Daring You

by Ketley Allison

  Outwardly, anyway.

  Twenty more minutes, and I’m ready in a simple pair of jeans and a cream cashmere sweater. As usual, February is a complete bitch in New York City, literally the worst month ever in the winter, and I’m not looking forward to the slushy, icy, chilling trek into Brooklyn with barely any subway access that my brother refuses to move out of.

  The last thing I do before exiting my apartment is put on my engagement ring.

  I’m not ready to deal with those kind of questions yet.

  I go the frugal path and take the subway to Locke’s place rather than a car, getting an impromptu steam inside my parka as I sit in the overcrowded car of the train among all the other winter-clad passengers, our down jackets and cotton pea-coats with hats and gloves creating a cloying atmosphere in such a small space. Shoes and boots squeak against the wet floor every time the train brakes. Dirt pellets, giant pieces of salt, and melting snow chunks roll around with us. I wait for a rat’s whiskers to poke out between a seated person’s shoes.

  When I first moved here, clients wouldn’t know the deep-dives I took in what is basically New York City’s moldy sewer system. I’d always arrive fresh-faced, bright-eyed, and wrinkle-free, because I’d leave for my destinations two hours early, even if that meant descending into the subway at 4 a.m. It gave me enough time to get all my curse words out, shove enough people out of my way, switch out my runners for heels, smooth down my hot, windblown hair, and shake hands with serenity.

  As a junior associate trying to make it in a top law firm, time worked against me. As a woman, time also worked backwards, making it crucial to nab any opportunities, even if it meant catching a train at Greenpoint in the dead of night to impress my supervisor with a fifty-page motion before he had time to arrive and make himself a cup of coffee.

  Why I decided to take the train this morning instead of a hired car—on a weekend no less, when the schedule slowed down exponentially and tourists fell all over themselves because they can’t balance on moving trains—lies in the background of my thoughts, and I’m reluctant to bring it forward.

  Mike was always in the car with me.

  To rest against the black leather this morning, surrounded by interior silence while the city wails outside, would give me too much time to understand my current circumstance and just how much this career has made me sacrifice.

  Has it made me give up on love?

  My lip curls. When did I become so unhappy?

  The conductor’s garbled announcement that we’ve reached the station hits my ears, saving me from myself. I stand, weaving my body around arms, torsos and legs, much like the Grinch on Christmas morning, until I reach the doors and stumble out into the cool(ish) air of the platform.

  I check my watch as I sprint up the stairs and onto the street. Late, as usual, but Locke is used to it and pretty immune to any excuses I come up with, especially if they involve words like motion and contracts and Mike.

  I don’t dwell on the implications and instead focus on the one true beam of light in my life: Lily.

  Locke’s daughter, my niece, who somehow has reached the ripe age of one-and-a-half within the blink of an eye. I feel like she entered my life yesterday and can’t believe the personality coming out of such a tiny rockstar. I’m proud to say that the second word she ever learned was no.

  When I reach the outside of Locke’s worn-down, crumbling brick apartment complex, I wonder why he isn’t utilizing the money he received by the NFL by getting his family a better place. A better area.

  “Hey, come on up,” Locke says through the speaker.

  I frown at the lopsided, dented metal he sounded out through after I buzzed.

  Throwing open the main door, I clomp up the stairs, kicking off any salt and snow my boots collected on the two-block walk over here.

  Locke’s door is cracked open in anticipation of my arrival, and I step through, enjoying the waft of warm, humanly heat and the food-smells it brings.

  Cinnamon. Cranberry. Pumpkin.

  Carter’s taken all the Autumn New York had to give and selfishly kept it in this apartment, while the rest of us are left to deal with gray, slush, and frozen garbage.

  “I could be anyone, you know,” I say as greeting while pulling off my boots. I whack them against the doorframe for good measure, dislodging any remaining filth and leaving them in the hallway. “You should at least ask who it is before you buzz me in.”

  “Nice to see you too, sis,” Locke says as he comes out of the kitchen, holding Lily.

  Maybe I should’ve lead with the instant feeling of belonging stepping through this threshold gave me.

  “Where’s Mike?” he asks.

  “He’s busy,” is all I’ll say.

  Locke’s expression remains carefully blank. “Uh-huh.”

  Lily claps her hands upon laying eyes on me, screeching and saying “Ah! AH!”

  Ah is Lily’s name for me. Astor is a bit too difficult for her, so she’s settled with the first syllable, sadly also the sound someone makes when they scream. Locke’s had a boatload of fun with that one.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Lil! C’mere!” I say.

  Once I shed my coat, I splay out my hands for Lily, but Locke retreats with a frown. “Subway. Hands. Wash.”

  “Yessir,” I say, but make sure to blow Lily a kiss as I walk around him and into the kitchen. Her head is a halo of blonde curlicues, and her eyes as bright as a summer morning sky. She’s everything good that could come from the Hayes family.

  “Ah!”

  “I’m coming!” I say, and turn on the tap and rinse my hands. “Is Carter around?”

  I pass the small kitchen table and notice it’s set up with brunch fare, croissants, danishes, and muffins laid out among eggs and bacon. A bowl of fruit is the centerpiece, and I’m fairly certain it has a drizzle of honey.

  All Carter’s doing, because there’s no way Locke would think of garnishes.

  “In the bedroom for a sec. She’ll be out soon,” he says.

  I dry my hands and go back for Lily. She enters my arms smoothly, giggling and digging her fingers into my mouth.

  “Ack—when’s she gonna grow out of this one?” I ask though her baby fingers.

  “When people stop making funny faces while she does it,” he says. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  I perch Lily on my lap as I sit on the sole couch in the main room, tattered by Locke’s college use, and now a victim of Lily’s various excretions, crayons and finger-paint included. But I watch carefully as Locke makes his way to the coffee maker, noticing the lack of limp and how he breathes so much easier. The months of physical therapy after his accident—well, the accident after his big accident—has improved his walk so much, but I’m a fool to think it’s only exercise that has given him the long-forgotten bounce to his step.

  A toilet flushes and I jiggle Lily on my knees, mentally pep talking myself into nothing but a cheery smile for Carter. If anyone is going to realize the crap-attack that is my life, it’s her, and I’m determined to keep Mike and I’s breakup as private as I can for as long as I can.

  We already postponed our wedding meant to happen in October of last year, and that put enough detective in Carter’s stare. I’m not used to friends, or confiding in other women.

  The bathroom door opens, cutting off my thoughts.

  I forget how to smile.

  “The best part about your bathroom,” Ben says to Locke as he ambles out, “is how you have a candle in there now. What’s it, pumpkin frost or some shit?”

  “Like I care.” Locke scoffs. “All I know is, my home smells a helluva lot better with a chick in it. You should try it sometime.”

  “Unlikely,” Ben mutters, and I wait for it. I brace for the moment when his attention slides over and he notices me, still as a snowman on the couch with a wriggling Lily on my lap.

  Here it is. His blues, a shade lighter in the sky than mine, hit me, and I quell the skitter at my spine. Whe
ther it’s revulsion or chemistry, I don’t bother to decipher it.

  “Oh. Hey,” he says in a monotone.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I don’t give him a hello. He doesn’t deserve it.

  Ben cocks a brow. “I was invited to brunch with the Hayes’. Guess you were included in that.”

  I place Lily on the floor with her Disney Princess dolls and stand. “I have more right to be here than you.”

  “All right, you two,” Locke says after a well-versed sigh. “Boxer gloves down.”

  I have no idea why Ben hates me now. If anything, I’m the one who should harbor all the resentment. In the years between that time and now, Ben made a few half-hearted attempts at an apology, sometimes sincere, sometimes drunk, and I rebuffed every effort.

  Mike’s last words hit me: I regret wasting all this time on a cold, dried-up, skinny bitch.

  Maybe that’s exactly what I am. I level Ben with a stare.

  “Everyone’s here!”

  Carter picks this time to come out of the bedroom, captivating and boho chick with her elbow-length dark waves and almond-shaped, golden eyes. She’s in a sweater-dress and looks about as comfortable and alluring as a fluffy cloud on a bright fall day.

  If I didn’t already like her, I’d hate her.

  She gives a wave to Ben. Ben’s not at the level where he accepts pecks on the cheek, even from his buddies’ girlfriends, and he accepts the greeting by looking away from me and giving an answering flick of his hand.

  Carter comes over and wraps me in a fragrant hug. I respond in kind, since it’s too inviting a squeeze to do anything else. She’s done so much for my family, including saving my faltering brother’s soul. I can at least hug the girl.

  “You’ve outdone yourself,” I say when we split apart. “All I can smell in here is warm spices and fresh baked bread.”

  “Exactly the atmosphere I want,” Carter says with a sly smile. “It brings everyone together. Nobody can be cranky when there’s caramel for breakfast.”

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  “Are you pregnant?” I blurt out.

  “Fuck!” Locke says, at the same time Carter shouts, “No!”

  “Jesus, sis,” Locke says. “Let me have my coffee first.”

  I shrug. “Just wondering.”

  Ben chuckles.

  “Since you refuse any subtlety,” Carter continues, and loops an arm around mine to bring me to the loaded table, “I want to make this a thing. You know, family brunches. Every weekend. And you and Ben are our family.”

  “So get along already,” Locke cuts in. But I know my brother, and I can read the reluctance behind his expression the same way Ben can.

  “We’re all lonely in the city,” Carter says. She steps away to pick up Lily and settle her into her high chair. “Since none of us really have extended family of our own. You’re Locke and I’s people. And I’m tired of always doing separate things with the two of you. So whatever it is, squash it.” She sits down primly. “We’re more important.”

  “You’re Lily’s godmother,” Locke says to me, like it’s some form of admonishment. “And you, you dickhead, are her godfather. Act like it.”

  Every cell in my body goes cold. “Good God, don’t die and leave me to bring Lily up with him.”

  “Hey,” Ben says.

  “Good to know that’s why you don’t want me to die,” Locke says.

  “All of you. Sit down. Now,” Carter says.

  I cover any reaction I might be making by taking a long swig of orange juice. I dab my mouth with a napkin before saying, “I can only stay for forty-five minutes. I have to go into the office for a meeting.”

  Carter sighs, her shoulders sagging as she cuts to Locke, as if he can provide any solution. Carter should know by now that Locke may be my twin, but we couldn’t be more different.

  “And I have to get to the gym,” Ben says as he fits his large body into a wooden chair. “Thirty minutes, tops.”

  I subtly sneer at him. Bastard even has to beat me at time.

  Locke gives Carter an answering cant of his head, basically saying, We tried, honey. We tried.

  Seeing them as a unit only causes more annoyance. What Locke and Carter can’t understand is, Ben isn’t part of my unit. He isn’t family.

  Family doesn’t humiliate, then ditch, then pretend he didn’t ruin my life. Loved ones don’t leave you to stitch up your own wounds as you sob.

  Ben’s my goddamned enemy.

  7

  Ben

  Christ on a brunch platter, what the hell have I walked into?

  I can’t think of a worse situation, sitting among Locke and Carter’s perfect little family, with a bonus nuclear bomb perched on the other end of the table.

  All I have to do is push the button.

  Fuck, I’m tempted. I don’t know what it is about Astor, but every time she’s around, I want her to detonate. It’s fucked up, especially considering our past, but she’s so…frozen, all the damn time. So put-together. Nothing like the twenty-year-old I had spread out under me, hair everywhere, eyes blue fire.

  Stroking her caused twin candle flames to flicker. Entering her caused her to ignite.

  Despite the years between us and her fossilized hatred toward me, I enjoy seeing that kind passion in her again. It gives a weird reassurance that I haven’t calcified her into a permanent shell of herself.

  Because, Jesus, if I did this to her…if I’m the creator of this Ice Queen, I at least want to cause a snowstorm every now and again.

  And I’m only kicking up disappointing flurries this morning.

  “So when’s the wedding this time?” I say to Astor between a bite of hash browns. I make sure to chew with my mouth open. “Between you and what’s-his-face?”

  Astor’s fork clatters to her plate, the sound joining in with Lily’s clamoring against the table. But her lips thin into a sneer. “His name is Mike, as you well know.”

  “Yeah, him,” I say, then narrow my eyes as I spot a subtle tremble as she picks her fork up. “You two okay?”

  I’m annoyed I’ve even asked it. I crunch on a piece of toast and glance away.

  “We’re fine, not that it’s any of your business,” she replies. When she opens her mouth for a small bite of scramble, she politely closes it and chews slowly and thoughtfully, as if savoring Carter’s cooking.

  All I can remember is how she savored my cock. I fall back in my chair, gently declining Lily’s offer of her sippy cup full of apple juice and bringing my coffee with me instead. I mutter a curse when some sloshes on my shirt.

  My own spasms are becoming obvious, and I’d much rather make Astor uncomfortable rather than draw attention.

  “Careful, Hue. I heard about Thursday’s game,” Astor purrs, using the nickname I hate. “Your lack of ability to carry your team is showing.”

  “My throwing arm is just fucking fine, thank you,” I growl. “But nice to know you read up on me.”

  “I don’t,” she bites out. Then says, almost musically, “But Mike does. He tells me all about it.”

  I hate that turd, and Astor fucking knows it.

  “Goddammit, can everyone watch their language, please?” Carter pleads.

  “Gahdahit!” Lily trills.

  “Well, this is lovely,” Locke says, and drinks his coffee like he wishes it was whiskey neat. “So happy you two came by.”

  “You invited us,” Astor says before I can.

  “Can we talk about the weather or something? The news?” Carter asks. “Before you two go to your opposite sides of Manhattan?”

  “Sure,” Astor says in the exact tone she uses to humor people. “Anyone watch the latest this morning?”

  “You probably did as soon as you creaked your coffin open,” I mutter.

  “What an astute observation,” Astor says, too kindly. “Since I prefer to dine on murders for breakfast instead of bagels.”

  She couldn’t mean it—Astor has no idea—but tha
t word sends a rush of chills pooling into my chest. Since the phone call with Aiden, I’ve refused to think about it. Didn’t look it up, didn’t pull any news up on my phone, nothing. My memories are diluted, and I don’t think clarifying them with any details dug up by reporters will do me any good. I’m not that little boy anymore. I can’t be. And while Astor doesn’t know it, she’s doing a terrific job distracting me from the very real possibility that I’m going to have to face it at some point.

  Turns out, avoiding it has only brought me to this breakfast table.

  “There’s been some kind of huge bust in Staten Island. It’s everywhere,” Locke says.

  He’s trying to curb his sister, but it’s only fucking me over. I curl my fists under the table.

  “Omigod, yes,” Carter breathes. “Something about a slaughtered family? I had to turn the TV off, couldn’t stand to hear about it.”

  “Typical gang member bullshit,” Astor says. “I bet it was some kind of initiation rite.”

  No. It wasn’t.

  “Wouldn’t new kids trying to get in on a gang bungle it somehow? These murders happened something like, twenty years ago, and they’re only just solving it now.” Locke grabs a croissant and rips into it with his teeth. “Sounds like a pro to me. But you’d know better,” he says to his sister.

  “Not professional enough that they couldn’t be caught.” Astor shakes her head. “I’m fairly certain I’m about to know too much. My firm’s snagged it. We have an emergency meeting today.”

  Every single piece of muscle I own solidifies into one, concrete mass.

  “Seriously?” Carter says. “How?”

  Astor lifts one shoulder, then sits her fork and knife on her empty plate. I can’t stop staring at the crumbs she left behind.

  “Great publicity, for one,” she answers. “The criminal defense department is slobbering all over it. These two defendants, they’ll want the best to represent them, and that’s us.”

  I open my mouth enough to utter, “Isn’t Mike…in criminal defense?”

  All three—and a half—sets of eyes land on me, like they forgot it’s been a while since I’ve spoken.