Demming by Avril Ashton

Four

Everything he’d learned about Demming rolled around in Hart’s head as he tried to focus on the laptop screen in front of him, on the project he should be going over in order to approve it. But he couldn’t because it made sense, who Demming was. The little things Hart knew about him made sense.

His family had been dealt a devastating blow and he’d had to step up and be the head of the family when he likely hadn’t even been prepared to. How could he have been? Reading about the way his father died had been shocking.

Demming held Hart’s father responsible; of course, he did.

It finally made sense, why silent alarms went off in his head whenever their eyes met.

If Demming blamed his father, why was he trying so hard to buy the property? How had he amassed that kind of money? Jeb had been unable to figure it out. Hart should have asked that question instead of allowing Demming’s cocky arrogance to put him on the defensive. His reaction to their meeting earlier that day in his office plagued him.

In looking over his father’s actions back then, it hadn’t been anything illegal. Par for the course in doing business. But it didn’t sit well, not now that Hart knew the devastation behind it. Not when he knew Demming and his family had experienced some serious hard times after losing their father and husband.

That shit wasn’t normal or fair, and he hated knowing his own father’s actions had precipitated all of it. He’d wanted to ask his father about it but couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject at dinner earlier. Now he was back at his office in the pool house, staring at his computer screen but seeing nothing but the disappointment in Demming’s eyes.

They’d lost their house after Demming’s father died. Demming had been twenty-two, his younger brother not even a teenager at the time of their monumental loss. Demming had been in college, but he’d dropped out and never returned.

After what he’d gone through, no wonder he regarded Hart with such scorn. With tangible disdain. Hart would feel the same way if the roles were reversed.

And what had he done in order to atone?

Thrown his father’s actions in Demming’s face then dismissed him.

“Fuck!” He slammed his fist down on the desk, making everything rattle. None of what happened to Demming and his family had been Hart’s fault, but he felt as if he’d been the one personally responsible. He benefited from it. Even now, he benefited.

Demming’s expression that morning in his office lived rent-free in Hart’s head ever since—that look of reluctant disappointment after Hart told him his decision. The look that said he’d expected nothing and Hart had lived up to it.

Had he?

How did he make it right?

Could he sell a property to Demming just because his father used to own it at one point? Hart’s old man had bought it legally, though nothing about that transaction had been fair. How could he rectify what his father had done?

And why was Demming so determined to get it back?

He shoved away from the desk and stood, grabbing his phone. He scrolled through his call log for the number he’d called that morning and dialed it again, pinching the bridge of his nose. After the way their last conversation went he didn’t expect Demming to answer, but Hart hoped he did.

His stomach twisted up and around itself as he leaned against his desk, eyes closed, listening to the phone ring and ring. If he were Demming he wouldn’t answer, either. Not after—

“What do you want?”

Hart’s body lurched and he refused to examine the relief that gripped him at Demming’s bark. “Sawyer—Sorry, Demming.” He licked his lips, speaking quickly in case Demming decided to hang up on him. “I want to apologize for our meeting this morning. This is Hart, by the way.”

“Jesus, Junior, I know your fucking voice.”

Right. He had said that before. Hart nodded like an idiot. “Right. Um.” He cleared his throat. Demming had him off-kilter, nervous and fumbling in a way he hadn’t ever been before. “I’d like—Can we meet somewhere tonight?” He glanced at the time on his watch with a frown. It was just after nine. “I know it’s late, but I would prefer to do this face to face if you’d allow me.” The phone went deathly quiet and he removed it from his ear, checking to make sure they were still connected.

They were.

“Demming?”

The other man muttered an address in Brooklyn. “Twenty minutes or don’t bother coming.” Then the call disconnected.

Hart stared down at the phone in his palm. Twenty minutes was hardly enough time to drive from Long Island to Brooklyn, but hey, he could try.

He dressed out of the sweats and t-shirt he’d pulled on after taking his shower earlier, decidedly ignoring the nerves rolling through him. He didn’t know what else he was going to do when he saw Demming beyond offering up an apology for himself and his father.

It’s not your fault.

No, but somebody had to take responsibility.

He finally made it to Brooklyn, wishing he’d been at his apartment in the city. The drive would’ve been shorter, for sure. The last time he’d been there had been weeks prior for a rendezvous with Tam, who he hadn’t heard from since they flounced out of his office and onto the elevator earlier that morning once Hart cut them off.

That had been an embarrassment he didn’t think he’d ever get over.

Once he arrived at Demming’s address, he rode the elevator up to the floor he’d texted Hart earlier and knocked on his door while shifting from foot to foot. He was well over twenty minutes late and he didn’t know if the other man would still welcome him—not that he’d been all that welcome before.

Demming opened the door with a scowl on his face and a glass of amber liquid in his hand. “You’re late.”

Hart shrugged. “Traffic.”

Demming grunted. Unlike this morning when he’d been perfectly coiffed, tonight he was different in a way that had Hart glancing around looking for the exit. Demming’s hair was all mussed, sticking up as if he’d been running his fingers through the dark strands. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked as if he needed a full year of sleep. He wore a faded gray t-shirt, the black words on the front all but gone, and jeans.

With bare feet.

Hart shouldn’t be so transfixed by toes, but there he stood unable to tear his gaze away from Demming’s feet.

Hell.

“You like your colors, don’t you?”

He jerked his gaze up to find Demming eying him up and down critically.

“Yeah, my ex got me into it.” Hart tugged on the royal blue blazer he wore over a plain white tee and jeans and grimaced at the mention of Sydney. He hesitated when Demming turned away and headed back into the condo. “Is this a good time? We can do this another—”

“You’re already here, aren’t you?” Demming waved him in without looking over his shoulder.

It wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic welcome, but Hart shrugged and entered anyway. He glanced around as he closed the door behind him. “Your place is so…white.”

Demming snorted.

The condo was all glass and never-ending whiteness, like a museum. But he didn’t say that part out loud. Instead, he asked, “Are you sure you live here?”

Demming swung around to face him, scowl firmly in place. “Why are you here, Hart?”

He was so close. Hart could smell the liquor on his breath, faint but there. Any closer and he’d be able to taste the burn. Don’t think about that. He forced himself to hold Demming’s gaze. “I wanted to apologize to you in person.” He pressed his lips together. “You deserve that at least.”

Demming cocked his head, expression shuttered. “What are you apologizing for?”

“For what my father did,” Hart told him softly. “It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. I’m sorry about your father.”

Demming’s body seemed to turn to stone before him and Hart folded his fingers into his palm to keep from reaching out and touching him.

“I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you this morning. That was fucked up of me and I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You were thinking the way people like you usually do, that what’s yours is yours.”

People like him. “Yes.” The disappointment that admission brought to Demming’s eyes killed Hart. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Demming shrugged. “You’re not the first. Won’t be the last.”

“But it’s not right,” Hart blurted.

Demming’s lips twitched. “Hate to break it you, Junior, but life is rarely ever about what’s right or wrong.”

And wasn’t that the truth. Hart gestured to the glass in Demming’s hand. “You gonna drink that?” The other man held it out in a silent offer, his eyes scrutinizing, making Hart want to squirm. He took the liquor and tossed it back, eyes closing at the burn that damn near eroded his tastebuds. “What the fuck was that?” he asked.

“Not a drinker, huh?” Demming’s gaze pierced him.

“I mean, I do every now and again, but this?” He held up the now-empty glass. “This was like drinking fire.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. “The fuck?”

Demming watched him, assessing. “Does your father know you’re here, apologizing for his deeds?”

The last thing Hart wanted to do was talk about his father. He shook his head silently.

Demming made a sound. They stood in his foyer staring at each other. The heat of the drink slithered down into Hart’s belly, leaving a trail of embers behind. It had to be that making him sweat, making him lick his lips as he continued to stare at Demming, who watched him just as boldly without saying shit.

It was awkward, but heavy too.

A thickness swirled, making it that much more difficult for him to breathe. And why couldn’t he take his eyes off Demming’s throat? He tried and tried, finally tearing his gaze away, but it lifted only to settle on Demming’s lips.

Oh fuck, no.He jerked away from the wall he’d slumped against. “I’m—I should go. Thank you for—”

“What’s wrong with your father?”

Hart blinked. “What?”

“You said he had a stroke, but that’s never been made public. Why? What’s wrong with him?”

Hart swallowed to ease the rawness of his throat. He just might need some more of that liquid fire if he would be discussing his father. He didn’t look at Demming when he said, “I got a call one night from my mom. It was like two in the morning. She was screaming.” It took such a long time before her screams stopped echoing in his head. “My dad had collapsed on the bathroom floor. By the time I got there, he’d been loaded onto the ambulance. My mom and I rode with him.”

He blew out an unsteady breath as the heavy memories settled onto his chest, making it ache, making words difficult. “The doctors told us he had a stroke. When he regained consciousness, he couldn’t move his left side. At all.”

Demming cursed softly.

“It was difficult for him to speak and the doctors wanted him to rest, but he didn’t listen.” He chuckled, but it came out sounding as if somebody were strangling him. “He’s stubborn like that. His words were all slurred and he only had use of one hand, but he went about telling us what would happen.”

“What would happen?”

Hart met Demming’s stare. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but there was no gloating nor pity staring back at him. “He would step down and I would take over.”

Something in his voice must have given him away because Demming’s gaze sharpened. “You didn’t want to?”

“I knew I would eventually. That had always been the plan. But I hadn’t expected it at that moment. I figured he’d have his trusted people run things in the interim. But no, he wanted his son to ascend the throne. So I did and we kept the extent of his injuries out of the press.”

“Huh.” Demming crossed his arms. “How is that working out?”

It wasn’t, but Hart wasn’t about to dump his problems at this man’s feet. “I’ll have the paperwork drawn up tomorrow,” he said instead. “To begin the process of selling Larchmont to you or um…ArtFi Holdings.” Demming inhaled sharply, but Hart couldn’t look at him. He spun and made his way to the door.

“Why?”

He grasped the doorknob and yanked the door open. “Because it’s the right thing to do.” And he walked out.