I go still.
“Hear that?” he persists. “You just pissed off and ditched the one guy who was willing to fuck you despite what you look like, who would’ve kept doing it as much as you wanted, and it wasn’t for your money. I have my own family stock to pilfer. You lost a sure thing, Astor. Now, whoever you choose, you’re not going to know if they want you for you, or if they’re only willing to tolerate you for your Momma’s cash.”
Mike storms off and I remain stiff-backed, staring blindly at my computer’s screensaver. The only sign of movement is a slight gulp in my throat.
The way Mike can go from so endearing to vicious, how did I not notice it before? Is it because what he’s saying is true? I’m so desperate for a guy to love me, I blunt the sharp edges?
Mike is right about the inheritance. Locke and I’s trusts, set up by our late mother, kick in when we’re thirty, and it’s a lot of money. Somehow, she managed to keep a lot of it away from our father, who tends to squander money as soon as he sees triple digits in his bank account.
When she was first diagnosed with ovarian cancer, we thought she’d be okay. Stage 2, the doctors said. It was curable. Then, it spread. To her uterus, her lymph nodes. Twelve months later, we’re told she’s at a metastasized stage 4. My mom was dying, and I couldn’t argue her out of it. I was unable to make any deals, force any settlements. I couldn’t call the devil and ask him to please spare her. I was simply reduced to a spectator, watching the love of my life, my role model and best friend, die.
I rub at my eyes, considering now is the time to go home and do the rest of my thinking on my laptop, safe in my apartment. I could pour a glass of wine, play music, and pretend that I don’t only seek out men who are intent on hunting and destroying, a habit my mom would be so disappointed to see. Apex predators, willing to conquer and discard without so much as an oops.
I push away from my desk, reminding myself that I’m an apex predator, too. I’ve made grown men cry in courtrooms and depositions. I’ve won cases considered losers that Yang and his other partners tossed to me like garbage they needed dumped.
And if I can give such a dominant title to Mike Ascott, then I sure as hell can own it, too. That’s more my mom’s style.
I’m useful, I’m smart, I am not Acne Hayes.
Inheritance.
The word whispers through my mind, an indistinct voice so distinctly my mother.
I blink. Peer harder at my monitor.
As soon as Locke and I were born, my parents put a will in place so we would always be comfortable, in case the worst happened. And the worst happened.
They did it as soon as we were born.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I type in what I need.
Ryan Delaney’s parents must have had a will, and somehow, some way, that little boy would’ve received his inheritance.
13
Ben
Ash’s place is what you expect.
Lofty, spacious, lots of pointless industrial tubing on the ceiling, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and no walls.
His bed is laid out on the far corner, near a giant, frosted window that looks like a checkerboard. The vast interior (about 2,000 square feet, which is virtually unobtainable in NYC unless you’re a rich asshole—case in point) is supported by random silver columns, a sign of its past life as a bread factory.
Ash scored a coveted loft in the Meatpacking District, a feat now impossible due to Manhattan’s skyrocketing living expenses and the inability of anyone, except celebrities and trust fund babies, to live in the exclusive clubbing and designer district.
He comes from very old money. Locke knows more about it, but something to do with the railroad days. Essentially, Ash doesn’t have to work a day in his life to support this kind of lifestyle, but he does anyway, and he actually excels at it.
I wasn’t joking when I said he was an excellent pastry chef, and now, apparently, a restauranteur.
When I step into his space Monday evening on an oversized, manually open-and-shut, elevator on the third floor, I’m the first one there.
“Hey,” he says over a cauldron on his stove. His insane amount of tattoos are blurred by the steam billowing out in front of him. “You’re early.”
“I’m always punctual,” I say, and drop my duffel near the entrance. “Also, I was bored after finishing my workout.”
“That sucks,” Ash says while opening his giant, metal fridge and cracking me open a beer. “Not making it past the playoffs, I mean.”
“Your sympathy is noted,” I say dryly, and accept the cold bottle.
Ash jumps up with spirit hands, a sight that would scare kids in Freddy Krueger costumes on Halloween. “There’s always next year!”
“Go back to cooking.” I bend over on the other side of the island, where his stove is, to inspect what’s inside the pot.
“I’m cookin’ up something simple,” Ash says. “Truffle carbonara with pan-seared shrimp in white wine sauce and garlic bread.”
“All I know is it smells good.”
“Fair enough.”
The elevator creaks its descent, and I’m again dumbfounded on why such a ritzy place has such a haunted mode of transportation. I take a seat on a stool I drag out from under the island, watching Ash putter about on his side of things, chopping green stuff and carving bread in half.
“Everybody coming?” I ask him after tipping the beer to my mouth.
“Yep. Even East.”
“Wow.” I lift my brows. “You’re so popular.”
The elevator shakes and rattles, and before you know it, the man himself steps out.
“Hey y’all,” Easton says, clad in his usual attire of a black leather jacket and black, ripped denim. He’s kept his longish hair down, straight jet black to his shoulders, and digs his fingers into the mane to shove it out of his face as he greets us.
“My man!” Ash says, smacking a wooden spoon on the marble countertop. “Did you get mobbed on the way over?”
“Nah,” Easton says, and fist-bumps me when he comes closer. “I’ve learned to keep a low profile these days.”
“Do you even own social media?” Ash asks.
“Nope. But my manager does, I guess, because apparently I have an official account.”
“Beer?” Ash heads back to the fridge.
“Yeah, man. That’d be great. Sorry to hear about you being booted from the playoffs,” East says as he takes the seat next to me.
“I’m not too sad about it,” I say. “I broke enough records this year to keep myself from being a free agent, anyway.”
“The Giants snagged you right up again, huh?” Ash says as he rounds the island and hands East his bottle.
“Damn straight. My agent called me this morning.” I drink harder from the bottle, reminding myself that’s what’s important. My career. Not my past.
Fuck. We’ve all gone through so many things, and my boys either think I’m emotionally stunted or living a fairly carefree life, because rarely do they ever try to dig into what makes me tick.
I could take it as an insult, but I don’t, considering the few times they’ve asked about my burns, I give them a blunt answer: fire when I was young, and leave it at that.
It’s funny, to look at this group on the outside. We’re the most fucked up F.R.I.E.N.D.S. entourage to ever not become a TV show, yet here we are, closely tied through tragedy and pain.
“Quit looking so pathetic, Benji,” Ash says, and has the gall to bop me on the forehead with his spoon. I snatch it and fling it back at his face.
He doesn’t duck in time. “Shit! I forget about those damn reflexes.”
“Go jerk off somewhere else,” I say.
Easton chuckles, but we’re interrupted by the ancient lift again, this time dispensing Locke, Carter, Lily and—
Astor.
She’s at the back, in a pantsuit, of course, her hair perfectly straight and slick, like melted chocolate trickling down the nape of her neck. Her eyes, a serious, unearthly blue, hit
mine as soon as I reach them.
She breaks contact first by paying attention to Lily at her hip. Lily’s gabbing something, using sounds that resemble the actual English language.
“Did Lily just say Uncle Ben?” I say, rising from the stool and heading over, arms open.
I’m amazed at how much she’s grown. Lil’s spiked up in height, has longer hair, more teeth, and is much more opinionated on matters previously thought unimportant to me. Like the preference towards ice cream versus cake, Disney dolls versus empty water bottles as toys, and pulling at any and all arm hair she comes across.
“Unless jujumaba means Uncle Ben,” Astor says, “I’m guessing she means anything but you.”
She probably gets that last trait from Astor.
“That’s her new word for apple juice,” Carter says, and gently takes Lily from Astor.
“Only this amazing woman can interpret my daughter’s secret language,” Locke says, clapping East on the shoulder, then slapping palms with Ash. He reaches me and we do the bro handshake hug. Locke is the closest I’ll ever come to a true brother.
“More like, she has a meltdown until I figure out what she means,” Carter says, and gives me an arm squeeze. “It’s like our personal game of Hellhole.”
“Wanna drink?” Ash asks.
“Absolutely,” Carter breathes. “Pinot Grigio if you have it.”
“Excellent. That goes perfectly with my cream sauce.”
We all go silent as Ash, a giant dude with a shaved head who prefers leather vests with no shirt underneath to show off his copious amount of tats, talks about pairing wines with pasta sauce and sifts through his wine rack.
“We know you, and we love you,” Locke says to him, “But we still don’t have a fucking clue what to do with you.”
Ash winks as he uncorks a bottle.
“Astor, you want anything?” Easton asks, ever the gentlemen.
Dude steals my thunder through his voice alone. I suppose I gotta give it to him, seeming how standing in front of her dumbly doesn’t get the same point across. I meant to grab Lily, toss her around in my arms a bit, but then Astor’s goddamned jewel-filled eyes distracted me.
I feel Astor’s steady gaze on mine, especially when the arch of her perfect brow sends surprisingly bright tingles directly into my dick.
I clear my throat and step aside, sweeping my arm out to indicate the empty stool. “After you.”
“Mm,” is all she’ll say, but she sits primly on the seat I vacated, her pert little ass cupping the wood effortlessly.
With immediate vitriol, I want to rip that suit off her and see if she still wears lace underneath.
In order to staunch the inappropriate thought—her fucking family is here—I search blindly for my beer bottle on the kitchen island, and notice it’s empty.
“I got you, bro,” Ash says, and slides over a fresh one.
“Maybe you should own a restaurant,” I say to him, “Since you treat your patrons so nicely.”
“I just want to get you drunk enough to consider investing.”
The beer freezes halfway to my mouth. “Say what?”
“Doesn’t it make sense?” Ash asks, focusing on the steaming pot in front of him and stirring whatever’s in it.
“Not really,” I say. “Since I don’t know a parsley stick from a potato.”
“There is so much wrong with that sentence,” Locke says. “But money doesn’t have to know recipes.”
“You, too,” Ash says to him. “All of us, actually. I want all of you to invest in my new venture.”
“But…why?” East asks. “You have enough money.”
“It’s not about money, you idiots.” Ash grabs the salt shaker, spins it around like a circus monkey likely for the ladies’ benefit, and then grinds it it into his sauce.
Lily cheers from her perch in Carter’s arms, then throws her toy bunny at Ash, who catches it before it hits the fire of the gas stove.
“Nice one, booboo,” he says to her. “Give Benji some competition.”
“Wait—you have to elaborate, here,” Carter says. “Because…because Locke and I, we’re not exactly rolling in it.”
“Not yet,” I say, and Carter rolls her eyes.
But, I’m happy to see it’s more of an exasperated response and not one filled with animosity. As these months have gone by, I’m seeing her less as a gold digger and more as Locke’s soulmate, a actualization I never thought I’d come to, but there it is. I can’t lie and say her presence in his life hasn’t helped him.
“So you want us to squander his inheritance on high-risk business decisions,” Carter says.
“Excuse me,” Ash interjects. “It’s about doing something together. Being a part of something I think could be really great for all of us. No, I don’t need the money, but I’d sure as hell like the camaraderie.”
“Yeah, because only you know what the fuck you’re doing,” East says. “We’d just be along for the ride.”
“Not so,” Ash replies. “I’d loop you in on everything, all the plans, the construction, the menu. Your opinions will matter.”
“Until you trump them,” Locke mutters, then seems to second guess himself. “Those maple-bacon cupcakes gonna be on there?”
Ash splays out his arms, one holding a spoon, the other Lily’s bunny. “What the fuck have I done to any of you?”
East and Locke both jump in with their opinions and questions, and—oh yeah, what kind of restaurant it would even be—but they turn into white noise, because I can’t help but notice how Astor isn’t doing, saying, or reacting to anything going on around her.
Since I’m the closest, I ask in a low, unobtrusive voice, “You okay?”
“Like you care,” she snaps. Quietly.
“Annoyingly, I do.”
Something doesn’t seem right. Normally, Astor’s got her back ramrod straight and is willing to spar with any male specimen that dares to stare at her legs. But right now she’s looking at the marble countertop like it contains a roadmap to where she’d rather be.
“It’s not like you to be so quiet,” I say. “Especially when a business contract is involved. I’d think you’d be all over this. You know, stating terms. Demanding clauses. Shit like that.”
“I don’t care what Ash or anybody else does with their money,” she responds.
In a normal environment, Astor’s a chameleon I’m desperate to have reveal her true colors, but in this one, where she has Locke on one side, Carter and Lily behind her, and men who would kill to protect her protecting her flank, why would she….
Hmm.
“Where’s Mike?” I ask.
“God, what is with all of you and having those be the first words said to me as soon as I step over the threshold?”
I purse my lips and look to the ceiling. “Actually, my first words to you were, ‘did she just say Uncle Ben?’”
Astor glares at me.
“Which you promptly squished into a gutter,” I finish.
Unexpectedly, she puts a hand to her head. “I don’t know why I’m here. I shouldn’t have come.”
I grow serious. “Astor, what’s going on?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
The rest of the group still argue over restaurant logistics, and when that fails, Lily’s there to demand attention as she scoots under Ash’s feet and latches onto the chainlink draping across his hip. I take the chance and lean in closer to Astor, which—fool me twice.
My mind forgot about her smell, but my nose sure didn’t. Something flowery—roses—almost remembered from my forgotten childhood, coupled with a citrus tang. Simply delicious.
“Consider me your unbiased sounding board,” I say through the thick of her alluring scent. Before she can glare at me again, I add, “Or your potential opponent. Maybe that’s the better one.”
Astor takes a casual sip from her wine, but I notice the shake of her fingers as she sets the delicate glass back down. “You’re not unbiased. You don’t want
me on this case.”
Unwillingly, I draw away. “So it’s about the SI Slaughters.”
“It’s the Delaney case now.”
My bones audibly creak inside my body as she tosses out my former last name like it means nothing. And it shouldn’t—there’s no reason for her to connect me. Still, I choose my next words carefully. “What’s got you all twisted up about it?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Because I don’t want you near that kind of danger? C’mon, Astor,” I say. “Your my best buddy’s sister. By that title alone, I want to help. By defending you and keeping you away from twisted, terrible—”
“It’s privileged information.”
I shut my mouth. “Oh. Right. That.”
She sighs. “I’m in a quandary. There’s information I have to maybe narrow something down, and I don’t know if I want to use it.”
I school my expression. “Go on.”
“Well, in thinking about the little boy, Ryan? I keep picturing Lily in my mind’s eye.”
We both divert our attention to Lily, who snagged a whisk and a few plastic bowls from Ash and was giving East a run for his money as he knocks out beats with the end of two spatulas and she spears the bowls like she’s the daughter of Tarzan.
I briefly look to Astor, and notice we’re wearing the same, doting smiles.
“I’d be utterly devastated if she were ever put in that position,” Astor says softly. “Not only that, but I think of all the things—illegal, questionable, immoral—all those things I’d do to keep her safe. And I can’t help but think, Ryan’s parents would want that, too. They wouldn’t want him to have to undergo the kind of scrutiny my firm could drag him through, grown adult now or not.”
As she speaks, each feature in my face goes as smooth and cold as the marble beneath her fingers. “What is it you know about Ryan?”
“Hey! You two.” Locke comes up between us and throws his arms around both our shoulders. “What’s with the secret clubhouse meeting?”
Carter, who was busy picking Lily up from the floor, looks up, as do East and Ash.
Goddamn, fucked-up F.R.I.E.N.D.S. crew.
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