by Addison Fox
“How can we? As you so rightly pointed out, in far more eloquent terms, my emotional cherry was popped a long time ago. I’m no different than those jaded social workers, well aware there’s no such thing as a happy ending.”
“I might have believed that once, but not anymore.”
“Then you really are the naïve girl I accused you of being the other day.”
“Even you, Fender, can’t discount what everyone else knows to be true. They all see what I do. Lady B. Mrs. Weston. Your future sisters-in-law. Your family.”
“No one knows anything.”
“Sure they do. You’re a good man. You’ve built your life by your own hand, and you’re still building it, every single day. You pull drunk kids out of cars, and you fund the local soccer team, and you flirt with women old enough to be your grandmother. You take care of people. And for reasons that are wildly out of my grasp, you chafe when anyone mentions it or even dares to notice it all.”
“Because there’s nothing to notice. Those things you seem to think are so unique? So special? They’re table stakes for a kid like me. When everyone thinks you’re going to grow up to be a fuckup like your old man, you do everything in your power to prove them wrong.”
And there it was. The ghost in his past that refused to let him out of its too-tight grip.
He might fear his father’s physical power, but it seemed like the man’s emotional power was still as strong as ever.
The massive arches of the George Washington Bridge speared into the sky above them, a grand welcome back to the city where they lived and worked.
Where they’d both grown up.
Yes, their lives had been vastly different, separated by a river and a bridge and a lifetime of experiences, but up to now Harlow had believed they could get past all of it. Yet as the last vestiges of their weekend disappeared behind them, she knew the truth. There was no hoping or believing or wishing away their differences. Nor would raw, unadulterated honesty fix what was wrong.
There was only the simple reality of two people who were never meant to have a future together in the first place.
And the untraversable river of experiences that had marked their lives since birth.
Chapter Nineteen
“You’re a good man . . .
You’ve built your life by your own hand . . .
You pull drunk kids out of cars and you fund the local soccer team and you flirt with women old enough to be your grandmother.”
Was that really how Harlow saw him?
Fender had spent enough time with her to know she believed every word, but with her arguments still ringing in his ears, he realized there was something more. She’d painted him to be something else in her mind.
Something better than he really was.
Whatever stories she’d cobbled together about him, the outcome was that she saw him as some sort of hero instead of an average guy getting by in the world.
He knew the statistics. Knew that his start in life had put him at a disadvantage Louisa Mills had worked diligently to erase. But he refused to let those statistics define him, or to take credit for something he hadn’t done.
And he was uncomfortable with the notion that Harlow saw him as something special because of it.
“We’re almost to my place.” Harlow said. She’d remained silent after his outburst, and the creeping traffic from the west side of town to the east side had made the drive seem interminable. “Would you like to come up?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I had a nice time this weekend,” she said, adding, “More than nice.”
“So did I.” Fender knew what he had to do. And he knew it sucked. “Look, this was a great weekend. And it’s been a great few weeks. But I think we need to call it.”
“Call it what?”
The question seemed legitimate until he turned to look at her and caught sight of the prim line of her mouth. “Call it. Like the end of a game. We’ve had a nice go of it, and we should go out on a high note.”
Smooth, Blackstone.
“I guess you and I have different definitions of a high note.”
He didn’t think so, but he refrained from saying anything. He’d called relationships before, and while the conversation was unpleasant, the feeling of freedom that came after was more than worth the modest amount of pain.
Only this didn’t feel modest, the ripping in his chest that had his hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline. Nor could he scent that whiff of freedom that usually began blowing in about this point in the conversation.
“Probably not. This weekend was good. I’m glad you got to see the race and we had fun.”
“By fun you mean fucked each other for three days?”
It wasn’t what he meant—far from it—but if she was going to give him the out, he was a bastard enough to grab for the lifeline. “Sure. Whatever.”
“So this is it? One unpleasant conversation in the car and you’re ready to cut and run?”
“Come on, Harlow. You knew this was coming. You and I aren’t a match, and our lives don’t mesh. You’re the B and B and I’m the racetrack. Nice for a long weekend, but nothing that makes a life.”
Of course, that analogy flew in the face of what Lady B. and her husband had built up in Watkins Glen, but he’d made the point and he wasn’t changing it now.
He pulled up in front of her building, a visitors’ parking space wide open in the midst of the crowded street. One more small example of the privilege she lived with. One more difference between her life and his, when he’d circle the block for an hour looking for a spot near his apartment later.
“Last time I checked, we were getting to know each other to determine if we wanted to build a life.”
Fender pushed every ounce of carelessness into his voice and kept his gaze steady on hers. “Then I guess you have my answer. I don’t think we have anything to build. Or a foundation to build it on.”
“Right. Of course.”
She reached for the door handle, but her doorman had beaten her to the punch. Fender swung out of the car, desperate to leave. To drive far away from the pain he saw in her eyes, and to get as far away from fucking Fifth Avenue as he could.
He snagged her bags from the trunk, handing them over to the waiting doorman.
One last punishing good-bye. He forced himself to come to her side of the car. Laying his hands on her upper arms, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. The urge to linger—to apologize and beg her to disregard every jerky thing he’d said for the past ten minutes—gripped him, but he hung in there.
And he did what he had to do.
“Thanks for everything. Good-bye, Harlow.”
She said nothing. Just stepped back from his arms and headed for the front door of her building.
He watched her slip inside. Watched the sway of her hips as she strode across the marble lobby. Watched as she stepped into a waiting elevator.
It was his punishment. His penance. And when he finally rounded the car and climbed back into the driver’s seat, he knew the truth.
He was never going to see her again.
* * *
Fender had no idea what he was doing standing outside the End Zone; he only knew he didn’t want to go home. That included his apartment, his mother’s brownstone, and his shop. He wanted to be alone, but he hated every miserable fucking moment of his own company.
Which was why he found himself finally wandering into his brother’s bar after aimlessly driving around for an hour.
His fight with Harlow crossing the GWB had been a doozy. He still replayed it in his mind, choosing different words and responses, holding back what he really felt in favor of keeping the peace between them a few days longer.
And then he’d remind himself that the fucking end was coming anyway so it was just fine how it all went down, going up in flames on a national landmark.
Which was a raging, smelly piece of bullshit, but it was all he had at the moment. That
and the self-righteous fear that he’d done her a favor because the moment Trent Blackstone got wind of her, it would be all over for whatever sweet illusions still lived in that gorgeous head. He was doing her a favor.
Really.
“What the hell happened to you? Most people look a hell of a lot happier after getting laid all weekend.”
Fender nearly hit Nick—he had the punch ready to go and the only thing that kept him from swinging was Landon’s quick eye and even quicker leap off his barstool. His brother grabbed him in a tight hold, his voice low and firm, like the way you’d speak to a feral dog.
“Fender. Yo, buddy. What the hell?”
Landon had surprising strength for being so long and wiry—a fact most people overlooked. Fender usually forgot too, until he had Landon wrapped around him like a fucking octopus. “Let go of me.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
He wasn’t okay, but Nick’s contrite features and quick apology went the rest of the way toward relaxing him, and Fender unfisted his hands. “I’m fine.”
“Let’s go to my office.” Nick waved someone over from the opposite end of the bar and acquiesced the stick before ducking below the nearby bar opening. It was only after they were in Nick’s office, the door firmly closed, that Fender’s brothers whirled on him.
“What’s going on?”
“What the hell, Fender?”
Fender had avoided taking a seat on the Monster, unwilling to be eaten by Nick’s oversized, overstuffed leather couch. It was that foresight that had him sprinting toward the door, dragging it open before Nick came up behind him and slapped a hand on the door, slamming it closed.
“You avoided a hit by the grace of L over here. He’s fast, but he’s not that fast.” Fender all but growled the words but, before he could blink, Nick had him back against the door, his hands locked at his sides.
Fender hated that fucking move—hated when Nick pulled out every last bit of football strength he possessed as a raging bruiser—and captured his arms at his sides. It reminded him too clearly of the early days with his old man.
And it reinforced just how fucking strong Nick Kelley really was.
Fender knew how to hold his own—had always known how to hold his own—but it was hard to hold anything when a fucking slab of beef had your arms in the equivalent of a straightjacket. “I’m giving you two seconds to get the fuck off of me.”
“And I’m giving you one to cool off and tell us what the hell is wrong with you.”
His brother’s blue eyes were filled with concern, and it struck Fender as the height of embarrassment and skewered pride to be undone by both that look and Nick’s damn linebacker stance.
“She’s gone.”
Landon had already moved up behind Nick, his dark gaze equally concerned. It was Landon who finally spoke, breaking the silence. “Where’d she go?”
“I sent her away.”
“Why?”
“She needs to steer clear of me.”
“Seems awfully shortsighted.” Nick said. “Especially since she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you in your life.”
“What about Mom?” Fender shot back the question, well aware his brothers had as soft a spot for Mama Lou as he did.
“That includes Mom, which is saying a whole hell of a lot.”
“Things weren’t working out, and it was just mean and nasty to prolong the inevitable.”
“The inevitable what?” Nick shot his attitude right back at him. “The inevitable moment when you shove your head back up your ass?”
Fender wanted to fight. Wanted to lash out and pummel whatever he could get underneath his fists. But even as the haze of anger beat in his veins, narrowing his vision so that all he focused on was his brother, Fender knew it wasn’t the answer. It had never been the answer, and walking into the End Zone to pick a fight wasn’t going to fix his problem.
“Why’d you send her away?”
“You know my father. He can’t know about her. The moment he gets a load of what she’s got? He’ll never crawl back into the hole he crawled out of.”
“What has you so convinced he’s going to do something?” Landon asked. “Daphne said they’ve had patrols on your garage, around town. The cops are paying attention, and your father hasn’t shown his face. What are you so worried about?”
Something small feathered over his spine. It was a whisper of hope that his father really had crawled back into the hole he’d come out of. Before he could let the hope take root, Fender pushed it away. He hadn’t laid eyes on his father yet, but there was no way Trent was leaving Park Heights without making his intentions known. “Then he’s gone to ground. He came back for a reason. I’m not looking to give him any more.”
Landon shook his head. “This is crazy talk. What do you think he’s going to do to her? What could he possibly do to her with all of us around?”
“Landon has a point. Trent’s a small-time thug, and he’s been out of the local game for a long time.” Nick’s shoulders had relaxed and he’d taken up his usual spot—perched on the edge of his desk—even as his gaze stayed wary. “You really think he can pose a major threat?”
Fender knew his brothers meant well, and he wanted to believe them. He’d been through the same arguments over and over in his mind, trying to find holes. But no matter how he twisted and shifted the scenarios, he came back to the same answer over and over.
“I think he’s back for a reason. And I think I’m all twisted up like a fucking old lady for a reason. And I think it’s only a matter of time until he shows his hand.”
“And then what?” Landon asked.
“Then I deal with it.”
“You mean we deal with it,” Nick was quick to add, his shoulders stiff with frustration. “We do it, Fender.”
“Yeah, right.” Fender wasn’t a liar. But in that moment, he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell his brothers the truth.
He planned to deal with Trent Blackstone in his own time and in his own way. And he didn’t need their help to do it.
* * *
Harlow finished tossing the last of her weekend clothes into the washing machine when the doorbell rang. The fact that her doorman hadn’t called up indicated it was her mother or her brother. She briefly considered guessing which it was, but knew the guess wasn’t necessary.
And when she opened the door to find Gretchen on the other side, she acknowledged that she got it in one.
“When did you get home?”
“Hello, Mother.” Gretchen breezed through the door and Harlow closed it behind her. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
“Then don’t pretend that you’re here to welcome me home.”
God, how had it gotten like this so quickly?
She had no interest in having a relationship with her mother defined by animosity and so much hostility they could barely be civil to one another. Taking a deep breath, Harlow followed Gretchen down the hall to the living room and forced herself to be polite. “Did you have a nice weekend?”
“It was fine.”
No animosity. No animosity. No ani—
“And you?” Gretchen pointed toward the race program sitting on the table. “That’s where you were this weekend?”
“Yes. Fender and I went up to Watkins Glen for race weekend.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“I did, thank you.”
Gretchen picked up the booklet, then tossed it back onto the table. “Is he here?”
“He has a name. And no, Fender isn’t here.”
Nor was he coming back.
She wanted to scream the words, the way they’d been pounding through her mind for the past two hours, since he dropped her home. She wanted to go backward and change the car ride back to the city. Wanted to change her questions and her dogged pursuit of answers.
She wanted him back. And the quiet idyll of their weekend away.
It hadn’t been perfect. She’d kn
own that the moment he’d headed off to the track without her on Friday afternoon. But they’d worked through it. Had talked over their issues and found common ground.
Or so she’d believed.
How disappointing to realize just how wrong she’d been.
“So the man took you away for the weekend, then just dropped you off like baggage?”
“What would you prefer? To have had me disregard your knock because we were having wild monkey sex around the apartment?”
“Don’t be crass, Harlow.”
“Then enough with the attitude, Mother. For God’s sake, the queen of England would find less fault than you are. If you have something to say to me, say it. I think we passed formality and tossing upper-crust shade at each other years ago.”
Something determined fired deep in her mother’s gaze, and Harlow nearly sent up a cheer.
Finally!
Perhaps they’d get somewhere far more interesting than the brittle posing her mother seemed insistent on. Maybe they’d even get to a real conversation, where she could connect with the woman she knew was buried deep underneath those angry layers.
“Fine.” Her mother let out a heavy breath. “You want to discuss this, let’s discuss this. I don’t see why you feel it necessary to date that man. Why you think it’s acceptable to flaunt your father’s indiscretions in my face?”
“I’m doing no such thing.”
“You are if you think that dating the son of the woman he cheated on me with isn’t rubbing my nose in it.”
She wanted to be mad. With everything she was, Harlow wanted to lash out at her mother for the unfairness of it all.
Only on some level, she knew Gretchen was right.
It was hardly fair to get mad at her mother for finally voicing her feelings. From her and Fender’s very first meeting a few weeks ago in her office, Harlow had known that attraction to him was misguided, and that pursuing anything at all—even a mild flirtation—was dangerous.
Dangerous to her heart, and to her equilibrium.
And a choice that had consequences to her family. Did she regret her choices? Not in the least. Was she grown up enough to understand those same choices hurt her mother?