Page 26 of Daring You

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 that 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.

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