Page 127 of Daring You

33

Epilogue

Ash

Fuckin’BBQs in the dead of winter in New York City.

Who does that?

My dick friend Ben, that’s who. And he’s asked me to man the grill, of course. On a fuckin’ balcony. In the goddamned cold. Pushing around burger patties with smoke in my eyes and icicles on my ears, while everyone else sits warm and cozy indoors.

“They better enjoy these fuckin’ burgers,” I mumble into my scarf as I do the last flip.

Their muffled sounds come through the glass sliding doors, fogged over with snowflakes and frostbite. Everybody’s inside, including the girl I slept with a few weeks ago.

What’s her name?

Oh, yeah. Sophie.

Hot and small. Exactly how I like them. Flowing, curly blonde hair that tingles my skin every time it got caught in my nipple ring, and a great ass. Only requirements I need, really.

Finally, the damn patties are done. Assholes even had the balls to request certain types of cheeses on each.

Just because I’m a chef, don’t mean I can whip up burgers on the fly. If anything, it demeans me. I got skill way more fly than cheeseburgers on a balcony.

Friends. They make you do fucked up things.

“‘Yo, food’s done,” I say as I slide open the door. Guess I don’t get no sous chef.

“Aya!”

Lily claps her hands at my arrival, the only one who cares I’ve been freezing my balls off. Or shows any excitement over the tray I’m holding. Since she’s the only woman who will ever get me down on my knees, she’s allowed to applaud charred winter burgers.

“That’s right, sweet-tart,” I say as I pass. The chains on my jeans do a little jangle, causing her to rise and toddle after me.

“Someone get the ankle-biter!” I call as I try not to trip over the cherub.

“Sorry, man,” Locke says and scoops her up. “We’re riveted over here.”

I drop the tray on the kitchen island. “By what?”

Now that he says it, it’s pretty obvious the chatter died down about the time I ambled inside.

“Astor’s case is on the news. Defendants took a plea. Seventy-five years to life, with the possibility of parole after fifty.”

“Shit, they got parole?” I ask and follow him back into the main room. “Didn’t they massacre a family?”

“The defendants are in their late forties,” Astor says as I come to a stand beside her. She’s close to Ben, whose attention isn’t wavering from the flat screen. “Parole is like a far-off dream to them. They’ll die in prison.”

“So why’d they accept?”

Astor shrugs, but there’s the barest consternation behind her relaxed pose. “The State managed to turn Garcia. He got a plea deal for agreeing to testify against Lopez. Lopez is the only one identified in the witness’s testimony.”

“Witness? Like that protected little kid?”

“Not a little kid anymore,” Astor says.

I’m kinda uncomfortable under her stare. It’s so…unwavering. Fuckin’ lawyers.

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