The Offer (20 page)

I swallow
uneasily and glance at him. His face is almost as neutral as his
tone, though I can see this dark intensity in his eyes that betrays
him.

“Almost,” I
remind him.

“Are you sure
you didn’t earlier and you just don’t remember?”

“
Oh,
come on,” I hiss and then lower my voice. “No, I didn’t. I
didn’t
blackou
t,
blackout. Things just got fuzzy.” I inhale deeply. “Hey, look, I’m
sorry I came home such a wreck and I’m sorry you had to take care
of me.”

“I wanted to,”
he says simply and puts the drill on pause and stares right at me,
his arms resting on the frame. “I wanted to make sure you were
okay.”

“Well.” I look
away, embarrassed. “Thank you for that. But I’m sorry you had to
see me in such a state. I went looking for you today and when you
weren’t home, I figured maybe you were keeping your distance
because you thought I was such a wreck.”

He
slowly shakes his head, an awed smile spreading across his face.
“Are you kidding? That’s what you thought. Sweetheart, first of
all, I have some stories to share with you. Only I won’t, because
then you’ll probably want to keep your distance from
me
. And I can’t
have any more of that, you already hold me at arm’s length. Second
of all, Nicola…as much as you hate how you were last night, as much
as you’re paying for it now, you were real. You were wild. Maybe
you got a little carried away and in the wrong direction, I mean
that could have been my tongue wrapped around yours. But you were
true and honest and I’m glad you told me everything you did. Now I
know why you have such a giant stick shoved up your arse. Babe,
there are better things to stick up there.”

So many things
to ponder, I don’t even know where to begin. I guess the main thing
is he doesn’t think any less of me, even if I do. The other things
are the mention of his tongue wrapped around mine and the idea of
him sticking anything up my ass. Both of those flood my head and
body with a crazy kind of yearning.

I push it
aside.

“Then we’re
cool?” I say slowly.

“We’re cool,”
he says and he stares down at his hands for a moment. “And for
future reference, you don’t need to pound back the shots or
whatever you gals drank, in order to feel wild and free. Believe
me, I know this. I lost many years of my life never remembering the
nights, all in an attempt to escape, to forget, to be something
else. It never amounted to anything except guilt and regret, the
very things I was trying to escape. It just doesn’t work that way.
Whatever you hope to drown, the booze only feeds it, makes it
stronger. It has gills you see. Not to say I don’t have my fun, but
there’s a line and I left it in New York City. I hope you learn to
leave your line at last night.”

I nod,
impressed by this wise version of Bram. I never thought he’d
regretted his party life on the east coast, I thought he had to
give all of that up on account of his parents or something like
that. I didn’t think it was a conscious choice, nor one that he was
glad to make.

“Is that why
you moved out here?” I ask him. “To put it all behind you.”

“One of the
reasons. I just wanted to start over, really. And when Linden was
hurt, I thought I might as well be close to the only person on
earth I’m actually close to.” He laughs to himself. “The funny
thing is, Linden and I aren’t even that close. But compared to my
parents, he’s the one who has been there through it all.”

“I thought you
were close with your parents and Linden was the one who
wasn’t?”

“Nah,” he says
with a shake of his head. “As you know, my father was a diplomat
and my mother was all high society. What they really wanted was for
me to follow in his footsteps. Not even make a name for myself in
something else, but follow in his footsteps exactly. Any other
achievement was ignored, maybe even looked down upon. At least,
that’s the impression he gave off…actually, still gives off. You’d
think that maybe owning this building and investing my money would
have brought him some kind of pride for his son, but no.”

I’ve never
heard him talk so frankly about his family. I want him to go on and
on. Selfishly it makes me feel so much better to know that even the
rich and powerful have problems. I also want to learn as much about
him as possible, storing away each fact and revelation to draw upon
later. It reminds me when I was in grade school and there was a kid
I liked called Joey. Every little thing I learned about him – that
he drank Pepsi instead of Coke, that his mother’s name was Beth – I
held onto like gold.

“I guess I’m
kind of screwing up your investment though,” I tell him.

“You’re not,”
he says. He bites his lip for a moment and I want to do the same.
It’s amazing that I’m able to think or feel anything sexual at the
moment, given what happened last night and my current, foggy state
of mind, but the whole handyman thing really has me wanting it.
Hell, at this point, I think I’d want him no matter what.

But as long as
he stays on that side of the couch, as long as our relationship
never diverts from being good neighbors, then I have nothing to
worry about.

So, why am I
afraid?

He eventually
releases his lip, brows bent in thought. “Can I tell you something
and you promise not to laugh?” He catches himself. “All right, well
you can laugh but just don’t laugh long.”

“What?” I ask
eagerly.

“Well,
everyone thinks – assumes – that I bought the building in order to
make more money in the end, to have as an investment. But that’s
not exactly true. It’s what I want them to think but I have bigger
plans.” I stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. “You
know Richard Branson?”

“The
bajillionaire?”

“Yes. That is
the correct term, I believe.”

“What about
him? Oh my God, are you going into space?”

He laughs.
“No. Bloody hell. Space is terrifying.”

“Agreed.” I
add, “No one can hear you scream.”

“Right,” he
says. “Anyway, Richard Branson, when he was only twenty, set-up a
mail order record business. By twenty-two, he had Virgin Records.
We all know what happens after that. He invests, he makes smart
decisions, he never stops trying new things or learning something
new. Nothing is impossible for this guy, not even space
apparently.”

“So you want
to become the next Richard Branson,” I say. “That’s a great goal
but it’s not exactly a strange one.”

“
It’s
not just that.” He licks his lips and looks off into some imaginary
future. “Branson has said, there is no point in starting your own
business unless you do it out of a sense of frustration. I bought
this building out of frustration but not because I saw an
opportunity for myself but because I saw an opportunity for others,
one that wasn’t there before.” He looks at me and his eyes are
bright sparks of grey and blue. “There is a distinct lack of
affordable housing here in the city, especially for those in need.
I’ve never seen it so bad before. Normal people can’t even afford
to live here, so what about the poor, the ones struggling with
families, those that have lost their jobs, their savings, their
everything? Where do they go? The Tenderloin? To live on the
streets with the crackheads, to share shelters with thieves and
addicts? I don’t think so.”

He’s starting
to sound worked up and he takes in a deep breath. “I wanted to make
a difference. It’s a really long process because you need support
from the city. You need investments from people who want to help a
charity-type cause. You need a lot of things. But I’m here, I have
the building and nothing but time.”

“What happens
to the people already living here?”

Bram smiles
shyly. “Most of them are already people in need. No one here is
paying full-rent. I’m just not sure how long I can afford to keep
this up without the city’s involvement. So that’s what I’m working
on now. Had a meeting at city hall today.”

“Oh.” I think
that’s one of the most surprisingly noble things I’ve ever heard.
“And you’re hoping that the tax break you got for letting me live
here will allow you to be able to do it for everyone in the
building?”

“Tax break?”
Then he grins. “Oh, no I lied about that.”

My eyes bug
out. “What? Why?”

He shrugs.
“Because there was no way you’d believe me if I told you I wanted
to help you out of the goodness of my own heart. And if I told you
the other truth, you would have run the other way.”

“What other
truth?”

“That I wanted
to win you over.”

I blink.
“That’s why I’m living here? You wanted to win me over?”

“I’ve done
outlandish things for a girl before, but nothing like this,” he
says, almost to himself. “But yes. I wanted to help you and I
wanted you to think of me just a little bit differently. I wanted
you to get to know the real me.”

“But the real
you is still an arrogant manwhore,” I point out, feeling far too
many emotions about this whole thing. Strangely enough, none of
them are bad.

“Perhaps, an
arrogant manwhore with some endearing qualities.” He waves the
drill at me. “Like, being handy.”

“
You
certainly are handy,” I comment, still feeling out of sorts. Dizzy
swirled around. It must still be the hangover. It can’t be learning
that Bram did this all for me because of, well,
me
. “I still don’t know what this has to do with
Branson though.”

“He’s a huge
humanitarian. He’s been able to do so much with his fortune. I want
that. I want both – the money and the means to help.”

“Why is this
such a secret? I would think your parents would be proud of you for
this. I mean, your father is a diplomat, he must have many ties to
charitable organizations.”

His mouth
quirks into a quick smile. “Even Linden doesn’t know. No one does,
except the city and you.”

“Why not?”

“Because
people like to hold onto their ideas of what you are and who you
are. They put you in a box and no matter how hard you try to show
them what you’re really like, they can’t wrap their heads around
it. They won’t. They only want you to be a certain way, the way
they see you. To change that messes with their heads. I’ll always
be Bram the fuck-up to them, the party-animal, the playboy. It
doesn’t matter if I tell them my plans or not, they’ll never take
me seriously. I could do this for fifty years, I could become the
next Branson, and they would still see me in the box they put me
in.”

I can’t help
but relate to his every word. I know that the moment I tell people
I’m a single mom, I’m slung into a box that I have no hope in
escaping. I don’t think many people have met me and then seen that
I’m more than just my title, my circumstances.

Not like Bram has seen me
. The thought hits me like a bullet.

He’s studying
me and when I meet his eye, my face perhaps held in surprise, he
clears his throat. “The only problem with the whole thing is that
Branson has had a fifteen year head-start. I pissed away my
twenties and early thirties on booze, drugs and women. While I
obviously enjoyed it at the time – as you know, women are still my
weakness – I could have done so much if I had just gotten my head
on straight at an earlier stage.”

“You know they
say it’s never too late,” I tell him.

“In some ways
it feels like it,” he says. “You know I had a great idea a few
years ago for a social media site comprised of just pictures.
Pictures of me. You know, after a swim, running on the beach,
taking off my shirt. I called it Insta-Bram.”

I watch his
face carefully, knowing he has to be joking. “Insta-Bram?”

But his
expression is stone cold serious. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t
it?” Then he breaks into a wide, shit-eating grin that lights him
up. “Hey, I gotta let my ego come out to play sometimes.”

I shake my
head. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the
best.” He taps the side of the couch frame. “Come on, this couch
won’t build itself.”

So we get back
to work on the shitty little couch and when we’re nearly done, it
really does look like the cheapest crap I could have bought. I’m
starting to think about throwing them out and just keeping my
torn-up but reliable one.

“I’ll need
your help with this,” Bram says, muffled. He’s inside the large
swath of fabric that is supposed to slip on over the frame,
covering him like a yellow ghost from head to waist. “I need to zip
onto those white pads that are somewhere out there.”

I spot the pad
behind me and dip down until I’m under the couch material with
Bram. It’s like being inside a very tiny tent and there’s barely
enough room for both of us to stand under here. Our faces are
bathed in a yellow glow.

“Here,” I say,
holding up the edge of the pad that has a zipper pull. I’m wildly
conscious of how close I am to him and I try to keep my breath
contained, my voice down. It’s getting hot under the canopy and all
I can smell is his beautiful skin.

Shit, shit, shit
, I think to myself. Get out of this situation.

But I don’t.
He pulls down the zipper track inside of the fabric and I hold up
the mattress pad and we struggle for the zipper pull and the track
to connect. His brow is furrowed in concentration, I’m trying to
hold everything just right and I feel like neither of us are
breathing.

Then the
zipper catches and slides along and the pad is attached. I think we
both breathe out a sigh of relief and then he ducks under the pad,
lifting it behind him so we’re still under the tent of fabric, but
both pressed up against each other.