by R.S. Grey
“I heard about the situation you got into earlier,” he says, staring pointedly at my black eye and busted lip. “Why were you over on that side of town anyway? Lookin’ for trouble?”
Madison steps right up to him, her hand hitting his chest. I shadow her, right there with her as if I’m worried he’ll turn his anger on his daughter, but I have nothing to worry about. The second he glances down, that fire in his eyes is doused. His thick gray brows tilt up and he frowns with loving concern.
“Maddie, we’ve been waiting for you since dinner. Colten even helped me with the banana pudding. Did you already eat?”
She nods her head and pushes him back toward the house. “Yeah, but pudding sounds nice. C’mon, let’s go inside.”
He lets her push him away. Maybe she’s got him wrapped around her finger, or maybe he feels bad because it’s her birthday; either way, she saves me from getting my ass chewed some more.
Other than a small glance she aims over her shoulder, neither of them acknowledge me as they walk inside. I’m definitely not invited up for some of that pudding, though I could definitely go for a bowl or two. I stand there watching them go, convinced this is probably the last time I’ll ever talk to Madison Hart. A pained feeling swells in my chest, and my hand hits my heart as if to soothe it.
Then the screen door slams shut and they disappear. I glance up at the sky and let out a laugh I’ve been saving all night, a big Fuck you to the universe for putting me through this fresh version of hell.
With a shake of my head, I turn and am about to head in the direction of my house when the screen door slams again and Madison runs back down the front path toward me.
“Wait!” She keeps running even though her dad is shouting at her from the door. She tells him to calm down. “I’ll only be a second!”
Then she turns and she’s right in front of me, head tilted back to get a good look at me. The wind sweeps up the loose hair around her face and here, with the light from her house, I can tell her eyes are more green than hazel, her smile’s just as beguiling as I thought it would be, and her mouth is tempting enough to make me forget her dad is up on the porch watching us, probably loading his shotgun.
Something cold hits my chest and I glance down to see an ice pack.
I must look confused because she smiles and says, “For your eye.”
Chapter 4
Madison
“Was that Ben Rosenberg outside? What the hell was he doing here?”
I glance over my shoulder to see my brother leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, still wearing his police uniform while he sips a beer. His brown hair is messy and he needs to shave, but he’s still as handsome as ever. I want to pinch his cheeks.
“Yes.” I arch a brow. “I was expecting you to come out there and start shouting too.”
He shrugs and looks away as if guilty. “There were only a few seconds left in the fourth quarter and the Cowboys were tied with the Colts. Besides, it sounded like Dad was handling it just fine.”
Ah, my dad, the big bad wolf. Not ten minutes ago, he was causing a big fuss out on the front porch, stomping his feet and pounding his chest. Now, he’s sitting at the kitchen table with his nightly mug of decaf coffee and his half-finished crossword. His blue readers are perched on the end of his nose.
The big bad wolf is, in fact, a fraud. He’s never so much as raised his voice at me, though maybe that’s because I’ve never given him real cause. I never broke rules, skipped curfew, or dared to be bad in any way.
Still, just because he’s usually a big teddy bear around me, I shouldn’t have been surprised by his reaction to Ben. He was mean as hell to the few boys who’ve been courageous enough or stupid enough to try to get to know me over the years.
“You still haven’t explained what you were doing with him,” my dad says, adjusting his glasses so he can read the next clue. He’s careful not to look up at me. It’s like he’s trying to make his inquiry seem casual, but we both know it’s not.
“Yeah,” my brother adds. “I heard he got into it over at Murphy’s earlier. You aren’t friends with him, are you, Maddie?”
I turn away from them and shrug. “No, we aren’t friends. It’s just…well…it’s nothing. He saved my life. Oh, that reminds me—Dad, I need to report a crime. I got held up at gunpoint.”
I pinch my eyes closed and brace myself for the worst of it. Just as I expected, the volume level in the kitchen hits an all-time high as the two of them circle around me. I wouldn’t be surprised to find the walls quaking.
They shoot questions at me rapid-fire. They want to know every detail of what happened and how it happened and what did he look like and why exactly did I think it was a good idea to walk home alone at this time of night?
I answer them quietly and calmly as I stroll to the refrigerator and find the thing I’m looking for: banana pudding. It’s my favorite. My dad makes it for me every year. I think with all the excitement, they’ve completely forgotten it’s my birthday. I guess it makes sense, all things considered. I shove my brother out of the way and dig in the drawer of utensils for the biggest spoon I can find. The one I grab is technically meant for dishing out casseroles, and when I dip it into the bowl of banana pudding, I come up with half the contents. Perfect.
My dad’s hand hits my shoulder. He’s trying to get me to look up at him, but I can’t.
I might be playing it cool on the outside, but underneath it all, I’m a complete mess, though not really for the reasons you would expect.
This has been the wildest night of my entire life. The birthday gods heard my wish and were like, Hey, you heard the woman! She wants excitement! Let’s ramp this shit up to an 11! Examples of things that would have been appropriately exciting: having my shoe come untied; missing my turn and having to explore a new route home; or, I don’t know, I could have stumbled upon a stray puppy and been forced to take care of him. (In the end, he takes cares of me.) Getting held up at gunpoint was seriously not what I had in mind.
The whole thing doesn’t feel real, which is probably why I’m not crying or shaking or scared. I can look at the situation and logically see that my life was in danger. The man in the ski mask was deranged, nervous, and mumbling under his breath, and yet I’m not totally sure he wanted to do anything bad to me. Yes, sure, obviously you don’t just hold a gun to someone’s head for the fun of it, but he didn’t take my money even when I offered it, and he didn’t try to rip at my clothes. The whole thing just felt…off, almost like it wasn’t happening to me. I know it makes me sound naive, but I’m not wholly convinced he would have hurt me even if Ben hadn’t shown up.
Ben Rosenberg.
God. His name should always be accompanied by a long lusty sigh. Even now, my heart does a little flutter kick in my chest just thinking of him. I was actually grateful for his busted lip and swollen eye. Without them, I’m not sure I could have formed coherent thoughts. Even with them, my brain was only running at about 50%.
I’m still distracted by his looks—the one piercing brown eye that wasn’t swollen, his hard cheekbones and defined jaw. Oh, and let’s not forget his tall muscular frame poured into a navy suit with a few specks of blood dotting his shirt for good measure. I mean, Jesus, give a girl a break.
I dip my spoon back into the pudding aggressively.
Other than his haggard state, the only other factor I had going for me was that I was in total shock that he, out of EVERY person in Clifton Cove, was the one to appear on the dark street as my white knight. It was so shocking, in fact, that it enabled me to keep my wits about me on the walk home. It was like I wasn’t convinced it was actually him. Am I totally sure the guy didn’t shoot me back there and this isn’t all some weird purgatory I’ve fallen into?
I’m still thinking about Ben later when we get home from the police station, after I’ve said every word I ever want to say about the incident, after they’ve cleaned up the small cut on my head and swabbed every inch of me for evidence. I’m finally
able to sneak off upstairs and shower. I’m bone-weary and ready to pass out on any inanimate object that can support my weight, but my brain is wide awake, running through the conversation I had with Ben on our walk home. I try to remember if I sounded normal or not, charming or just weird.
It’s not that I’ve never carried on a conversation with a cute man before. I have, at least twice. The reason it’s such a big deal is because in Clifton Cove, Ben Rosenberg is a god, an urban legend, a man unto himself.
Let me put it another way. You know how people always have at least one story about a time they ran into a celebrity? Once, on a flight home, I was seated ten rows back from Jennifer Aniston! That kind of thing.
This night will be my celebrity story: Once, Ben Rosenberg saved my life.
There are quite a few reasons our paths have never crossed before today: he’s six years older than me; he went to Saint Andrews and I went the public route; he went Ivy League for college and law school while I commuted to the state college 45 minutes from my house; oh, and I’m a total dweeb who spends her days at the library surrounded by books and her nights in her childhood bedroom surrounded by books while he probably has a very busy, very wild social life that includes a veritable buffet of sexual partners.
With that thought, I slam down my soap and step out of the shower. I wrap myself in a thick terrycloth robe and pad quietly to my room across the hall just in case my dad has any more questions he wants to ask me tonight. I care about catching the criminal and bringing him to justice. I really, really do, but right now, given the choice, I’d much rather dwell on Ben and the fact that more than likely, our paths won’t ever cross again.
I throw myself onto my bed dramatically.
I’m an idiot.
I should have written my number on that ice pack.
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