Page 21 of Daring You

There we go. That’s why I fucked a stripper.

“Uh, nice to meet you.”

“Uh-huh. Finish those eggs of mine, and the bacon. Too good to waste.” She pulls on a hot pink, velvet dress. “Oh, and you should also call back that guy who keeps calling you.”

“Guy? What guy?” I round the bed, lifting the covers so I can find my phone.

I feel a pat on my ass and see Penny holding it.

“Thanks,” I say, but I’m already focused on scrolling through my missed calls. I don’t enjoy receiving unknown phone calls, even less so from men, since everyone I need to speak to doesn’t usually call me incessantly in the dead of night or early mornings. Text messages are more my jam.

“You spoke to him a little in the car back to your place. Aiden, I think his name was?”

A cold chill rushes down my spine. “Aiden? You’re sure that’s the name you heard?”

She shrugs. “Pretty sure. Anyway, be seeing you around, B-Daddy. Always a good time.”

Penny rises up on her toes and pecks me on the cheek, likely leaving a bright pink mark, but I’m not considering the stain, or the fact that always a good time means we’ve fucked more than one night, because the name she flicked off her tongue like it was nothing…means everything.

“See you round,” I mutter, my phone already to my ear.

He picks up the moment Penny saunters out of my apartment.

“Ben? Jesus, took you long enough.”

“Yeah, I was…busy. What’s up?”

“I don’t think I should tell you over the phone. We should meet.”

“It’d be more dangerous if we meet, Aiden. You’re not even supposed to have this number.”

“I know, I know. But this is…urgent.”

“Then spit it out.”

“I really think we should—”

“Aiden. Fucking. Tell. Me.”

My heart’s pounding louder than my words, and I’ve been told when I become angry, I go guttural. And I’m getting angry.

He sighs. “It’s about your parents.”

He’s not talking about my adoptive mom and dad. “You found something?”

“More than something, Ben. Just know I would’ve appreciated giving this news to you face-to-face. The killers have been found.”

I want to sit down, but I can’t. If I sit on my bed, I’ll just fall back, splaying out, and it won’t be like it is on the field. No one will yell at me to get up. Crowds won’t heckle from the sidelines. So I’ll simply stay there, reverting to the four-year-old me, unable to move, covered in blood and stench and ash.

My next words come out as an illicit, low-toned growl. “What did you just say?”

“Your parents’ murders have been solved.”

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