by Addison Fox
“Good. We’ll worry about my apartment later.” He shifted, rolling her onto her back. “I can promise you my double bed isn’t nearly as comfortable as this king sized monstrosity you sleep in every night, princess.”
“You’re calling me a princess?”
“If the mattress fits.” His hand shifted lower, slipping between their bodies and sliding just so between her thighs.
The mattress did fit. More, the man fit. Fit inside her body, his long, bold strokes as he filled her able to create the sweetest pleasure. Fit with her personality, matched with a special compatibility she’d never felt with any other man. Fit even with the outward differences in their lives, her high heels and his work boots both code for hard work and doing professionally what they loved.
She understood him, and in ways she had never imagined, felt he understood her in return.
It made the idea that someday she’d have to give him up that much harder to accept.
* * *
The flop was dingy and hot as a fucking sauna, but it was free and it was empty, Trent’s two main requirements. He’d completed the job for one of the local thugs and was still smarting from nearly getting caught with the little piece of shit he’d taught a lesson to.
The privileged little piece of shit.
Who knew the kid would be a local scholarship student who’d gotten hooked on Oxy after a particularly bad leg break? And who also knew the entire community had a soft spot for him and was trying to help him straighten out?
Couldn’t they have straightened him out before he went in for a loan from Sticky Caruthers?
Trent had damn near broken the other leg when the cops showed up.
Fuck.
He’d gone to ground, barely getting out of the shitty rent-a-room before the cops broke in, and now he was stuck back in the abandoned digs near his old stomping grounds. He wasn’t particular about things being too clean, but he drew the line at rats.
Tonight he no longer had a choice. He was stuck in the dingy flop as a last resort, since Sticky hadn’t paid up yet and Trent wasn’t quite in a position to go looking for him.
He hunted up a quiet corner that had the fewest remnants from things that crawled in the night, and dropped down, digging a pack of smokes out of his pocket. He’d been rationing them out, waiting for his payday, but to hell with trying to make them last. He had a bigger problem.
The warm welcome and list of contacts he’d imagined having as he hitched his way from Ohio back to Brooklyn had dried up like an old woman. He’d never been a fan of Sticky Caruthers—the bastard had been small-time when Sonny was running things, and had always had a mean streak. Trent had taken the job for lack of anything else, but this wasn’t a way to make a living.
Nor were things quite the way he’d remembered them. His old buddies were either dead or in prison. The guys running the streets now all thought of themselves as businessmen. Hell, even Sticky had on a suit when Trent had gone to see him, looking for work.
Things were just . . . different.
He smoked his cigarette down almost to the filter, reaching for another one to light it off the last. He’d wanted to go find Fender when he had the upper hand—a little bit of blunt in his pocket and that fine swagger that came from executing a few rough ups—but it was fast coming to look like he needed the kid’s help a lot more than he needed that upper hand.
The story he’d been working up in his mind had been taking shape, but Fender had always been a suspicious little bastard. His surprise attack hadn’t helped, but Trent figured he covered well enough with the old-girlfriend-and-cancer story. Trent knew well that his son wasn’t going to buy his need for forgiveness as the reason he’d come home again. So maybe he just needed to go for the truth. He’d take whatever he could guilt the kid out of, maybe go poke at the old bitch who’d adopted him and scare her out of some money, and get out of town.
A flash of light caught his eye, streaming in through the high windows in the old building, and Trent let out a long, low curse. “Son of a bitch.”
The steady swish of light continued, red and blue filling the room in garish flashes of neon. He scrambled up, just barely remembering to grab the stubbed-out cigarette and hightailed it toward the back of the building. He’d scoped out the place earlier and hadn’t found many places to hide, but all he had to do was hope the cops were as grossed-out by the place as he was and that they’d move on.
He reluctantly stubbed out the other cigarette to avoid too fresh a scent and headed for the back of the gutted building.
Voices echoed from the front of the building, the distaste emanating off their voices even if Trent couldn’t make out every word. He mentally fist-pumped when he heard one of them was a woman and prayed the rat shit littering the place would work in his favor.
“Mike, we can’t just leave. The kid was roughed up bad.” Her voice drifted back, and Trent nearly laughed out loud at the unexpected pushback. Sounded like the partner was the delicate flower, not Officer Susie Q.
“Kid also scammed ten G’s out of Caruthers. I’m not sure his word is the most solid.”
“He needs help.”
“And he also needs to use that genius IQ to avoid loan sharks.”
“He’s just a kid.”
They continued moving around the outer room, and Trent imagined the path they walked. He heard a muttered “disgusting” from the guy and figured he’d found the same pile of animal bones he had.
“I can’t believe they haven’t finished this place off yet,” “Officer Mike” said. “Once the new senior center went in down the street I figured this place was next on the list.”
“City condemned it but there’s a problem with the red tape on the teardown.”
“Come on, Tracy. We’re done here.”
Trent didn’t miss the reluctant sigh from the woman as she finally offered up a small “fine.” The sound of footsteps faded as the pair of cops headed for the front door, and Trent took an easy breath as the red and blue lights faded, returning the old warehouse to a dingy, shit gray.
He looked down at the crumpled, half-smoked cigarette still dangling between his fingers. It was so not his lucky day. But not for long.
First thing tomorrow, he’d see his son about a loan.
* * *
Fender worked his way through the last few sheets of invoices, paying his suppliers and adding in the orders he needed to get him through the next month. Although bills and inventory weren’t his favorite jobs, he took an odd satisfaction from the task. The simple act of buying fresh supplies was proof he’d gone through his last batch.
Which was indicative of the fact that people came to him to fix their cars and paid him to do the job.
He had four employees on today, their voices rising and falling as they worked, and he took satisfaction in that, too. He paid people. Paid them well, as a matter of fact. He saw to it they had insurance, a small pension, and an honest day’s wage.
Adulting.
He’d joked about it to Harlow, but that’s what it was. He’d found where he belonged, and he’d built something in that place. Now if he could just get the hang of the automation computer program Landon had been up his ass about, he might even manage to do his monthly inventory in half the time.
This, however, wouldn’t be that month.
“Fender?” His name was followed by a light rap of knuckles on his office door, and he turned to find Daphne standing there.
“Hey there, Detective Sexy. What brings you by?”
“Landon hates when you call me that.”
He stood and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “Which is the exact reason I do it. What’s up?”
“I wanted to swing by. Cade was called out on a job but he asked me to come over.”
“Oh.”
The tense smile that lined her face vanished, replaced by a tight grimace. “Yeah. It’s not good.”
Fender pointed toward his guest chair before closing his office door. “What di
d he do?”
“How’d you know?”
“You’re here, and my father’s back in town. I put the two together.”
She nodded. “Cade is sorry he didn’t come in person, but I wanted to make sure you heard it from one of us. Shirley and Joe Cooper’s kid got roughed up last night.”
“Hale?”
Daphne shook her head. “The older one. Jake. Kid’s been having problems and they’ve been working really hard to help him.”
Fender knew the story. They’d discussed it more than a few times at his mother’s dining room table over brunch, and he knew Father Thad had been working on an outreach for the family to help them through this. “Kid’s been on Oxy, right?”
“Yeah. He was doing better and then had a relapse a few weeks back. Took it upon himself to take out a loan from Sticky.”
“Shit. Sticky’s hurting kids now? Scholarship students at that.”
“The ones who don’t pay back their loans he is.”
Fender knew the drill, and he knew damn well what Daphne was getting at. “And you guys can’t nail him for this?”
“Trust me, we’re all trying. Jasmine and the rest of the DA’s office have been this close—” Daphne held up her thumb and forefinger, closing them to barely a hair’s width between them, “—but he’s crafty. And Caruthers knows his way around the law. He’s just legit enough to avoid suspicion.”
“Yet you know he’s guilty.”
“As sin.”
Fender admired the hell out of Daphne. The fact that she could go out there, day after day, and know that the thugs and grifters she was dealing with were some of the lowest humanity on the planet, was commendable. The fact that she could even find a way to sleep knowing not every one of them was remarkable.
“Let me guess. Trent did the roughing.”
“That’s the intel Cade has. Kid was pretty out of it when they brought him into the emergency room, but his description is spot on.”
“You put someone on Mom’s house?”
“Someone’s been on her house. On Landon and Nick’s businesses, too.”
“What about mine?”
She smiled at that. “We’ve been paying attention. The bank down on the corner’s been hit a few times over the years, so we take this stretch pretty seriously anyway. But yeah, we’re keeping an eye.”
When he’d left Harlow’s that morning, he’d headed home with a spring in his step and plans for the weekend already brewing in his mind’s eye. The two of them would get away, out of the city and the lingering specter of Trent Blackstone. Other than the bit of time he’d spend helping out a few of the pit crews, the long weekend was his own.
His and Harlow’s.
But now he’d spend the weekend worried about his family and their well-being.
“If it makes you feel any better, we’re going to get your mother and Mrs. W. out of the house this weekend. Emma and I planned a girls’ weekend in the city, complete with dress shopping, fancy dinners, and a Broadway show on Sunday.”
“You did?”
Daphne shrugged. “It seemed like a fun thing to do, and wedding-dress shopping is like the equivalent of human catnip and crack.”
Fender had little idea what she was talking about, but the news that his mother would be out of the neighborhood for a few days was more than welcome.
“Catnip and crack?” Fender’s eyebrow shot up. “Someone might question your loyalty to the NYPD, Detective Rossi.”
She answered his eyebrow with one of her own as well as a soft hand on his arm. “You don’t have to carry this one all on your own. We’re all here. And we’re all going to help you see this through.”
Chapter Sixteen
“It’s hard to believe all this land and nature is barely ten miles outside the city.”
Harlow watched through the window as the scene morphed from city to suburb to country. She’d been going upstate most of her life, whether it was quick weekend getaways or summers at her grandparents’ lake house. Even after all these years, it never failed to surprise her how quickly the city relaxed its hold.
“The world does exist outside of Manhattan.”
“And Brooklyn,” she couldn’t resist adding.
He shot her a smile. “Shhh. Don’t tell.”
They’d loaded up on coffee and bagels, hoping to beat rush hour, and Harlow figured they’d been successful when they crossed the George Washington Bridge without having to slow for traffic.
“I keep forgetting to tell you—I went to see your mother on Monday.”
“My—You what?” He turned his head fully that time, and she had to admit there might have been a better time to bring up the subject of her visit to Louisa than navigating through northern New Jersey during Friday morning rush hour.
“On Monday. I was going to mention it on Wednesday at dinner, and then you made me mad and I forgot. And then it seemed weird to bring it up at dinner last night with your brothers.”
“What did you visit her about?”
“My intention was the same as the day I showed up in the park last week. I wanted to apologize, and I never got to do that before you and I went to lunch at Gino’s.”
“Apologize for what?”
“For my mother’s behavior. And to offer my support.”
He was quiet, and she knew the news had come as a bit of a bomb. “Were you afraid to tell me?”
“Not in the least.”
She figured it wasn’t going to take long for the next question, and he didn’t disappoint. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“But you went to see her and didn’t mention it.”
“And you forgot to tell me about coming up here until I started asking about weekend plans. We’ve both been single people for a while. It takes time to remember to share.”
“I suppose.” He waited a beat before his curiosity obviously got the better of him. Harlow couldn’t quite squelch her amusement at his reaction, or his obvious curiosity. “So what did you talk about?”
She handed him his coffee before reaching for her own, then refitted his into the cup holder once he’d had a sip. “The speech she gave at the community center. A few of her campaign promises. My father. You.”
“Wait, what?”
“Which word didn’t you understand?”
She got the side-eye before he barreled on. “Smart-ass. Seriously, I know you’re enjoying this. Cut me a break. What did you talk about?”
“She asked about my father. About how he died. And she said she was sorry for my loss. It made me realize it was a loss for her, too.”
“He hadn’t been a part of her life for a long time. I guess—” Something dull hitched in his throat. “I guess I never thought about how she would have felt once he was gone.”
The visit to the community center might have faded in the face of everything else that had happened that week, but Harlow’s short time with Louisa had been cathartic. “Me too. I know it wasn’t right for them to have a huge affair but—”
She broke off, the thoughts that had swirled in the back of her mind taking sudden form.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t mean any of it by way of excuse or justification, but there was something comforting about the idea that she had really cared for him. It made it less—” Once again, Harlow stopped, trying to find the words to match what she felt. In the end, she went with the truth. “It seemed less sordid and tacky and more of what it really was all along. Just sad and misguided and hurtful.”
“For years after Louisa adopted me, people would try and ask me about my birth mother. If I felt sad. If I was mad at her. If my feelings were hurt.”
The shift in topic was so sudden—and so honest—Harlow was momentarily stunned silent.
“I still remember a session in the guidance counselor’s office. I goofed off in bio class the day we were dissecting worms which, in my defense, was just like about ten other boys in class. But next thing I know, I’m being se
nt down to the office and getting what was the seventh-grade equivalent to couch time with a shrink.”
“What did the counselor say?”
“It wasn’t what she said, it was all the questions. Was I happy? Was I able to voice my feelings? Did I have things I wanted to share?”
“Did you?”
“No.” His eyes never left the road, yet Harlow sensed how focused his attention was on her. “All I wanted to do was go back and get the worm guts I’d wrapped in a tissue so I could dump them in Julie Castillo’s purse.”
“Why did they think otherwise?”
“Because I’m a kid and they were adults and adults know better? Or because someone figured something had to be wrong so they put it in my file and started worrying about it? Who knows? All I did know was that what started out as really uncomfortable got less so when I finally figured out the questions weren’t about me.”
“But they were concerned for your well-being.”
She kept her focus on his profile and watched how the expressions flitted there, one after the other. His determination to make her understand, as well as his frustration when it seemed that she didn’t.
“That’s just the thing. Everybody was so convinced over what I should have felt that it was like no one bothered to see how I was really doing. No one listened to the answers I kept giving.”
“Which were what?”
“That I was fine. That I suddenly had a mother and brothers and a roof over my head and a life. What did I have to bitch and moan about?”
Harlow considered his words. While she found it hard to argue with his points, she could see why a school counselor would worry about a young boy who’d had such upheaval in his life. And yet . . .
Something else in his story rang true. Sometimes things really were okay. You worked through tough times, moved forward, and left the bad behind.
Or at least the sting of the bad behind.
Fender reached over, taking her hand in his. His palm covered the back of her hand, and she took surprising pleasure in the way his fingers wrapped around hers before linking them together.
“All I’m saying is don’t worry about what you think you should feel or what the world says you’re supposed to feel. And for God’s sakes don’t feel you have to hold back how you feel to me,” he said.