by Addison Fox
“Are we actually talking about feelings? On our first weekend away together?”
He squeezed her hand, his voice dry when he spoke. “I’m an evolved guy. Feelings don’t scare me.”
A light laugh spilled out, but it was the thoughts that lingered long after they’d moved on to other topics that kept dogging her. And the images of a young boy pulled out of class and asked to talk about the mother who abandoned him.
The experience was so far from her own life as to be incomprehensible.
She considered herself compassionate, caring, and understanding. Took pride in behaving so that those traits were front and center in how she lived her life. But in the images Fender had painted, she couldn’t hold back the fear that the chasm between them stretched far wider than a bridge or a weekend away or a heart full of hope could ever span.
* * *
Since he was eighteen years old, Fender had spent the same August weekend in Watkins Glen, New York. One of the key nodes on the racing circuit, the Glen boasted a pristine speedway and a rabid base of fans.
Fender pulled into the dirt lane that led to the farmhouse on the edge of Watkins Glen. The place had been restored into a gorgeous B and B, and for reasons that still bemused him, for the past ten years had become his standing reservation each race weekend.
The octogenarian proprietor, Pam Brookman, had literally taken him into her home a decade ago and made sure he always had a place for race weekend. Or any other weekend he wanted to head upstate to relax or unwind.
“Fender!”
Lady B., as she’d been dubbed by the locals ever since she’d brought afternoon tea to the Glen, came around the counter to give him a hug. “You’re earlier than I expected.”
“We wanted to get up here.” He squeezed back, surprised as always that so much strength could sit in such a slender frame. She was tall, a gift of her good British stock, she’d told him many years ago, but she appeared slight on first measure. A good solid hug quickly disavowed anyone of that notion. “Lady B., let me introduce you to someone.”
Harlow already had her hand extended, a warm smile on her face. He made quick introductions, not surprised when Harlow had almost immediately engaged the woman in conversation about the weather in England and a new hotel that recently opened in London. And she readily promised to make sure they were back promptly at four for teatime.
Teatime?
Lady B. had already bustled back around the counter, busying herself with their reservation. “I thought you suspended teatime for race weekend. Too much going on.”
“Dear, there’s never too much going on to skip tea.” Lady B. handed over his keys before winking. “Or to miss out on catching up over a cuppa. I look forward to connecting later, Harlow.”
“Same here, Lady B.”
Harlow had a smile on her face as they made room for a couple who’d come up behind them to check in. It was only once they were out of earshot that she turned toward Fender, a funny light burning in her eyes.
“You realize that you collect women like most people collect coins or stamps or little tiny thimbles?”
Thimbles? “What are you talking about?”
“Women. They love you. All ages and shapes and sizes.”
“That’s silly.” It was silly. And weird. And the very fact that she said it had heat rising up in his chest, creeping on toward his neck and face.
“No, it’s true. And can you blame them? You stand there all strong and sexy with those ripped jeans and tight T-shirts. In black, no less.” She moved up close, the light scent of her tempting and tantalizing him to reach out and run his fingers over the thin material of her blouse. She’d paired the thin silk—again in mind-blowing color, this time a peacock blue—with a pair of shorts that easily showed off a mile of leg.
She was the sexy one.
He avoided a show for the lobby and settled for laying his hand on her arm. “Black hides the grease.”
“I don’t see a car part.”
“Give me a few hours.” He grinned. “There are quite a few cars lined up around the track only a few miles away.”
“Just so long as we’re back for tea.”
He shook his head at that before gesturing her toward the stairwell that led up to their room. It had briefly crossed his mind to ask for two rooms, but it wasn’t like they were in abundance on race weekend and, well . . .
They were having an affair, damn it. If you didn’t sleep in the same room something was missing, and he’d long stopped worrying about what his choices looked like to others.
He put the key—a real, honest-to-God key—into the lock and opened the door. The room overlooked the front of the property through a large bay window that included a window seat. It had a king sized four-poster bed and a small sitting area that looked perfect for that tea Lady B. insisted on.
“Wow. You know how to romance a girl, Fender Blackstone.”
He turned to see Harlow behind him. Although he’d stayed here for many years, he’d never been in a room that looked anything like this.
“I had no idea they had rooms like this.”
“I thought you stayed here.”
“Yeah. In a small room on the third floor. This is—” He broke off, an image of Lady B.’s pleased smile when she was introduced to Harlow. “This is something else,” he finished up lamely.
“This is more than something else.” Harlow ducked into the bathroom, marching right back out with a bright smile on her face. “This is a sex den. An elegant one, but you are going to get very lucky, Fender Blackstone.”
She went back into the bathroom to take another look, mentioning something about a claw-foot tub, but Fender didn’t hear it as something began to ring in his ears. Nothing she’d said was inappropriate. How could it be? They were sleeping together.
Yet this room looked like some seduction scene instead of a weekend away. Their time together was fraught with so much baggage—even their conversation in the car had grown weirdly serious and deep—that this was one more example of where they disconnected.
She belonged in a place like this and he . . . didn’t. A pair of lovers who had a future belonged in a place like this, not a couple of people who were getting their rocks off and marking time.
And fuck it all, a room like this made it look like he was trying too hard. He hadn’t even given a thought to upgrading his room or asking for a different one, yet two minutes with Lady B. and she was putting them up in the fucking honeymoon suite.
Or what sure as hell looked like it.
“Fender?” The delighted smile hovering over her lips faded. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Is there a problem with the room?”
“Room’s great.”
“If you’d like a different one, we—”
“It’s great. Why don’t we unpack and head over to the track? I need to see a few people and see where they need my help.”
“Why don’t you go without me? I’ll take some time to unpack and explore the place. I may even curl up with one of Lady B.’s cuppas and a book I brought.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
In moments he’d escaped and was back in his car, bumping his way over the dirt lane that led back out to the main road. Harlow had never yelled or gotten mad or dropped that bright smile.
But he knew he’d hurt her.
And he was damned if he knew how to change it.
* * *
Trent walked into Blackstone’s Auto Body, his story working its way through his head. The rest of the night had passed without incident, but he was tired and hungry and he wanted a goddamned shower. His son was going to fix all of it after Fender gave him the keys to his apartment.
“Can I help you?” An older woman sat at the desk, her gaze raking over him as he stood there. Something in that look crawled down his skin and Trent ignored it. He knew what he looked like—he hadn’t had a shower in two fucking days—but there was somethi
ng else there. Something that smacked clearly of distaste.
“Is Fender here?”
“No.”
“When will he be back?”
“I don’t give out his schedule.”
Trent grit his teeth and avoided raising his voice to the uppity bitch. Uppity bitch in a damn auto shop. What the hell had Brooklyn turned into? “When will he be back?”
“Why don’t you try back Monday.”
“What if I need to try sooner?”
“I can get another mechanic for you if you’re having car trouble.”
“Can I leave a message?”
“You don’t have his cell number?”
Trent ignored the innuendo and attitude. “He must have changed his number recently because the one I used didn’t go through.”
“He doesn’t have a new number.” She seemed to be enjoying herself, her response smacking clearly of one-upmanship.
“Tell you what.” Trent leaned forward over the high counter. He kept his motions casual, but his voice was low, with as much menace as he could shove into it. “When you get that stick out of your ass and have a conversation with your boss, tell Fender his father would like to speak to him.”
He’d finally made a dent, the bitch’s eyes going wide at his reference to fatherhood.
“Fender’s dad?” Another woman had walked into the office during the pointless exchange, covered neck to ankle in work gear.
Trent stepped back from the counter and took in the woman, with her doe eyes and generous, lumpy figure underneath an acre of gray material and figured he’d hit the jackpot. A gearhead with ovaries.
Banishing all traces of threat from his voice, he gave her a bright, jovial smile. “Yeah. Back in town after a while but I keep missing my boy.” He lifted his hands and added a shrug for good measure. “I had a quick job here in town and wasn’t sure if we’d be able to connect, and now it looks like I missed him.”
“Unfortunately, you did.” The woman held out a hand to his. “Annie. Annie Foreman.”
“Trent Blackstone.”
“Annie—” The woman at the counter tried to get Annie’s attention, but from her wide smile and friendly eyes, she was intent on having the conversation.
“Fender’s up the Glen this weekend.”
Recognition hit quickly, and he shifted with the conversation. “Of course he did. How stupid of me. Nothing keeps that boy from cars. Ones that roar around tracks and race each other sit at the top of the list. He’s been like that since he was small.”
Annie laughed at the joke, ignoring the harsh cough from the woman at the desk. “That he does. Race weekend sort of snuck up on all of us, but he left this morning. I’ll let him know you stopped by. Hopefully you can see each other before you have to leave again.”
“I hope so.”
Armed with the details he needed, Trent nodded to them both and headed out.
Fender was up the Glen. He considered the four-hour drive upstate and wondered if he should follow or lay low for the rest of the weekend. He could hitch, but that would take all damn day, and he still needed to get back. Even if he did find the kid, he couldn’t count on a ride back, and he didn’t have the money for a bus ticket or a hotel.
And then an even better idea hit him.
Fender was gone all weekend. It wouldn’t be too hard to find where the kid lived and take his rightful place as houseguest.
Whistling to himself, he dug out his phone as he walked toward the crosswalk and pulled up a search bar. He’d likely find the kid’s address that way, but if not, he’d go back and strike up another conversation with his new friend, Annie Foreman. He could talk cars with the best of them, and he figured if he flirted and appealed to her gearhead heart, he’d have her squawking in no time.
In the end, he didn’t even need to put on a show. Fender’s address popped up on a search listing, and his apartment number was proudly displayed in the entryway of the small walk-up.
An hour later, Trent stepped out of his son’s shower, toweling off as he walked around. The door locks had taken him a few minutes to pop, but no one was around in the middle of the morning and he’d had more than enough time to get the job done.
The apartment was small and sparsely furnished, but there were signs of life in the well-worn couch, the monster TV, and the decently stocked freezer. He scanned the contents, noting the stacks of frozen meals.
Did the kid cook? Or maybe that bitch who adopted him sent him home with food—like he needed a handout.
She’d always poked in where she didn’t belong. Taking his kid from him had been the most obvious, but he still remembered the way the social-services people had skewered him with questions. Fender was a little shit, but he was solid. No one had poked around in their lives until that bitch Louisa had started messing with his kid and meddling. She’d done the same with his little friends, too.
He’d seen something laying on the counter that looked like it had her name on it and, curious, crossed back over to look at the pamphlet.
“Louisa Mills, candidate for Brooklyn borough president.” He read the title, then scanned the rest of the piece, noting that the woman who’d stolen his kid had decided she could do a solid for Brooklyn by representing its interests. He tossed the pamphlet back on the counter.
Freaking do-gooder.
Uninterested, he went back to the fridge and tugged open the door, pleased to see what amounted to nearly a case of beer neatly stacked on the shelves along with some lunch meat and cheese. Between the cold cuts, the frozen handouts, and a fridge full of beer, he was going to eat like a king.
Damn, he had raised that boy well.
Trent snagged a longneck and headed back toward the big-ass TV. He’d raised him well indeed.
And he was going to have a damn fine weekend because of it.
* * *
Harlow fought the urge to pace the small library and instead stayed seated in the large, overstuffed chair that enfolded her like a lover.
And why shouldn’t it? She thought bitterly. Her actual lover had his head shoved under the hood of a car.
You know, in those moments when he managed to get it out of his ass.
What had possibly happened from the car to their room?
Even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. The reality of the weekend had hit both of them in the romantic intimacy of their room. She’d looked at the large bay window, oversized tub, and big bed, and seen a weekend together.
He’d seen a noose.
That thoroughly uninspiring image nearly had her back out of the chair, but for some reason she kept still. It would be so easy to walk away. She could pack up, get some sort of ungodly expensive transportation to the bus station, and go back to the city. She’d be back by early evening and could put this all behind her.
Which was easy.
It would be hard in the moment, but it was easy to run. He’d done it, and she had sat here for the past hour resenting the hell out of him for it. Did she dare do the same?
“Can I freshen your tea, dear?” Lady B. pushed a tea cart—an honest-to-God tea cart—into the room. A pretty, rose-colored teapot sat on top, along with some fresh cups.
“Only if you’ll stay and have a cup with me.”
A delighted smile filled the woman’s face. “I’d love to. Our early arrivals have all checked in, and I’ve got Lucy on the desk, so I’ve got a spot of time to myself.”
Her years of training obvious, the woman had two fresh cups poured and whisked away Harlow’s other nearly empty cup. They each took a sip, Lady B.’s sigh filling the room. “Now that’s a cuppa.”
“No arguments here.” Harlow sipped her own tea, pleased the woman made a hearty brew.
She liked strong things. Took pride, in fact, in being willing to handle the strong and the solid. It was one of myriad reasons that Fender was so appealing. He had an inner core of strength that drew her to him. It wasn’t just the physical, although that was wonderful, too.
It was the solidness she sensed in him.
The man knew who he was. That had been evident from the first, and the perception only grew stronger the more she got to know him.
His family. His job. His view of the world.
The man knew who he was.
His comments on the drive up filled her thoughts, along with the genuine question in his voice when he’d pressed his point.
“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.”
No one listened. . . .
Had she done the same? She’d continued to push ahead, desperate to believe that they could forge a relationship out of hot desire and burning need. But was she wrong? Despite how wonderful they were when they were happening, desire and need, sex and romance, burned out. They didn’t die—she had great hope for that—but they did change. The crazy newness they were both feeling would fade away.
Did they have something strong enough to keep the relationship going when those fires receded?
“He’s a difficult man.”
The “excuse me” was nearly out of her mouth at Lady B.’s quiet comment, but Harlow held it back. They both knew whom the woman spoke of, and they both knew why.
“Yes, he is.” Harlow agreed.
“A wonderful man, but a difficult one. Most of the ones worth a damn are.”
“You sound like you speak from experience.”
A delighted smile and slightly naughty twinkle in those warm gray eyes suggested Harlow had hit the mark. “That I do. My George was a wild man when I met him. We had that spark and fire from the start, but getting him to realize he was worth more and could have more took me some time. I never quite tamed him, nor would I have wanted to, but we certainly had a fun run.”
“For how long?”
“Until he passed three years ago.” The smile dimmed but didn’t fully fade, and Harlow thought there was something pretty special in that. To have loss but still keep the beauty and memories of what you had.
“I’d say that was more than a fun run. I’d say that was a life.”