In Harmony (Fenbrook Academy #2)(39)
Author: Helena Newbury

“Go from the hip,” Connor told Darrell, demonstrating a hook. “Try to land it in the kidneys.”

Darrell thumped the bag, but he kept glancing around as if embarrassed. He was doing it, but he wasn’t into it. Duty, not rage, was driving him.

I sighed and shrugged. “Sorry,” I said to Natasha. “I thought—”

“Now paint a face on the f**ker,” Connor said.

I saw Darrell blink.

“Make it into a him. Or a them,” Connor told him.

Darrell blinked another couple of times and then nodded. And his eyes narrowed.

He punched, hitting the bag dead center, and then just stopped dead, his hand still pressed hard against the bag. I could see the surprise on his face—for the first time, it had been satisfying.

He drew his fist back and hit it again. And again. And then did a hook, burying his fist into a tender kidney. His next punch was high, and it wasn’t a bag he was hitting anymore—it was a face.

Natasha took a half step forward, amazed. Something was happening, right in front of us. The monster that Darrell had chained up in his head, the one that had driven him to create weapon after weapon, that kept him awake every night, was finally being released. Not into another gleaming instrument of death, but as raw energy, power that made the bag creak and swing on its chain. His punches grew harder and harder and he moved instinctively to hit the bag on all sides, to destroy it.

Sweat soaked his vest, his shoulders gleaming with it. There was a light in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in months and even though I knew it must be scary for Natasha to see him like this—just like it had been for me, with Connor, I knew she needed to see it. This was a part of him, and always would be. His lips were drawn back over his teeth, his fists hammering at the bag with a force that must have been painful. Around us, men turned to look and then nodded with understanding.

Watching it come out of him was unsettling—it was almost as if he’d been possessed by a spirit, since he quit his job. The anger had been consuming him, and now that it was leaving him I could see the Darrell we all knew emerge from underneath. The bag swung and creaked on its chain, absorbing his rage, for a long time.

When Darrell finally dropped his hands and staggered against the bag, barely able to lift his arms, he was soaked with sweat…and he was him again.

“Are you okay?” Natasha asked, running over and putting her arms around him.

He was panting, barely able to speak. “I…want…to…come back tomorrow,” he said at last. He looked at Connor and gave him a nod of thanks. And then he gave me one, too.

Natasha hugged him close and I could see her eyes were wet with tears. Thank you, she mouthed over his back. I caught Connor’s eye, and he held out a hand and pulled me up against him, beaming at the other couple. He barely knew Darrell, but he was glad to have helped him—would train with him every day, if that’s what he needed, just because it was the right thing to do.

And that’s when I finally stopped torturing myself and accepted it. I’d known it all along, I think, from the moment my father had made his offer—I just hadn’t faced up to it. I pulled Connor into a kiss and let the heat of his body soak into me, giving me the strength I needed to tell myself the truth.

I couldn’t screw Connor over. No way.

And that meant I had to confront my father.

Chapter 25

I had to wear a dress to meet him. I’d been to the hotel plenty of times before and I knew from painful experience how out of place I’d feel standing in the bar in jeans—and I needed all the confidence I could muster. But it had to be the right dress, because he’d complain if the hem was too short. Or the neckline too low. Or the fabric too gauzy.

This was why I’d spent most of the years since my mother left in jeans and a sweatshirt.

The bar was a mix of upmarket business types and old money. Everything was made of chrome or dark wood or marble—in fact, it looked a lot like my father’s apartment, back in Boston. Probably why he liked it so much.

My father had a thing for punctuality but was traditional enough that he—as the man—would always be there first. Except this time my nerves made me get there stupidly early and I had to stand at the bar, sipping a mineral water and shredding a napkin while I waited. I considered getting a glass of wine to steady my nerves but I knew he’d smell the alcohol on me.

Next to me, a blonde in a tight blue dress listened with wide eyes to the stories a gray-haired man in a suit was telling her about life in the shipping business. I couldn’t help but listen, because the way they interacted wasn’t like anything I’d heard before. She didn’t seem to know enough about him to be his wife, or daughter. Yet they couldn’t be on a date, surely, because he had twenty years on her. She was far too flirty to be a secretary or colleague, so…?

And then I got it. And watched in the mirror as he ran a hand up her thigh, finished his drink and led her to the elevators. God, was that what Jasmine had to look forward to? Pretending to be awed by some forty year-old’s stories, laughing at his jokes before going upstairs with him and—

And what? My mind whirled. Letting him take her, writhing under him in mock passion? Getting down on her knees and sucking him? What would he demand she let him do to her, to secure a bigger tip?

I closed my eyes. What worried me most was that, based on what I’d just seen, Jasmine was right—she’d be good at it. She’d be able to use all her acting talent to flirt and giggle and make the men feel like gods, and then….

I opened my eyes and saw my father standing there. “You’re early,” he told me, as if that was an unthinkable crime.

I wanted to go up to his room, where if I lost it we’d at least have some privacy. But he insisted on talking it out right there in the bar, in antique leather armchairs the color of dried blood.

I knitted my hands together on my lap and tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve decided. I don’t want you to talk to Professor Harman,” I told him.

He gave a long sigh of frustration, one I knew very well. It wasn’t the sound of acceptance; it was him indicating that he was speaking to an idiot, one who he’d have to spend many hours correcting. “Karen—”

“No.” I said it so firmly and sharply that his eyes actually flicked up to my face in puzzlement, like an owl that’s just heard a mouse answer it back. “No. I’ve decided. I don’t want to perform solo,”—I let it hang in the air between us, giving him time to stew in it before offering him my deal—“unless you strike the same deal for Connor. He has to be allowed to play solo, too.”

Once I realized I wasn’t going to take my father’s offer, it hadn’t taken me long to come up with my ultimatum. It was simple and practical and ultimately fair, and it gave us both a much better chance of acing the recital than if we performed together. Even with just three weeks to go, we could still do it—I could pull out a cello piece I was familiar with and play that solo, Connor could play something he knew well for electric guitar and instead of fighting against our habits, we could embrace them, doing what we were really good at. We could both graduate, I could impress the New York Phil scout and everything would be great.

If my father accepted.

I knew he had the power to make it happen. He’d been confident that he could convince Harman to make an exception to the rules for me, so I was sure he could do the same for Connor—after all, it was only fair. It wasn’t could he; it was would he?

My father looked me in the eye, long and hard. “He’s changed you.”

I managed—just—to look steadily back at him. “Maybe he has.”

There was a long pause. Then my father said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

My heart leaped. Everything was going to be okay!

“If you agree to stop seeing him,” my father said.

And my whole world crumbled to dust. My careful plan had been swung around and turned against me. “W—What?”

“I’ll do the deal with Harman, for both of you. But you give me your word you won’t see Connor again.”

My plan had hung on the notion of sacrifice. I knew my father hated Connor, but I’d also been sure that he’d rather see Connor succeed than both of us fail. Somehow, he’d twisted that around so that I was the one forced to choose: between our futures and our relationship.

The third option—to agree, and then go against him and see Connor anyway—wasn’t an option at all. I knew what my father meant when he asked for my word. I’d never broken my word to him, nor him to me and I knew that if I did I’d be ending things between us…permanently. I tried briefly to imagine a world without him in it, and I couldn’t.

I could save both our futures, or I could be with Connor. Not both.

***

At home, I ran a very deep, very hot bath. One of the advantages of being short is that you can really stretch out in the tub. I lay there submerged, my face forming a low island, my hair wafting lazily like seaweed.

I’d switched off my phone while I’d been at the hotel with my father, not wanting the sniping and arguing that a call from Connor would have triggered. A good thing, too, because the call log showed Connor had called me while I’d been there. I didn’t return it. I couldn’t, until I made my decision.

It should have been easy—I loved him, so I should say the hell with graduating and think about us, right? Except…if you really loved someone, weren’t you supposed to do what was right for them, even if it meant losing them? If Connor performed by himself, he could graduate. If he graduated, he had a future, maybe here in New York, instead of a dead-end job back in Belfast. If I really cared about him, shouldn’t I take the deal and sacrifice the relationship, for both our sakes? That would be the grown-up thing to do.

Or was I just kidding myself, justifying a deal that would also give me my dream back? Was I being selfish, wanting my future back? Or selfish wanting to hang on to Connor?

I closed my eyes and sighed. When I finally climbed out of the bath, I was no nearer making a decision…and Connor had called again. My thumb hovered over the icon that would call him back, wanting to hear his voice…but I couldn’t. If I spoke to him, he’d know something was wrong and he’d coax it out of me. And then he’d demand that I take the deal, maybe even breaking up with me to force the issue. I couldn’t let him do that. It was my father holding this over our heads, and it had to be my decision, for better or worse.

I pulled on panties and an old t-shirt and then sat on my bed, staring at my phone’s screen. I knew I needed to call my father…I just didn’t know what I was going to tell him.

I tapped on my father’s name and held my breath while the phone rang. Don’t answer, I prayed. Then I can put this off until morning.

“So?” No pleasantries; just business. The way it always was.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“Karen?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Well?” he said.