Daring You

by Ketley Allison

  “Yeah, actually,” Astor says. “He’s only a junior, though. Mike’ll be assisting.”

  This would be the moment I point out Astor should be talking her fiancé up, not shrinking his dick, but I don’t want to.

  “That poor baby boy,” Carter says, and strokes Lily’s hair. “He was the only survivor, right? I wonder what ever happened to him.”

  I can barely hear her. All sound has muffled, tunneled, into a vicious hole, and I’m curled up on the bottom.

  “I gotta go,” I say and stand too quickly. My thighs hit the table, rattling all the plates and nearly tipping over Carter’s juice.

  “Watch those tree trunks,” Locke says.

  “Ben, are you okay?” Carter asks.

  “Fine.” I turn from the table, then spin back and say, “Thanks. For all this.” I sweep my hand around. “You know, breakfast.”

  “Any time, man,” Locke responds.

  I barely spend any time grabbing my coat from the couch, and storm out of the apartment before I stick my arms all the way through, but I’m slow enough to hear Astor say, “He’s such a rude sonofabitch.”

  “Sumbish!” Lily parrots.

  I slam the door behind me.

  My hands are cupping my mouth to bring them some heat as I stomp to the subway, too amped to stand on a curb and call a car, and too stubborn to return to Locke’s place and wait.

  I’d rather be among other miserable people as they make their way into Manhattan, the supposed City of Dreams.

  I shouldn’t take out my anger on NYC. Sorry, Lady Liberty. You’ve done nothing but stroke my ego, skyrocket my career, and bring me women, money and fame. But when I’m made useless, the first thing I want to lay waste to is my environment.

  It’s better on the field, when I can barrel into other bodies and send them sprawling. That gets a lot of damn frustration out, believe you me. In this instance, I’m left with my pants down, dick dangling, unable to do anything about what makes the news. I can’t punch anyone, either.

  And I shoulda known this would become a major headline. It’s a twenty-two-year-old murder case, but the brutality alone is enough for juicy clickbait in this flailing journalistic world.

  What’s killer, though, what’s really making me chomp and chip teeth, is that Mike Douchebag Ascott will be part of the team representing my parents’ murderers.

  In what fucking realm do I deserve this kind of comeuppance?

  I stare at the small slice of sky I can see through the buildings, dark and gray as my fate.

  Only thing worse would be if Astor were their attorney. Except, it is worse because it might as well be her. She’s Mike’s second hand—first, actually, if anyone with eyeballs takes a look. He’s nothing but a pussy in fancy suits. Which makes her privy to all the information, every moment of my mom’s suffering and my dad’s pleading. She’ll see the crime scene photos, she’ll be looking at me, and she won’t even know it.

  Nobody can know it.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I rasp into my hands, then give my face a long, hard rub.

  Walk. I have to keep moving, not become a frozen buffoon in the middle of Who Knows Where, Brooklyn, where someone might see and take a picture.

  Goddamnit. Pictures. I got drafted into the NFL and became a public face because I figured my parents’ case would be forever cold. There was no way to connect the tiny, skinny, four-year-old boy to me, and yet there’s the very real chance I’ll be exposed. It’s not only reporters that know how to dig these days.

  Bloggers.

  Trolls.

  Teenagers.

  Everyone’s a fuckin’ internet Jimmy Neutron.

  The fact they have the killers in custody means nothing. Those guys have a network, and if they find me…if they figure out who I am…discover there’s a surviving witness…

  I’m dead.

  Just like that.

  Doesn’t matter I’m a witness to a crime now two decades old and can’t remember details. I escaped when I was meant to be buried along with my parents.

  Crime rings don’t forget shit like that.

  Dodge Hennessy’s face rushes at me as I lift one foot forward and gain enough strength to eat up some sidewalk. The way I felt back then—I laugh. I bray out loud and slap my thighs at the memory of believing he would be my downfall. Dodge was nothing, the pecker’s basic knowledge meant zero, now that my parents have been unearthed and Astor’s firm has taken the case.

  The worst part is, if this goes the way I think it will, I fucked Astor over to keep a secret that was always meant to come to light. I thought I was breaking her heart to preserve her life.

  All for nothing.

  I can’t take it anymore. “God. Fucking. Dammit!”

  I punch the nearest wall, hear the crunch of my knuckles against the brick, the slice of pain moving from my hand to my elbow, and I don’t give a damn that it’s my throwing arm.

  My breath mists out in frigid puffs. I’m gasping like I’m going to cry. But I don’t bust out tears. I don’t think back.

  Don’t look back.

  I heave off the wall with a roar and continue my trek down the avenue.

  8

  Astor

  I say my goodbyes to Locke and company soon after Ben, since Carter appears to want to murder me if I teach Lily one more curse word.

  I’ve also committed to an entire Saturday afternoon’s worth of work, considering Costello, Wine & Cottone have indeed taken the Staten Island Slaughter case and they’ve requested all hands on deck while we sort out whether there’s enough evidence that our clients have to take a plea, or if we’re going to trial.

  Usually my favorite kind of case. Juicy, brutal, and riveting. Just the topic to get my mind off Mike’s sexcapades and Ben’s grouchiness, and basically men in general. I’m on this Earth to become a success, not trail after any guy’s coattails.

  Entering into the dreary NYC winter is exactly what you think it’s like. Cold, ice-driven, and colorless. I zip up my purple parka as I head to the subway and adjust my cream wool beanie that Locke says makes me look like an egg, since my hair disappears underneath it.

  Note to self: hair bobs and lobs are excellent in the spring in summer, but frickin’ suck when ice fingers get to trail along your bare neck in the dead of winter.

  I’m crunching along the sidewalk, already planning how to steal this case away from Mike, when I hear a roar unrelated to the city’s white noise in front of me.

  Pausing, I reach one hand into my jacket pocket for my cell. It sounds human, it sounds angry, and it’s male. I approach the alleyway with caution, ready with eyes forward to walk right by, a typical New Yorker’s response. Unless I spot a potential victim cowering underneath the roar, I’m not stopping.

  A form bursts out of the dark corridor the instant I’m passing it, nearly toppling me onto the icicles sticking out from the city sidewalk.

  “Jesus—”

  “Watch where you’re—”

  We’re both cut off by the other. Decide our death stares are better than our words.

  “Excuse me,” Ben says, turns his back, and starts walking.

  I’d let him go, if it weren’t for the bright red droplets in the snow he was leaving behind.

  “Ben,” I say, and when he doesn’t stop, I catch up to him. “Hey, Ben!”

  “What.”

  He says it with such visceral emotion, it gets caught between his teeth. I falter, one hand raised, about to touch him.

  “You’re bleeding,” I say flatly, then point to the blood trail.

  He fists his wounded hand, looks at it, and shrugs. “So?”

  “What happened back there?”

  Our breaths are coming out in cold puffs, and the longer we stand here, the more our organs will shut down, but I can’t help but be concerned. I only like hating Ben when he’s healthy and unwounded.

  “Nothing,” he answers. Predictably.

  “Ben—stop.” This time, I lay a hand on him when he
starts to turn. “What’s going on? Why were you so weird at brunch? And why did you punch something so hard, you broke skin?”

  His eyelids shutter. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t,” I say automatically, and he nods like he expects it. “But since my niece is very much in your life, I’d like to know you’re okay.”

  “I’m good enough,” he grunts, then shakes my arm off.

  “Fine then,” I say to his back.

  But swear when I realize where he’s going. Our destination is the same: the subway up ahead. Stomping my feet against the cold, I figure I can wait until he descends, then follow, and once down the stairs, swing in the opposite direction he’s standing on the platform.

  Problem is, its damn cold and there’s no coffee shop or other store to duck into in this direction to wait out the asshole.

  “Dammit,” I mutter, then start up the pace again, making sure I’m quiet so he doesn’t hear me trudging along behind him. I don’t glance at the droplets of blood he’s still leaving, like clues to an evil grandma’s gingerbread house.

  “I can feel you behind me, you know,” he says without turning.

  I adjust my tote, searching through it like I can’t hear him.

  At last, we reach the subway entrance, and he descends with lighter, quicker footsteps than expected, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, but I suppose that’s why he’s the top wide receiver in the nation.

  The gate dings when he swipes his Metrocard, and mine follows soon after. I have plans to do a sharp U-turn as soon as I can, but Ben ruins everything when he halts and faces me.

  “What?” I say. “It’s not like I can help that we both need this train to get back into Manhattan.”

  Something ripples beneath his features, a combination of angst and fury. Though I’m used to him, have been utterly burned by him before, being under this kind of scrutiny makes me want to brace for anything he might sling at me.

  “You can’t take this case,” he says.

  Now that, more than anything, was the last thing I thought he’d say. “What case? The Staten Island Slaughters?”

  Deep lines crease around his mouth. “Yes. That one.”

  “Why not?”

  His frown carves deeper. “They look…like bad guys. I don’t want you mixing up with them.”

  I guffaw. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s dangerous, Astor. Let some other firm handle it.”

  It takes me a few seconds, but I’m trying to sort through all the reasons why Ben would even care what my firm is up to. The law bores him. My corporate job puts him to sleep, if he ever decides to think about it. But that would require him thinking about me, and we both know that doesn’t happen.

  “I’m just gonna go ahead and say no,” I say carefully.

  Ben sets his shoulders, and on him, it’s more like a gladiator readying to enter the arena. “Then I’m going to ensure it doesn’t come to your firm.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I cover my confusion with confrontation. “And what makes you think you have any power to do that?”

  “I’m famous,” he says offhand. “I can go to the press, side with the family’s survivors, blow this whole case so wide open, Australia will hear about it. I’ll taint the jury pool so bad, you guys won’t have a chance.”

  “How do you even know what tainting the jury…” I trail off, shaking my head. “What the hell, Ben? You realize this could make my career? Or—right, I forgot. You don’t give a shit about how well I do. But here’s the thing.” I step forward, so I’m close enough that I have to tip my chin up. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, never mind what you instruct. Go to the press, make this the most public scandal you can, my firm will still take this case.”

  His mouth twists, but his eyes…they’re searing into my retinas. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  “Am I?” I ask. “Because before you said anything, I wasn’t about to fight for it. I was going to let Mike have it.”

  Lies, lies, complete lies, but I wasn’t about to let Ben stand here and dictate what I can and can’t do. My only option is to ask the supervising attorney to be on the case. There’s no guarantee I’d even be let in.

  “So, because I told you no, now you want to do it just to spite me?” Ben asks.

  “Consider it an added bonus.”

  He peels his lips back. “You are being such a—”

  “A what? Bitch? Say it, Ben.”

  “I was going to say fool. Don’t do this just to best me.”

  I laugh, but it isn’t filled with any mirth. “Typical. Of course you’d think this was entirely about you.”

  He lets out a frustrated growl, but there’s no one around to hear us. The MTA worker has long ditched their glass cubicle, and any potential passengers are smart by staying in their warm homes. But I’m not afraid to be alone with Ben. I’m angry.

  “It’s disgusting, how quick you and your boytoy want to jump on this trial. These people didn’t just die, Astor. They were tortured. Mercilessly. And here you are, wanting to make money off their killers.”

  My jaw drops. Actually unhinges.

  “How dare you say those things to me?” I manage to say.

  “Because they’re exactly what you’re aiming for right now. Look at the crime scene pictures, Astor, really look at them, and then tell me you’re surprised I think this about you.”

  I’m breathing—I think. I’d have to be, to continue to be alive and not pass out. It’s the way he’s perceiving me that’s making it hard. It was bad enough that he saw me as nothing six years ago, after touching all of me and coming up empty. But now, for him to stand here and regard my presence with disgust, it angers, because now I’m wishing he’d go back to lumping me in with how he feels about plain yogurt at room temperature.

  “I’d expect this from your guy Mike,” he continues, and I use this time to collect the pieces of my heart and hide them better, “since I often get him confused with a gecko, but you? You?”

  Finally, it hits. “This is about Mike, isn’t it? Why do you hate him so much? Why are you refusing to let me be happy?”

  The last part….oh, God, I didn’t mean to say it. Ben’s eyelids twitch like he didn’t want to hear it.

  “I don’t hate that douchebag,” Ben says. “I’d actually have to feel something for him to hate him. I’m trying to protect you. To prevent you from turning into—”

  “Except, you’d have to feel something in order to want to protect me,” I throw back, then point at his chest. “I don’t know what your game is or why you want to paint me out as some bloodsucking lawyer, other than to improve your all-American image somehow. Be the face of conquering tragedy. If anything’s despicable, it’s you, trying to profit off this family’s trauma. I’m in this because it’s my job, it’s called justice, and everyone deserves a fair trial, innocent or guilty. Unless you’d prefer to go back to mob lynching?”

  Ben thins his lips. My poking him doesn’t throw him off balance in the least.

  “I know it’s hard avoid each other, considering your Locke’s best friend,” I continue, “but it should be easy to keep your nose out of my business.”

  I give him one last shove, and he lets me throw him back, just slightly.

  “Stay out of my life, Ben!” I say, and I’m shocked to feel my eyes go hot.

  He says nothing as I back away, and when I turn on my heel, I repeat in a voice filled with desolate grit, “Stay out of my fucking life.”

  The incoming roar of the train, and the accompanying hot wind through the tunnel, blows anything Ben might’ve wanted to respond with well away from my ears.

  I don’t turn back as the train rumbles to a stop on its tracks.

  I don’t look at him as the doors slide open and start my travels far away from Ben.

  9

  Ben

  Damn, Astor looks good.

  Who’s allowed to be sexy in a purple sleeping bag and the wooliest hat this south of a Mammoth? It’s not
fresh wool, either. It’s pilled, and pieces of fluff stick out in every direction, creating a lopsided halo backlit by flickering, dying subway platform lights.

  It’s what I focus on as words vomit out of my mouth. Desperate ones, syllables guaranteed to cut and slice and dice. Anything to get her away from this case. I’ll say whatever it takes to make her second guess her decision to open that file.

  I should’ve known it would only make her sharpen her fangs.

  Astor’s cheeks have given her away. They’ve bloomed pink, twin circles of passion, and she’s doing her best to cut me down at the knees.

  Even though I’ve cut her down first.

  I know what my words have done. Disgust. Shame. Mistake.

  All meanings I’ve made her understand before. And I did it purposefully. Used them shamefully because I knew they’d wound the most. All utilized instead of giving her the truth.

  Worth it. It’s all worth it, Donahue.

  When she shoves me, when Astor disguises her distress with her own verbal arrows and walks away, I don’t stop her.

  Many believe Astor’s cold and callous, with a complete disregard to human emotion and feelings. I don’t know why I’ve been given the gift, but I can see that lie so clearly. She wears her emotions where people forget to look. In the way she holds herself—too strong, too stable, to be real. How she places her hands, fingers too stiff and straight. And when, when you really get to her, her throat jerks with an untimed swallow.

  All signs of successfully chipping away at Astor Hayes.

  I use that knowledge, the well of wisdom I didn’t earn from six years ago, to my advantage, almost like a play on the field. Something was already going on with her at brunch, making it too easy to punch through her weakened glass and scatter some shards across a subway platform.

  So, when she doesn’t look back at me as she boards the same train I do, ensuring she’s at least four cars away from mine, I don’t blame her.

  And I don’t think I’ve convinced her of anything. But failure isn’t in my DNA, so I’m gonna keep fucking trying.