The Offer (7 page)

The car is
silent except for my shaky breath. A few moments pass, then Bram
says, “What about your parents?”

It figures he
would say that since he coasted by on his parents’ money for so
long.

I swallow and
shake my head. “No. No, my mom helps out doing what she can. She
watches Ava twice a week. But she’s a fucking maid. I mean, if you
knew her, if you knew me growing up, you’d never believe it. What
she’s become. But she made a bunch of mistakes and now she’s lost
it all and…she’s no better off than me.”

“I get it. And
your father?”

“He’s a good
guy.” I wipe my tears away with the palm of my hand. “But I talk to
him once a month. He does a lot of charity work out in India and
South East Asia. Whatever money he has, he gives.”

“So he could
give to you.”

“It’s not the
same,” I say. “He helps those in real need.”

“It sounds
like you’re in need.”

I can feel his
eyes boring into me. I stare down at my hands. “I wouldn’t ask him.
I don’t want him to think I’m anything but okay.” I can see Bram
nod out of the corner of my eye and the car is silent again and I’m
feeling worse than before.

It’s not long
before we’ve pulled up in front of my apartment building. Through
the stream of tears I can see the usual crack bums and derelicts
milling outside. They always get worse at night.

“I’m going to
take you inside,” Bram says to me and his deep, rich voice tells me
I’m not to argue. “I can’t believe you live here. You shouldn’t
live here.”

I should feel
insulted by that but I’m not. “I can’t believe it either,” I
whisper. I step out of the car and with Bram standing watchfully
between me and the junkies, I get Ava out of the seat. He quickly
scoops up the booster, locks his car with a flashy display of his
fancy alarm system, and we go inside.

Once in the
lobby I reach for the seat to take it out of his hands but he holds
firm. For once, the arrogant smirk is all gone and he’s damn
serious.

“I’m taking
you to your apartment,” he says. “I don’t trust this neighborhood,
and believe me, I went to school in Glasgow. I’m going to make sure
you’re safe.”

“You don’t
need to do that,” I say, still holding onto the seat.

“I don’t need
to do anything,” he says. “I want to. I’m going to.”

“Your
car…”

He glances out
the glass door to the street. “My car is fine. I got a good look at
them all and they know it. The alarm is loud. They wouldn’t
dare.”

Reluctantly I
let go of the seat and go up the stairs to the second floor.
Outside my apartment I stop and take out my keys. I really don’t
want him to see it or to come inside. It’s weird, but I feel like
he’ll think he knows me if I do that, as if he could garner a
glimpse of my soul from my furniture, art and framed photos. Though
I guess after everything I just bawled to him in the car, he
probably knows me enough by now.

“This is me,”
I tell him, giving him a stiff smile and the unfriendly stare I do
when I want someone to leave me alone.

He licks his
lips and nods. “Okay.” He puts down the seat against the door. “I
better get back home. But…listen.” He leans with one arm against
the door and stares so deeply into my eyes I’m forced to listen.
Hell, I’m practically hypnotized. “I know I’m probably not your
favorite person and that’s okay. But I honestly think I can help
you.”

“Help me?” I
say, just a bit too loudly. Ava stirs her head on my shoulder.

He takes a
business card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “Call me.
Tomorrow. And we’ll talk. I have a solution.” He looks at Ava’s
sleeping body and then at me. “She has a good mum.” Then he walks
down the hall and down the stairs.

He goes before
I can thank him again.

“Let me just
wank off on your tits, babe,” I tell Astrid in a begging voice that
I’m not too proud of.

She stares up
at me, my cock in her hand, drool and precum at the corners of her
wet lips. She’s too fucking gorgeous, even though that vapid stare
of hers can be right creepy at times. I’m not keeping her around
for her intelligence, that’s for sure. But considering how hard I’m
trying to step away from my past, I hope for her sake she’s not
into coke.

“Am I not good
at sucking your dick?” she asks in a hurt little girl voice before
wrapping her tongue around my throbbing head.

She is good.
Bloody good. I have no doubts how she got that way either. Things I
don’t want to think about, just like she’d rather not think about
how my lips and tongue can get her coming faster than she can
scream my name. But when I texted her this afternoon to come over
and make me come, I was counting on fucking her on the floor. Or on
the bed. Or anywhere, really.

But she’s got
her period, and so, this will have to do. Now, I honestly don’t
mind sex when a lady is on the rag. It’s messy and kind of hot. But
she, like most girls, can’t fathom the idea. And it’s not like I’m
not enjoying my BJ – again, she’s good. But the position, her on
her knees, causes my mind to wander.

I don’t want
it to do that. It’s been doing that a bit too much lately. About
things I’ve tried to keep buried, things that keep surfacing in
different ways.

Thankfully,
I’m almost ready to come, so I pull out of her mouth and flip her
around, pushing down on her shoulders so she’s on the ground. Then
I stroke myself off and come all over her neck and shoulders, glad
to have it over with.

“You’re a bit
rough,” she says with a breathy giggle.

Why does
everything have to be so fucking funny?

“Only because
you love it,” I tell her. She pretty much loves everything I do and
I think it’s for more reasons than just what I can do in bed. Money
speaks louder than a lot of things. “Stay put.”

I go and get a
dishtowel from the kitchen and quickly wipe the cum off her back. I
wonder what’s the easiest way to get rid of her. In hindsight I
shouldn’t have even invited her over but I needed something to get
my mind off of Nicola.

The thing is,
when I give a girl my phone number, I expect her to call me. They
always do. And I wasn’t even giving it her on the pretence of
fucking her or anything like that. I genuinely can help her out. I
want to. And she needs it. It’s rare that I have all three of
those.

But it’s two
in the afternoon and she hasn’t called. Wasn’t she curious? Isn’t
she desperate?

Does she
really hate me that much?

I can
tell when women “hate” me. You know, as a precursor to getting
naked, a fun way to make our interactions more exciting. And then
there’s women who
hate
me, as in
they wish I would die. I’ve gotten that impression from Nicola ever
since I first met her at a bar early last year, right after I moved
here. At the time I would have just blamed it on her being an
uptight snob, but she was so nice to everyone else and so snide
with me, that I couldn’t help but take it personally. And, of
course, be challenged by it.

It’s bothered
me ever since. I saw her twice more after that and it was the same.
The cold nod, the death glare, like I had wronged her in a past
life. When I saw her at my brother’s wedding, I thought maybe she’d
come around. I kissed her when I shouldn’t have, but I just had to
see. And for a split second I thought maybe I could win her over. I
saw something in her eyes that was wild and free and I just wanted
to let it loose like that damn tight-arse hairdo she had going
on.

That didn’t
happen. My dick got the better of me.

Now I think
she really hates my guts. I’m pretty sure she saw me take that
chick into the bushes and I’m pretty sure I pissed her off to a
point she’ll never come back from.

Still, when I
said last night that I could help her, I wasn’t just trying to make
her like me, to make up for past misdoings. All right, maybe that
last part a wee bit but really I’m coming from a good place.

But if she
doesn’t call me, she won’t ever see that. Now I’ve got Astrid naked
from the waist up and on the floor of my apartment, wiping the
remains of my cum off of her and I don’t know how to get her out
the door.

I zip up my
pants and give her an exaggerated yawn. “You know what, I think I’m
going to take a nap. I have a lot of work to do this evening.”

She gets to
her feet, her tiny, perky breasts bobbing in front of me. For once
she doesn’t look vapid, but annoyed. It’s a nice change. “So, you
invite me over for this and now you’re throwing me out?”

“I’m not
throwing you out,” I tell her as I grab her shirt and chuck it at
her. “You may want to put that on, though.”

She scowls out
me. “You’re a pig,” she says, quickly slipping it on through a huff
of anger.

“More like a
hog,” I correct her. “They tend to be bigger.”

“First you
invite me out to a party and you end up spending it in the
hospital.”

I frown at
her. “Hey, no one asked for that to happen.”

“Well, it
did,” she says, going for the door. “And I’ve had enough. Don’t
call me.”

The door slams
behind her.

No
worries on the calling part. Most girls don’t last more than a week
with me before they’ve also had enough. They may act all dumb and
easy-going, but I know they all have their limit and I’m pretty
good at dragging them to it every time. Some might call that a sad
way to get through life, but when it’s just
your
life, you learn to accept it.

I pick up my
phone off the counter and stare at it. No missed calls, no texts. I
don’t even have her number, so I can’t call her.

I can call my
brother, though. If he’s not out flying the chopper for the
chartering company, that is.

He answers on
the third ring, but the connection is a bit fuzzy.

“Aye, what do
you want?” Linden shouts.

“Don’t tell me
you’re in the air and answering your phone all willy nilly.”

“Just about to
take off. What’s up?”

I clear my
throat, wondering how to phrase this without him getting the wrong
idea. “How is the girl? The wee one?”

“Like the
child, Ava?” he asks, his voice rising above the rotors I can hear
starting. “She’s okay. Diabetes they said, like some kind of shock.
You were there.”

“I know I was
there. I mean, how is she now? And how is her mum?”

“I guess she’s
fine as she can be, I don’t know. I know Steph is at her place
right now, helping out. She’s worried as hell. You know how she can
dote on people.”

That I do
know. Steph’s like the mother we never had. I don’t tell Linden
that or he’ll balk at the Freudian implications.

“Do you have
her phone number?”

“Nicola’s?” he
asks. “Not on my phone. I have her Facebook. Why?”

“No matter,” I
say, then pause. “Tell me something about her.”

“What, why?
Wait. No, Bram. No,” he commands, like I’m some rangy pooch.

“No, I’m not
asking because of that.”

“Right, you’re
not asking because you don’t want to stick your dick in her.”

“I honestly
don’t,” I tell him. “I think she’d cry if she saw a dick in real
life.”

“Nice,” he
says dryly. “Anyway, she’s off-limits to you. She’s gone through
enough. She doesn’t need my arsehole brother fucking up her life
anymore.”

“Arsehole?”

“Yes, Bram,”
he says, tiredly. “Look I have to go.”

He hangs up
and I mutter a swear at the phone.

There’s only
one thing to do.

Soon I’m
parking the car in an above-ground garage near Union Square and
walking several blocks over into the heart of the manky Tenderloin
neighborhood. Other than good music venues, the place is crawling
with crazies. It’s not that bad during the daytime. I mean, it
ain’t pretty but the people just really annoy you to death with
their begging and aren’t dangerous. But if I were Nicola’s parents,
or even friends, I wouldn’t want her living there. The thought of
fuckheads outside her apartment at night makes me strangely pissed
off.

By the time I
reach her place, I’ve been asked for change by eight different
people and was told I “smell like crunchy toast” by a random
running down the road with a severed parking meter under his arm.
I’m not sure if I do smell like toast, but it is hot out. I’ve been
warned how San Francisco’s seasons don’t follow any rhyme or
reason.

I take off my
suit jacket, run a hand through my hair in an effort to look
respectable, and buzz her apartment number having remembered it
from last night. Borderline stalker-ish, I know.

“Hello?” I
eventually hear her voice come through the crackly intercom.

“Nicola, it’s
Bram.”

More crackle.
Silence. Maybe she’s hung up.

“From last
night,” I go on. “And other times.”

“Uh, hi…”

“Can I come
up?”

I can sort of
hear Steph in the background, “Who is it?”

“Tell her it’s
her brother-in-law!” I yell and then I’m disconnected.

I stare at the
door wondering if I’m being told to fuck off when it buzzes and I
go on up.

The funny
thing about Nicola, the thing I’ve gathered from what little I know
about her, is that if there’s anyone that shouldn’t be living in a
place like this – bars on the doors, mildew on the stairwell walls,
stains on the carpet – it’s her. Maybe some hipsters could make it
work, or James and Penny, Linden’s friends on the alternative side
who might call this type of living as “being real.” But Nicola
seems too stiff, prim and proper for this place, like she should
have been born in a palace instead. From the way she was talking,
well blubbering, in my car, I have a feeling she might have
been.