Daring You

by Ketley Allison

  The last time he was this close, I was sucking his tongue out of his face. Now, all I can fathom is punching it down his throat. “Don’t you dare presume to understand what’s in my head.”

  “That’s the sad part,” he says, without even a blink. “I’m well aware of all the poison in your brain.”

  I suck in a breath—

  “Your mom’s death,” he cuts in. “Breaking up with Mike. Me. Experiencing sudden love for Lily in a way that fucking terrifies you, because you’ve never loved something like that before. Not since your mom. Watching Locke fall in love and becoming happy. Not even your brother got that much love from you—”

  I rear back to slap him but he catches my wrist.

  “The truth hurts,” he says without breaking our stare. I’m furious that my vision’s gone hot and blurry. “It’s meant to. Reality’s no fucking cakewalk.”

  I can barely talk through the blind emotion. “You can’t possibly understand…”

  “I understand a lot more than you think,” Ben says quietly. “But I see you, Astor. I see you. And you can build all the castle walls around yourself as high as you need. You can have me fuck you from behind all you want. I’m still going to know the heart that’s inside. And this—exposing someone who’s already escaped from Hell—that’s not you.”

  I swallow, covering the earthquake going on inside. “Get out of my way.”

  Ben stands firm.

  I say, “You’ve said your piece. Now let me continue on with my day.”

  “Don’t do this, Astor.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t—”

  “No, fuck you,” I spit out. “You don’t get to stand here and count all the ways I’m an asshole and come out clean. You screw around all over town and don’t care how many hearts you break. You certainly didn’t give a shit about mine. You’re covered in burns and you won’t say why. You won’t talk about your real parents, you won’t confide in anybody, ever, about anything you’re feeling. You’re a big, bad football player, right? You don’t need a soul. You don’t give a shit about anything but pigskin and team colors.” I lean in close to say, “And yeah, I like being fucked from behind, because it’s a whole lot better than fucking a stranger face-to-face.”

  When I pass him, I make sure not to touch any part of him.

  “If this conversation has taught me anything,” I say as a parting shot, “It’s to talk to Ryan myself and give him a chance to see what he wants to do. Before I go to my boss, before I loop in anyone else. Not that you wanted to ask me about that part. You just assumed I’d erect a flag outside my office with his goddamned home address in capital letters.”

  “Astor, wait.”

  I don’t bother with a response. Instead, I slam my heels harder into the concrete steps as I leave. I hope I burst his fucking eardrums. I’m trying my damndest not to use my stiletto as a murder weapon.

  “It’s me.”

  I freeze, my hand clenching on the railing. I want to, I try to, but I can’t turn around.

  “It’s me, Astor,” Ben repeats, and it’s with the most hollow tone that he adds, “I’m Ryan Delaney.”

  19

  Ben

  As closed off as Astor likes to think she is, I can envision every single scroll of text her mind is typing up behind those round eyes.

  Ben is Ryan.

  Ryan is Ben.

  This is a—

  “This is a fucking joke,” she says, but not in her usual, arrogant silky tone. She won’t move from her perch below me.

  “I wouldn’t kid around about this.”

  I’m breathing heavy, but we’ve only descended two flights of stairs.

  “You and my brother, the four of you, have such fucked up hero complexes, you know that?” Astor says. “The fact that you would—the idea that you four would come up with a hare-brained scheme like this, just to keep me safe from the hypothetical risk of drug lords, I can actually believe it.”

  The more Astor talks, the more easily I can see each snowflake form in her irises, until there’s nothing but a snow-packed wall remaining.

  “There’s no theory behind your risk. It’s pure fact,” I say calmly, despite the thunder clouds inside. “As Chavez showing up at your place, unannounced, proves.”

  “I’m his lawyer,” she practically screeches. “I’m on his side!”

  “But he wants me, and that’s something you’ve been wrestling with. Chavez doesn’t like internal conflict.”

  “You’re not Ryan Delaney,” she spits. “You’re not.”

  “I am.”

  “No.” Astor throws her hands up to her face, then scours her fingers through her hair. “It’s not possible. I refuse to believe that this whole time, you’ve been standing in front of me, lying about—”

  “I had to.” I take the chance and descend until we’re on the same footing. “It’s not lying when I have to do it to protect my livelihood, the lives of my parents—the Donahues—who raised me since I was four. To keep my friends safe. Locke. You. I covered the truth to prevent what happened to my biological parents to happen to anyone else I love.”

  “This is too much.” Astor’s voice shakes, and she whirls, hands still tangled in her hair.

  “Astor—” I gently cup her waist to try to turn her back.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Hands raised, I retreat, but that only seems to incentivize her further, because it gives her an excellent view of the burn scars on my right forearm.

  “Jesus Christ,” she says, her eyes filling, her lower lip trembling. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  She backs away, but forgets about the steps behind her. She stumbles and I rear forward, catching her before she falls.

  Unbelievably, she holds on to me. Digs her forehead into my neck and shoulder, her nails clawing into my shoulders. And she cries.

  “Oh, God. Shit…Astor…” My hand cups the back of her head, and I dip my chin near her cheek.

  I let her sob, her too-thin shoulders shake against my chest. Her entire body, so tall, so flawless and tailored, bowing into my skin, and all I want to do is warm her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say into her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

  My words zap into her, because she lets go. Pushes me back. Her watered-down, red-rimmed eyes ram into my soul. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re the one who suffered. You’re the boy whose blood everyone wants.”

  “I wanted to tell you from the very beginning…”

  “When would that have been?” Astor sniffs, rubs against her nose.

  “What do you mean?”

  Too late, I realize her saltwater tears were only turning her into an ocean predator.

  “In college?” she asks. “When you fucked me then? Or this morning, before you fucked me at lunch?”

  She’s not giving me time to think. There’s a right thing to say, but there’s also a complete wrong turn I could take at any moment. “Astor, what are you getting at?”

  “Because I can totally see why you’d sleep with me now. Break down my barriers, so to speak. Turn me into the girl I was with you a few years ago, because that girl, that Astor, would’ve told you anything.”

  Oh…shit. My entire face goes numb. “You think I’ve just been using you to find out what you know?”

  Astor barrels on. “What I can’t figure out is, why then? Why did you sleep with me back in college? I wasn’t anywhere close to exposing you. I simply knew you as Ben, my brother’s best friend, my giant, huge crush who I would’ve done anything for—”

  “Astor, no—”

  “It’s okay, really.” Astor waves me off. She’s not looking at me anymore. “I’m the idiot here. I’m the one who can’t seem to get a goddamned clue. It might not have been my fault for sleeping with you back then, but it certainly is now.”

  “You’ve got to let me explain.”

  I so terrifically want to kick my own ass right now. Astor needs more—she deserves more—but all I can co
me up with is the cliched let me explain that only sends people into skyrocketing rage.

  “Don’t bother.” When she meets my eyes this time, her cheeks are dry. “These are high stakes. You’re the sole survivor of the violent murder of your parents. I understand why you did what you did. I can’t deny you any desperate act, because I would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t go all logical on me.”

  “But you told me who you were before you could get any real information out of me,” she continues. “I can’t figure that one out.”

  “Because I don’t want to be with you just to solve the murder of my mom and dad.”

  But Astor keeps talking, as if she never heard me. “I followed the inheritance trail. The last will and testament of Tim and Rose Delaney. The money was put into a trust, and the trustee—the person in charge of it until you turned twenty-one—was a bank in Staten Island. But it was when you became of age that a mistake was made. Where the money was transferred to. Now, it wasn’t easy. There were a lot of holdings. A few LLCs disguising where the funds originated from. Not many people would’ve been able to follow the small dumps of cash in various shell companies. But I’m good at what I do, and I traced the majority to a Connecticut bank. Taryn was in the middle of finding out who signed over the checks this morning. Who would’ve signed the checks, Ben?”

  I sigh, thinking that Aiden, who as proud and cockatoo as he says he is, couldn’t pull one over on a very dogged, extremely dedicated woman. “My dad. Ronnie Donahue.”

  “So I would’ve found out anyway, you’re saying.” Astor’s expression goes flat. “Which is why you intervened this morning, to try to appeal to me before I connected the dots and brought your identity to my boss.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong. Can we go somewhere? Sit down? I want to tell you everything, Astor. I do.”

  She shakes her head, and it might as well be the world shaking beneath my feet. “Your secret’s safe with me. We haven’t brought the endorser of the checks to Altin Yang yet. I won’t tell my boss, or anyone, not even my brother, who you are. It’s clear you want to be left alone.”

  “Don’t walk away. Please.”

  Astor turns to face the stairs. “I can’t stand here—” her voice cracks, but I know, if I touch her now, I’ll truly break her. “I can’t continue this conversation anymore, B—Ryan.”

  “Ben. I’m Ben Donahue, Astor. I’m me.”

  But I’m speaking to a straight back in a very expensive suit. “I know who you are.”

  I don’t understand what she means, but the weight of her words are heavy on my chest. I try one more time. “Don’t go. Talk to me.”

  “It’s better that we’re not seen talking. You shouldn’t even be here.” Astor continues down the last flight of stairs, until she reaches the door to the outside. “I need time to collect myself before I go back to work, and you know better than anyone that the vultures out there will peck at any weakness they see.”

  Astor gives her eyes a last rub and pinches her cheeks. Then she tips her chin up.

  I race down the steps to halt her, to keep her—to salvage any part of her that remains, because I can’t be the one who sieved away the last of her soul. I’ve already taken too much.

  But my palm slams against the metal door Astor shuts as she walks out.

  20

  Astor

  It’s easy to avoid the reporters.

  They’re looking for Altin Yang, the lead attorney for the joint defense of Angel Lopez and José Garcia, not any of his minions.

  I round the corner to the front of the courthouse and see the man himself, speaking somberly into the multiple mics shoved in his face. At his right hand, is Mike.

  I’d seen Mike in the courtroom, along with Taryn. Altin had made his Hunger Games duo into a triple threat, and the three of us stood by his side as he argued the arraignments of both Lopez and Garcia. Mike kept it professional and so did I. Even he was smart enough not to hiss insults at me in front of Altin, and I wasn’t dumb enough to stoop to his level.

  Unsurprisingly, the defendants weren’t granted bail. There was no way the judge was going to allow either of the two to be released on their own recognizance when they have expedited access to Mexico whenever they choose to invoke it.

  None of us assumed we’d win. Altin simply wanted to stage a show in front of Spencer Rolfe, to let the state know we wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  For once, I’m thankful for Mike wanting to take the spotlight. I have no green feelings about him standing next to Altin and being on national news, broadcasting his grim, serious-lawyer face all the United States. All I want to do is find a car, disappear behind the tinted windows, and leave.

  Ben Donahue is Ryan Delaney.

  It’s fact. One I’m angry at myself for not seeing sooner, and pissed at hearing from his lips. I’m upset, because I don’t know what to do with it. Him. The man who broke my heart and hid the remnants behind an assumed identity.

  I spot a cab idling at the corner, and sprint toward it—an excellent runner in heels. The driver, leaning against the passenger side, flicks his cigarette to the ground and nods that he’ll take my fare.

  “Thank God,” I mutter, and slip into the back.

  I look up as I’m sliding on my seatbelt, and notice Mike’s attention on me.

  His brows furrow, he makes a move to break away from the throng, but I say to the driver, “Drive.”

  He turns the engine and we merge into traffic. I pretend deep interest in my phone, refusing to glance anywhere but at the screen…but I feel him, anyway.

  As we motor away, I glance back through the rear window. Ben appears from the side of the courthouse, his sports duffel like a blue beacon of light among so much grey brick and black outfits. We lock eyes, but I flip around before he fades into the distance.

  I tell myself that my clenched jaw, the hot rise in temperature behind my eyes, are nothing but an expression of stressful overload.

  A heart, once broken, can’t break into the same pieces a second time.

  I distract myself by reading through Taryn’s texts about an hour ago:

  Taryn: At the courthouse. Meet us there, dammit, because Mike is here too. Yang doesn’t need the info yet, but will expect a full briefing after the hearing.

  I text Taryn back, Don’t give Yang anything. I made a mistake tracing the funds. I’ll explain when I see you, but whatever you do, do NOT give it to Yang!

  Taryn: Ok, but this is why Yang let us come to the arraignment today. An excuse is better than giving him wrong info. I’ll think of something, but you owe me.

  Hopefully, this is enough of a delay that I’m gifted the time to figure out my next steps. More people are involved here, not simply Ben and I. There’s Taryn, too.

  I glance at my phone when there’s another ding.

  Ben: You have to talk to me. I’ll give you time, but don’t give up on me.

  Ryan.

  I black the screen on my phone and shove it into my tote. Tilt my head back and close my eyes.

  Pretend the sounds of the outside city traffic and screaming sirens isn’t my world crashing down on my shoulders.

  I make it back to my apartment in record time. Midday traffic, surprisingly, wasn’t too bad.

  There’s no way I’m going back to the office, so I send an email to Altin, cc Taryn and Mike, and tell them I’m not feeling well and have to take the afternoon off.

  As I kick off my shoes and dump my tote on the floor in my entranceway, I don’t think I’ve ever, in my entire career, taken a day.

  Sighing, I peel off my blazer and throw it over one of the kitchen stools as I pass, and raid the fridge for wine.

  That’s right. I’m day drinking on a Tuesday. Fuck it.

  There’s a satisfying pop as I uncork a crisp bottle of Chardonnay—Mom’s favorite—and as it sloshes into my wine glass, it’s a soothing sound in such a quiet room.

  If Mike were here, music w
ould be playing somewhere in our hidden speakers, the Red Zone would be displaying talking heads at top volume on the TV, and I’d be in the bedroom, on my laptop, going over caselaw and yelling at him to at least choose one over the other.

  I stand in the center of my kitchen and take in the empty surroundings as I hold the full wine glass near my chest.

  The chime of the doorbell jolts me out of the fugue I fell into, and I frown. Don’t move.

  “Who is it? Mike, I swear, if that’s you…”

  “It’s me!”

  The familiar female trill has me more curious than annoyed. “Carter?”

  “Yes! Can we come in?”

  We?

  On another sigh, I set my glass down on the marble top and pad to the door, figuring I should have the decency to explain that I want to be left alone to their face instead of through metal.

  “Seriously, Carter,” I say as I swing open the door. “If you and Locke are here to—oh. Not Locke.”

  “Definitely not,” says a perky, small blonde in giant black-framed glasses standing behind Carter.

  She’s in black, ripped denim with puffy navy jacket, and beside her, I can barely see Carter’s eerie, golden eyes under her maroon knit cap with a giant fluffy pom-pom on top.

  “Hi,” Carter says again.

  “Hey,” I say, with much less perkiness. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Locke said you were home,” Carter says.

  “How’d he know I was here?”

  “Twin sense?” the girl in the back chimes in.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.

  “Whoops,” Carter says apologetically. “This is—”

  “Sophie.” The girl shoves out her hand, and I shake it on automatic.

  “How’d Locke know I was taking the day off?”

  “—I thought I’d take the opportunity to come over. And you know, hang out a while. I heard about the hearing thing at court. You probably weren’t going to make it to lunch.”