Tipping the Balance (13 page)

“I… don’t understand,” Brad said.

“What if you joined us?” Drew said softly.

Brad shook his head. “Dude. I’m not a contractor.”

“Yet.”

“Are you telling me I should go to contractor’s school or something?” Brad scoffed.

Drew shrugged. “You can’t tell me you don’t like and know home building, and it’d be one solution to my problems. Yours, too, potentially.”

“I don’t know, this is big, real big. Are you sure about me, and are you sure this is even something you want to bite off?” Brad said.

“Hmmm, what was that you were saying?” Drew said, one eyebrow arched. “Something about brass rings and pulled muscles?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brad mumbled, flushing. “It’s just… I’m not sure this is all a good idea, you know? That place is a wreck. It’s been a firetrap for decades.”

“The renovation’s a bad idea?” Drew said. “Is that why you’ve hung on every word I’ve said about it? Why we’ve spent hours going over my rough sketches? You want to do this, and you know it.”

“I know,” Brad said softly.

They were silent for a while. Their waitress came and refilled their coffee, and still they said nothing.

“I’m going to have to think about this,” Brad said.

“I know,” Drew said, echoing him.

Brad stood up to leave. Then he sat back down. “Shit. Tell me how you see this working.”

“Well, I need a contractor to work with me on supervising the renovation, as well as making sure it passes legal muster,” Drew said. “Then… I guess I should back up a step or three. I never got a contractor’s license because at first I just didn’t think about it, since I was working on my real estate license. Then I was busy getting that business going, then busy flipping houses. That’s when the need for a contractor became all too clear. Having to pay a general contractor on top of the subs really cuts into profits. In a perfect world, I’d form a partnership of some kind with a general contractor. I’d find houses to buy, and the contractor would oversee the renovation with my help as time permitted. Then I’d sell the houses, presumably at a profit, and we’d do it again.”

“But if I did this, you’d be paying me a salary,” Brad pointed out. “You were going to be paying me, weren’t you?”

“Duh. Of course we would,” Drew said, rolling his eyes. “But I always try to think a few steps ahead. You doing this would solve a problem in the short term, on the renovation of the Bayard House, but could also point the way to the future.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Brad said, nodding.

Drew smiled. He had indeed, and not just a partnership in the business sense. He’d just about abandoned hope that Brad was gay or bi, but he really liked spending time with the guy, a big lug in the best sense of the term.

“I really am going to have to think about this and how it might work. I mean, I don’t think I could just quit my job with Sundstrom Homes. Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but I’m hearing a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’ here. I’d need something to fall back on, at least at first, especially since I’d be an employee and not a partner,” Brad said.

“That makes sense,” Drew said. He didn’t want to admit it, but Brad was right. It was a huge gamble, and it wasn’t like he could judge. He still had his real estate business, after all. “And you’ll need to meet Emily.”

“I’ll call you soon to give you my decision,” Brad said, getting up again. He set a twenty on the table.

“I can’t wait to hear from you,” Drew said, smiling. “If you want, and if you can get the time off, you can come with us on the site tour on Monday.”

“I’ll keep it mind. And Drew?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for thinking of me with this. It means a lot.”

Drew watched Brad leave the restaurant. The die was cast. All he could do was wait and keep in touch with Brad to keep him from talking himself out of this. And Drew knew Brad would try. Someone had done a real number on that man’s confidence in himself and his abilities, and Drew had an idea who that might be.

Even
as he drove home, Brad knew he was going to do it. The whole thing was just too cool, from the renovation of the Bayard House to Drew’s proposal that they work together. Never mind his tried to shoot it all down. Where’d that buzz killer come from, anyway? He liked Drew, it was a tremendous opportunity, and it was the first thing he’d gotten excited about doing with his life since he’d found crew. He hadn’t said anything to Drew, but he even had a small trust fund that was his as soon as he “made something of himself,” whatever that meant. The trust wasn’t enough to live the life of the idle rich, but it’d certainly be enough to pave the way forward, if he could talk the lawyer who controlled the trust into it.

The fact that he was excited about his future was reason enough to do it, Brad figured as he bounded up the steps to his house.

Then he paused, key in the lock. He had to find a way to tell his father he’d be working only part-time at Suburban Symphony.

Shit. He was sunk. He leaned his head against the door, hating his life, hating Randall. Hating himself for not being able to stand up to him.

Feeling a little sick, Brad let himself into the house and went directly to bed. He didn’t bother undressing, and he didn’t sleep. The rump end of the night was short, but it felt like forever as he tossed and turned, never quite comfortable enough to drop off to sleep, never quite comfortable enough in his own skin to tell his old man where to go.

Red-eyed and baleful, he glared at the alarm clock. 5:30 a.m. He hadn’t gotten up that early since the last morning practice for Coach Bedford. “Damn it,” he growled, throwing the covers back.

He squinted and stumbled his way to the kitchen, where his nose told him there was coffee.

“You’re up early, Bradley,” his father commented, not looking up from the morning paper.

“Yeah,” Brad grunted.

“Usually when you’re this hungover, you don’t get up until at least noon,” Randall said.

“I’m not hungover, I just couldn’t sleep,” Brad said, trying and failing to keep his irritation to himself. He poured himself a big mug of coffee.

“I don’t care for that tone,” Randall said.

“I didn’t get drunk last night, and I didn’t embarrass you. I was just up late and then tossed and turned all night, okay?” Brad said, holding the coffee under his nose and letting that magic coffee smell clear his mind.

“Of course,” Randall said.

Randall’s tone told Brad he didn’t believe a word of it. The story of his life, Brad reflected. If he told his dad the sky was blue and the sun came up in the east, his dad would tell him how stupid he was. Most of the time, Brad just ignored it.

That morning, it rubbed him the wrong way, and he couldn’t stomach it. “Suffering Christ, would you give me a break? I had one beer last night. I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

“Poor child,” Randall said. “Maybe you can catch up on your rest at work today.”

Stripped of his usual defenses by sleep deprivation, he blurted, “I need to go to part-time. At Suburban Symphony, I mean. I can only work there part-time.”

“Don’t be absurd, Bradley. I need you out there,” Randall said, finally looking up from the paper.

Emboldened by fatigue, Brad felt something inside him give. “Let me rephrase it, I’m going part-time.”

“And let me be clear, no you are not,” Randall said, slamming his coffee down. “You can’t just go skipping off when the mood strikes you.”

“I can’t believe this! You don’t even know the reason why, and you’re already assuming it’s a bad one!” Brad yelled. He’d always been the go-along-to-get-along younger brother, the one who swallowed the insults because it was easier than arguing, but it had to end sometime.

Randall leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Fine. Tell me about this grand reason of yours.”

“Just do it more quietly,” Philip said as he made his way to the kitchen, blinking in the light.

Brad took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Sorry, Philip. Listen, I’ve got a tremendous opportunity, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“So what’s this scheme of yours, then?” Randall said.

“A friend of mine flips houses, and he and his partner are submitting a bid for the renovation of the Bayard House,” Brad said. “They’ve asked me to come work for them.”

“What on earth do you know about renovation, to say nothing of preserving historical buildings? And a house-flipper? Good luck with that,” Randall said, laughing harshly.

“Interesting,” Philip said, “but you’re not a contractor. What do you bring to the table?”

“First, I’d start working toward my contractor’s license, but you can’t say I don’t know the building trades,” Brad said.

Philip nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that, and the Bayard House is certainly the biggest thing going around here these days.”

“You and your friends don’t have a shot,” Randall scoffed.

“We won’t know if we don’t try,” Brad said. He hated it when Randall got like this. He hunched over, as if he could protect himself and his plan at the same time. “It’s a chance to get in on the ground floor of something, a chance to grow into the job as the job grows.”

Randall rolled his eyes. “And you’ll do this and work at Suburban Symphony, how?”

“Like I said, I’d have to work at the sales office half time,” Brad admitted, still defensive, “but be honest. Suburban Symphony is doomed. It’s not like my working there half time will cut into sales. You could put some intern in there the rest of the time, or even go ‘appointment only’ and have me on call.”

“Yes, that’ll work very well,” Randall said, making a face to show his sons just what he thought of what he saw as Brad’s latest harebrained idea.

“It might, actually,” Philip said. When Randall glared at him, he continued, “Dad, that place has more problems than Brad—or anyone—can solve easily, and you know it. You wanted to put Brad in there, and I went along with it, but cut him some slack, for once. It’s an interesting opportunity he’s been presented with.”

“That place is a wreck, and the plans to preserve it are doomed from the start. They should just admit that they’ve screwed around too long and lost it, just like they did with the old town. The city should tear it down and either preserve the façade in a new building or build something new and modern from the foundation up,” Randall said. “But this? This is idiocy.”

Randall glared at his oldest son, but Philip stood his ground. “He needs to make his own way. You’ve got the heir, so let the spare go.”

Randall nodded his head slowly. “I see. Fine. You go right ahead, Bradley. This project is doomed to failure, just like everything else you’ve ever touched. You’ll come crawling back, you’ll see.”

Brad and Philip were silent as their dad set his coffee cup in the sink and stalked out of the kitchen.

“Thanks, Philip. It’s been a long time since you stood up for me.”

Philip shrugged. “Maybe too long. At least one of us has a chance to get away from him. Don’t screw this up, Brad, or he’ll never let either of us forget it.”