Balancing the Scales Read online

  His eyes narrow, as if he’s debating my age, but he backs away and takes a bottle of Heineken from the small fridge.

  “Will you be having another or do you want to pay now?”

  I look around the grungy bar. It’s bigger than my bedroom. My mum and Dave aren’t here. It’s dry. “I’ll be having another.”

  He nods and leaves me to wallow alone.

  By the time I finish my third bottle, my head is feeling a little fuzzy. I like it. It’s better than thinking about my nanna, or being ignored and told I’m worthless by my own mother.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  I raise my head to see a man who had been playing pool. He has stubble on his face and muscly arms beneath his Rolling Stones T-shirt. He’s older than me. Maybe twenty-five or older. I shake my head, and he sits.

  “You look like you’ve had a rough day.”

  I scoff. “You could say that.”

  “You going somewhere?” He points to my bag on the floor beside my stool.

  “It was my nanna’s funeral today. She was the only person who has ever given a crap about me, and now she’s gone. So, I’m going somewhere, anywhere away from home. I just don’t know where.” The words come quicker than usual, and it’s not like me to blurt something like that to a complete stranger.

  The man gestures to the barman, and within seconds two bottles of Heineken are placed in front of us. The man raises his bottle. “Cheers to shitty days.”

  “Are we supposed to be happy about it?” I ask after choking down a gulp from the new bottle.

  “No. But we live and learn. I’m Mike.”

  I hold out my hand. “Hi, Mike. I’m Rebecca.”

  “Where are you staying tonight, Rebecca?”

  I shrug.

  “Would you like to stay with me?”

  My heart starts to hammer with panic as I take in his expression and realize he’s serious.

  “I’m not a serial killer or anything. I live nearby. You can stay with me tonight, and we can work out what you’re going to do tomorrow.”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Look, I’m offering a warm place with a bed for the night. What are you going to do otherwise? Sleep on the streets in the rain?”

  He has a point. I take the biggest drink of my beer yet, and he smiles. It’s a nice smile. The kind that makes me think he really might not be a serial killer.

  We have another two beers. Mike tells me about his job working on construction sites as a brick layer. He asks me if I have any hobbies. Nobody asks me whether I have hobbies. When I tell him cooking, he says, “You could stay with me longer than one night then. Beans on toast is as good as it gets for me.”

  “That’s really sad,” I tell him. Only it comes out like “Thasss reeeally shad.”

  “Okay, princess, let’s get you home.”

  Princess. That makes me think of Nanna, and for the first time that I’ve thought about her today, I’m smiling. Mike pays the man behind the bar, not asking me for any money, then picks up my bag.

  He’s going to take care of me.

  * * * *

  “Well, this is it.” I step through the door he’s holding open and see a double bed that’s unmade. The duvet is in a ball at the bottom of the mattress. There’s no base sheet. He has a chest of drawers with sprays and hair gel on top. There’s one small wardrobe, and the doors are open. He puts my bag on the floor by the bed and turns on a lamp.

  “Come here.” I go to him, anxious and feeling a little queasy from beer. “Let’s get you out of this wet coat.” He unbuttons my coat at the neck and unties it at the middle, then slides it down my arms to the floor. I can hardly catch a breath as I watch him.

  “What are you doing?” My voice trembles.

  He reaches up to cup my face. “You’re really pretty, Rebecca.”

  No one has called me pretty, not in a long time. I close my eyes and lean into his palm. It feels nice to be touched. To be wanted.

  His hands move around my shoulders, and he draws the zip of my dress down my back. “Take it off, Rebecca.” I’m not sure I want to, but I don’t want him to stop touching me and talking to me the way he is, so I do it, letting it pool around my flat shoes.

  “You’re gorgeous,” he says, taking hold of my breasts over my white cotton bra. My heart is beating so hard it might burst from my chest, and my mouth is dry.

  He slips his hands into my tights and cups me. It doesn’t feel right. I don’t really know him. But his finger slips through my lips to a place only I have touched before and it feels so good I want more.

  He takes off my tights and knickers, then turns me and takes off my bra, leaving me completely naked. “Now lie on the bed, Rebecca.”

  I do as he says, walking backward and sliding up the bed. He takes off his clothes, then fumbles around for something from his top drawer.

  I gasp when he tears the foil of the condom. He rolls it on quickly. I’m relieved he doesn’t ask me because I wouldn’t have a clue what to do.

  He crawls up the bed, between my legs, forcing them farther apart. “Have you done this before, Rebecca?”

  I shake my head, unable to find my voice.

  “You’re going to be so good at it. I can tell.”

  I force myself to smile at his words. I hope I am good. I have no idea what I’m doing, and I’m so nervous my body is locked tight like a brick.

  “So pretty.” He strokes my hair back from my face. “I’m going to take care of you, Rebecca.”

  “I’d like you to take care of me.”

  Chapter 11

  Drew

  Thanks to a last minute screw-up by one of the associates, I’m running late. I check my watch, as if I didn’t check it just two minutes ago. I’m seriously pushing it to make the Staten Island ferry on time.

  I throw my leather weekend bag over my shoulder, adjust my jeans over my boots and try, once again, to leave the office.

  “Sarah, can you keep trying to reach Becky? Tell her not to get on the ferry until she sees me.”

  “Sure thing. Have a great weekend. Your mom is going to be so happy to see you.”

  I respond to Sarah’s maternal beam with an exasperated sigh, but truthfully, I am looking forward to seeing my family. More than that, I’m feeling pretty damn good about spending more time with Becky. That I’m taking a weekend off work to do it is a strange kind of nice.

  My direct line rings as I start walking by Sarah’s desk. I turn back and glare at my phone through the window-wall. “For fuck’s sake.” It’s pointless, but I check my watch again.

  “I’ve got it,” Sarah says, shooing me away with her hands. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harrington is in a meeting at the moment.”

  I throw Sarah a wink and actually run to the elevator. I promised Becky we would make this ferry. I promised my mom would be there in time for dinner. I may not commit to doing things for others often, but if there is one thing I am, it’s a man of my word. I bounce my foot as the elevator stops at every floor on the way down Lexington Tower. There are a lot of things to love about being in the gods section of a high-rise. Painfully long descents to the ground floor are not one of them.

  My driver is waiting outside in his staple black suit and white shirt and takes my bag from me. I tell him the plan while looking at my watch, again. I swear time is speeding up.

  “We’ll get you there, Drew. Sit back and relax.”

  I try Becky’s cell again, but she doesn’t pick up. Where are you? I have visions of her standing on the ferry, alone, without a clue what to do at the other end, and me waving from the terminal.

  We pull up at the dock on Whitehall Street with a minute to spare. I run into the terminal building and spin in circles, trying to find her.

  “Drew!”

  I eventually locate that sweet voice. She’s s
tanding on the upper level. Her hair is curled at the ends and draped across her shoulders. The shirt that’s tucked into her skinny jeans is draped off one shoulder. She looks like an ad for Ralph Lauren or something—casual yet incredibly appealing.

  “Hurry!”

  I snap back into action and bound up the stairs where we both run onto the ferry together. She’s laughing and breathless when we reach the outside deck of the boat. “That was close,” she tells me, her hands finding their way to my chest.

  I work out, I’m a fit guy, but all that running has me panting beneath her touch. “Don’t you ever answer your phone?”

  She takes her hands away and dips one into the purse that’s across her shoulder. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “You’ll be the death of me,” I tell her, mildly pissed at how funny she finds the situation. Mostly, enjoying the sound of her laughter. I notice the bag by her side for the first time and take it from the floor. A voice comes over the speaker to announce departure. “Come on, we’ll get a better view up here.”

  I lead her to the front of the ferry. Despite the number of rush-hour commuters, I find us a spot with a view and plant our bags by the safety rail. “Get your camera ready. You’ll get a great shot of the Statue of Liberty.”

  Giddily, she takes a digital camera from her weekend bag, then leans her forearms on the safety rail, mirroring my pose. The wind blows her hair back from her shoulders and tightens her sweater against her breasts as she takes in the surroundings. I take in her. Only her.

  It’s a good thing she has sworn off men because, right now, I’m not sure how much more self-restraint I have.

  Once she’s taken about a million pictures—I would exaggerate but there’s really no need to—she comes back to stand beside me. “So, Mr. Tour Guide, tell me something about Staten Island.”

  “My family lives there.”

  She nudges into me. I notice goosebumps on her bare shoulder and take off my jacket to wrap it around her. When she opens her mouth to protest, I place a finger over her lips. I freeze at the softness of her skin. She seems to be locked in this moment with me, until she opens her mouth wide and bites down on my fingertip, taking me by surprise.

  “I know your family lives there,” she says, both of us now scowling. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I go back to leaning across the railing, which is now a hell of a lot cooler against my uncovered forearms in only a black T-shirt. “Don’t you have one of those tour books you can read?”

  She shoves my shoulder again. “Be quiet.”

  “If I’m quiet I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Quit being a smart arse.”

  “All right, all right. Something historical. Let me see. Well, the South Beach Boardwalk you’re so desperate to see is also known as the F.D.R. Boardwalk, named after Franklin Roosevelt.” I talk her through the history of the island and New York Bay until we dock, surprising myself with the number of useless facts I’ve retained over the years.

  We hang back until the main crowd has dissipated; then I carry both our bags out to the parking lot. “Drew, in case I forget to tell you, I had a lovely weekend. Thank you.”

  I’m about to ask her if she stole that line from Pretty Woman when I see two small bodies hurtling toward us. I drop the bags and tell her, “Hold that thought.” Then the bodies are throwing themselves at me.

  Annalise hits me first, despite being younger than my nephew. “Uncle Drew.”

  “Drew-bew-smew.” Timmy bounds into my legs.

  “Hey, kiddos.” I fling my niece onto my hip, blowing her wispy blond curls from my face, and I ruffle my nephew’s hair. “Guys, this is Becky.”

  “Hi, Becky,” Timmy says.

  Almost sing-song, Annalise says, “Hi, Becky. Are you Uncle Drew’s girlfriend?”

  “Ooo, erm, no. Just his friend.”

  She gives me a mock look of horror—kind of like the Scream mask but pretty. Whether it’s being here with Becky, or having my niece and nephew around me, the scene makes me laugh from the pit of my stomach.

  I set Annalise down on the ground and tell both kids to take Becky’s hands while we cross the parking lot. I carry the bags. Annalise is chattering away to Becky, who is her usual smiley self. Timmy, on the other hand, is talking to me. “Hey, Uncle Drew, Great Aunt Kathleen farted so loud after lunch it woke up Great Uncle Geoffrey. Great Uncle Geoffrey had been snoring really loud. Grandpa was picking his nose too and Nanna caught him and she said…”

  Christ. So it begins.

  Glancing to Becky, I mouth, “You okay?”

  She smiles and nods, then turns her attention back to Annalise.

  I spot my dad’s red truck, then him standing beside it. His signature checked shirt is tucked into his signature stonewash jeans. His hair is gray-white, but he’s clinging to most of it. He’s not quite as tall as me but still a big guy, and somehow, my mother’s love of cooking hasn’t taken its toll on his waistline too much. “Hi, Son.”

  I plant a bag on the ground and offer my right hand. “Pop. How you doing?”

  “Not so well as you by the looks of it.” He casts his eyes across my shoulder to Becky and the kids.

  “Pop, you know the deal.”

  Ignoring me, he moves to Becky. “You must be the Becky I’ve heard so much about.” Quite an exaggeration.

  “If Drew said it, I’m sure it’s all lies,” she jokes. “You must be Drew’s dad.”

  “That’s right. Bill.”

  Becky leans in to kiss his cheek, and the way my dad flaps is almost laughable. “She’s European, Pop. They can’t help kissing everyone.”

  “Well, lucky for you, Son; that’s all I’ll say. Come on, Becky.”

  As she follows him to the truck, where he uncharacteristically holds open the rear door for her, Becky socks my arm with her fist. It really doesn’t hurt all that much, but I feel the intent.

  When we’re in and belted up, I cast a glance from the front passenger seat to see Becky wedged between Annalise and Timmy. The sight of her knees pulled up to her chest tickles me.

  “Now then, is Becky short for Rebecca?” my dad asks.

  “It is.”

  “And does Rebecca have a last name?”

  “Fletcher. Rebecca Fletcher.”

  “He’s an ex-cop,” I tell her. “He’ll run a search for you on the database as soon as we get back.”

  “You’ll find me squeaky clean, Bill, I promise.”

  “How old are you?” Annalise fires.

  “I’m twenty-seven. How old are you?”

  “Nearly five.”

  “So four then?” Becky teases.

  “No. Nearly five.”

  Laughing, she wisely concedes the point.

  * * * *

  The sun has set by the time we reach the house. A gentle pink glow is cast against the clouds. Despite all my efforts, I’ve never been able to convince my parents to let me help them find a bigger, better place. They live in the same three-bedroom house we lived in when I was growing up. It’s just another white house among the many white houses on the street. Except the tree on the front lawn of my parents’ house is decorated with twinkling tea lights. Its leaves rustle in the light breeze coming in off the bay behind us—cool but not chilling.

  There’s definitely something warm, nostalgic even, about the place, but that doesn’t stop my sudden strike of nervousness as we pull into the driveway. This is not what Becky would expect of a hotshot attorney from the city. High-rises and big, expensive apartments—like mine—that’s what she’d expect.

  What was I thinking, bringing her here?

  No. We’re friends, I remind myself. With friends, anything goes.

  I step out of the truck as quickly as I can, in a bid to open the rear door, but Timmy beats me to it, jumping down to the driveway. I’m left
lingering by the door, waiting for Becky’s reaction as she slides out of the backseat. She swivels, taking in everything about the house. She says nothing. She just gives me a slow, soft smile.

  Still feeling anxious, I scoot by her. “I’ll get the bags.”

  “Oh wait.” She unzips her bag and takes out a plastic container. “Bribes,” she whispers.

  We follow the others—at a slower pace than the hyper kids—straight through the house to the kitchen. Not without Becky taking in the multitude of family pictures hanging on the walls. I may need to do a sweep and approve these before she sees my plump early teenage years.

  I silently curse my mom for having an obsession with hanging pictures of Millie, Jake and me.

  In the kitchen, Becky is folded straight into my mother’s arms. “You must be Becky. Let me see you. Oh my. Gorgeous.”

  Becky’s cheeks flush pink. For a sassy, witty woman, she’s easily affected by a compliment. It’s charming. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington.”

  “Oh lord, would you listen to that accent. And it’s Maggie to you.” She turns to me. “Hello, stranger.”

  “Hey, Mom.” I let her wrap her arms around me, and I squeeze her a little harder than I probably should. I take in the scent of the lavender shampoo she’s used for years and the powdery smell of her skin. I’ve missed her; I just didn’t appreciate how much until this very moment. No amount of Skype calls can replace the familiarity of her hold.

  When we pull apart from one another she pats my cheeks, then pinches my face between her hands. She turns to Becky, still gripping me. “Thank you for bringing my son home.”

  “Oh no, he was desperate to come home, Maggie. He just invited me along for the ride.”

  My mother gives me a look that says, Yeah, yeah, and gets back to setting cutlery out in piles on the old farmhouse-style kitchen table.

  “You must be special, Becky,” announces a new voice, “because the last woman Drew brought here, besides Sarah, who doesn’t really count because she’s like his right arm, was Jaci Cuttle in his senior year of high school. Hi, I’m Millie, Drew’s sister.”