finding your calling in life.
In his pointing out art and car repair, she intuitively sensed something hovered beneath the surface. Like a warning that their differences would ultimately stand in their way of building anything lasting and permanent.
* * *
Gretchen pulled up the search bar on her computer and typed in “Fender Blackstone.” There weren’t many results, but all she needed was the top one. A link to Blackstone’s Auto Body, located in Park Heights, Brooklyn.
She clicked on the “About Us” page and saw an overview of the proprietor, one Fender Blackstone.
Fender.
What sort of gimmick was that? Some ploy to get people to think he was a good mechanic? Or worse, some crass nickname that had been bestowed on him by his fellow grease monkeys?
She scanned the few brief paragraphs, her gaze catching on some of his distinctions in the autos he could service. The list of cars was impressive, but all it did was reinforce the impression of a man reaching above his station. None of it was offset by the fact that his business supported a local Little League baseball team.
“How sweet,” she muttered, feeling entirely uncharitable and not fully sure what to do about that.
Ignoring the stab of something increasingly uncomfortable that settled at the base of her spine, she focused on the task at hand. What was Harlow doing with this man?
She knew her daughter well enough to know that Harlow didn’t waste her time on things that didn’t interest her. Which only made the idea that she was spending time with Louisa’s son that much more upsetting. Was she trying to ruin her reputation?
Their friends may raise a few eyebrows over coffee dates, but what would they say if they caught wind of what the man did for a living?
That stab hit once again, a sharp counterpoint to the memory that filled her mind’s eye of the day she brought Kincaide home to meet her parents. He was so ambitious, his focus on building his reputation and career at the family firm all he could talk about. He was going places, and it didn’t matter that he had the family business sitting behind him like a soft, comfortable cushion.
She’d been so enamored and excited that he’d settled his sights on her. And her father’s pride and mother’s pleasure seemed boundless. She was marrying well. Her sister had already shamed the family by marrying some hippie and heading to San Francisco, so Gretchen had become their only hope for a good, respectable marriage.
And oh, how happily she’d obliged.
She’d had inklings then of Kincaide’s proclivities. The perfume she’d smell
lingering on his shirt when he’d pick her up while they were dating had been her first clue. She’d finally gotten the courage to remark on it once, a few weeks before the wedding, only to have her concern brushed off with a laugh.
“Our secretary wears so much perfume, she assaults us all with a cloud every day. I’m surprised it’s not embedded in the walls.”
And she’d believed him. Had blithely moved ahead with the engagement and the marriage, laughing all the way about the gauche women he was forced to work with.
Silly, silly Gretchen.
She could only imagine how Kincaide and his secretary had laughed about her while wrapped up in each other after-hours in a conference room.
Lingering perfume. Lipstick stains that accidentally found their way onto his clothes. Receipts stuffed in his wallet indicating late-night dinners for two at exclusive restaurants known for quiet corners.
She’d observed—and ignored—them all, convinced that her growing family and status as wife was all that mattered.
And then he’d found Louisa. The woman had been a departure from type. Not just hired help, she was a well-heeled, up-and-coming executive at the firm, who was making her own mark. Gretchen had met her once, at the holiday Christmas party. They’d been briefly introduced before Louisa had been swept off for a drink at the bar by some of the other partners, who wanted to discuss an upcoming pitch. Gretchen had wondered at the young woman with such ambition.
Gretchen had two kids at home, PTA meetings, and frustrations with her maid, who couldn’t be bothered to clean the bathrooms well enough. Yet here was woman, close to her own age, who had none of those worries. Who wasn’t dealing with runny noses, or just how much money the Tooth Fairy should leave, or whether or not the ADHD medicine their son was on was right, or healthy, or even working.
Nor did Louisa have to think about a cheating husband who couldn’t be bothered to ask about any of those things or how he could help.
Instead, this woman had been welcomed by the firm’s executives to belly up to the bar and talk about business. They’d smiled at her and laughed with her in ripe, loud tones. And they’d looked at her as if she had a brain in her head and ideas to share.
Ideas of value and worth.
And then one day Kincaide came home smelling of something darker and far more subtle than cheap perfume. Gretchen had done what she always did—she ignored the signs and the suggestions that her husband found his pleasure outside their home.
But the day she’d learned who he was running around with—the day she’d realized it was that bright, vibrant, respected woman from the Christmas party—something had broken inside.
Something, Gretchen knew now, she’d never really stitched back.
Chapter Fifteen
Fender stared at the ceiling, the evening playing through his mind on an alternating loop with his conversation with Cade. Landon’s assessment at dinner had only added to his mounting discomfort.
“But he doesn’t want to go to ground. If you’re right, and I’m not betting against you, he wants to make trouble.”
Cade’s instructions had suggested the same.
So what the hell was he supposed to do about it?
He hadn’t felt this vulnerable since he was ten and didn’t know if going with Mama Lou would make Trent come after him even harder. Even worse, he’d worried then that his father would try and hurt her once he realized she’d taken in his kid.
In the end, the worries in Fender’s mind had been far bigger than the reality of what happened. Trent had made a few token protests—one night he made a big stink calling the house, and on another day he bothered to show up in court for the adoption-hearing, ranting about losing his only son—but other than that, he’d walked away.
So why was he so convinced Trent wasn’t going anywhere this time?
And what the hell was wrong with him? He was a grown man well into his thirties. When had he become afraid of a two-bit criminal?
Underneath all of this, Fender kept coming back to that place. That raw fear that tugged at him and refused to abate, no matter how many times he told himself that he’d handle this.
And way down deep, even farther below the fear, were the whispers of the truth he’d lived with his entire life: He needed an exit strategy. A way out.
And the woman in his arms blocked that path in every way imaginable.
Harlow shifted in his arms, and Fender held her a bit closer. He had no idea what to do about her. Every moment he spent with her was better than the last. Each conversation they had revealed a new side to her that fascinated and interested him even more.
Even the fact that she was willing to ask him the hard questions.
She hadn’t shied away from asking about his adoption or his youth. So far, she hadn’t shied away from anything. She’d been the one to come to Brooklyn to apologize to his mother and offer her support. She’d accepted Daphne and Emma’s meddling with a smile and gentle grace.
And she’d accepted him.
Despite the sexy dresses and mile-high heels, she’d embraced his dingy jeans, well-worn T-shirts, and work boots as normal. Not as some sort of rebellion against her life, but as who he was.
It was acceptance in its purest form, and other than his mother and his brothers, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever truly had that.
He hadn’t lied—Park Heights was his home and his place. He knew that and had accepted that reality for what it was—his life to live in the way he wanted. But he knew he was talked about. Whispered about.
Fender Blackstone, the kid who’d made good. Trent Blackstone’s wayward kid who’d been saved by the grace of God and a determined woman. A boy abandoned by his birth mother and left to fend for himself.
His teachers had expected little of him and were often surprised when he had done well. He was well-liked in town, yet people often gave him a wide berth, like he was a lit fuse that could spark and explode if given the slightest provocation. Even the women he’d dated over the years had given him labels, bad boy sitting at the top of the list.
Where the mothers of Park Heights had believed some woman would eventually tame Cade Rossi—and last he’d heard, Daphne’s best friend Jasmine was doing her level best to do just that—people expected Fender Blackstone would always be wild and untamed.
Light fingers trailed over his skin, drawing his attention from his thoughts and shifting it decidedly . . . lower.
“You’re wide awake.” Harlow’s languid, sleepy voice was at odds with the determined play of her hands as they traced a path over the ridges of his stomach muscles.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
“I’m not.” Her hands stilled, but she kept them against his skin as she tilted her head to look at him.
“It’s the middle of the night. You need your sleep.”
“Or I need to know what’s bothering you. I’ll take that over sleep any day.”
Fender wanted to keep it light—wanted to hide the things that bothered him and take comfort in the acceptance that she offered. He’d tried to make it clear earlier, in the kitchen, by pointing out their differences, but she’d seemed oblivious to his carefully articulated points.
Or the truth of how different they were.
“Okay. I’ll go first.” She said. “Why haven’t you invited me to your place?”
“My apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I’m—” He thought about the stark differences between his one-bedroom bachelor pad and the two thousand-square-foot beauty she lived in. “You have more room.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Sure.”
Not a single trace of sleep lingered in her wide blue eyes. “Then what are we going to do tomorrow night? Or the night after? Will I come your way after work? Should I pack a bag to stay overnight?”
Once again, the woman was fearless in the topics she was willing to address and hit head on. So why did he find it easier to talk about his fucked-up childhood as the son of
the neighborhood bastard than the possibility of inviting her to spend the night in his home?
Because he knew the truth.
He had to give her up. And once he saw her in his space, wrapped up in his sheets, her scent lingering in his bedroom, he’d be lost. He’d never be able to look those places again without seeing her stamp on them.
Without feeling the traces of her and all he’d had to give up.
* * *
The same vague, swirling resentment that had settled in her bones in the kitchen earlier was back. Harlow had convinced herself she was past it when they’d made love, drifting on that sweet, languid awareness of each other. That awareness had warmed her as she fell asleep in his arms, determined to believe they’d find their way past their differences.
Only now the resentment was back, harsher than before and far more marked.
She wasn’t sure why she’d asked about his apartment. Although things had moved quickly between them, they hadn’t been seeing each other all that long. He’d given no indication she wasn’t welcome in his home—circumstances had simply not aligned for her to head to him for an evening together.
Despite that fact, it was more than clear she’d hit a nerve.
“We’re not doing anything tomorrow night, unless you want to join me for a trip up to Watkins Glen,” he said.
“For the race?”
“Yep. I usually go, and I committed months ago to help out as backup for one of the crews if they needed me.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“It slipped my mind. With all the stuff about my father and with seeing you.” He laid a hand over hers, his sincerity more than evident. “I forgot about it. Just completely forgot it was this weekend.”
“You want me to go?”
Something flickered in his gaze. That green was so expressive and vivid, more than a window to his soul. His eyes telegraphed all the hopes he had that he refused to put into words.
“I’ll be occupied for some of it, but if you’re okay with that, I’d like you to join me.”
“You’re sure?”
“More than sure.”
“Then I’d like to go.”