Page 100 of Daring You

And that, right there, is what’s making me sick.

“I’m all too aware of that,” I say, all while in an attempt to school my expression. “And I’ll make sure Yang knows your part in this. Mike isn’t going to steal the show. Come on.”

Taryn keeps up at my side as I punch in coordinates for another car to pick us up. At this point, it’s way too late to beat them there, but there could still be time to—

To what? Save this?

Or save face in front of Ben?

God knows what he’s going to think when Yang and Mike rush him. Shock, betrayal and outrage will be the least of his emotions. Hatred might be at the top.

You did this.

I try calling Ben, but it goes straight to voicemail, so I frantically text:

Ben, whatever you do, don’t talk to Yang. Tell him no comment.

I shakemy head at such an emotionless, numb words, then try again.

Ben, a man named Altin Yang is coming to see you. Ignore him. I’m on my way to explain everything. And I’m on your side, I swear. Please, whatever you do—

I hiss at my phone,drop it to my side, then lift it and stare at the screen.

“You okay?” Taryn asks while we’re in the elevator.

I nod absently, then type:

Ben, I didn’t mean to do this. I’m so sorry.

Too late.The elevators open to the lobby and I delete what I typed, rewrite my original text, and pray Ben reads it in time.

“Hurry,” I say to Taryn as we clear the expansive first floor.

“I’m doing all I can in these maniacal pumps,” Taryn pants beside me. “They’re not meant for marathon sprints with you.”

I can’t feel my toes anymore. Or my cheeks, or my heart.

I rush out of the building much faster than I went in.

* * *

Twenty minutes later—recordtime for getting from Midtown to Williamsburg—I’m pulling up in front of Locke’s gym.

Ben hasn’t answered any of my texts or calls, and, in a desperate attempt to make some kind of contact, I called Mike, but he didn’t pick up, either.

I open the door before the driver pulls to a complete stop, who sends expletives my way, but I’m past caring as I stumble out of the vehicle.

Sensing Taryn behind me, I push through the gym entrance, ignore the person at the reception desk, and scan the work-out room frantically for Ben or my brother.

“Do you see them?” I ask Taryn.

Taryn peruses each and every male that’s lifting weights or pounding their feet on the treadmill, as if she knows who to look for.

She has no idea what Locke looks like, and probably has only a vague image of Ben in her head. Then again, I guess the man in a suit we work for would be easy to spot.

“I don’t recognize anyone,” she says.

We make our way past the equipment and a man in a neon green polo shirt telling us to stop immediately, and approach the men’s change room.

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