8
Astor
I saymy goodbyes to Locke and company soon after Ben, since Carter appears to want to murder me if I teach Lily one more curse word.
I’ve also committed to an entire Saturday afternoon’s worth of work, considering Costello, Wine & Cottone have indeed taken the Staten Island Slaughter case and they’ve requested all hands on deck while we sort out whether there’s enough evidence that our clients have to take a plea, or if we’re going to trial.
Usually my favorite kind of case. Juicy, brutal, and riveting. Just the topic to get my mind off Mike’s sexcapades and Ben’s grouchiness, and basically men in general. I’m on this Earth to become a success, not trail after any guy’s coattails.
Entering into the dreary NYC winter is exactly what you think it’s like. Cold, ice-driven, and colorless. I zip up my purple parka as I head to the subway and adjust my cream wool beanie that Locke says makes me look like an egg, since my hair disappears underneath it.
Note to self: hair bobs and lobs are excellent in the spring in summer, but frickin’ suck when ice fingers get to trail along your bare neck in the dead of winter.
I’m crunching along the sidewalk, already planning how to steal this case away from Mike, when I hear a roar unrelated to the city’s white noise in front of me.
Pausing, I reach one hand into my jacket pocket for my cell. It sounds human, it sounds angry, and it’s male. I approach the alleyway with caution, ready with eyes forward to walk right by, a typical New Yorker’s response. Unless I spot a potential victim cowering underneath the roar, I’m not stopping.
A form bursts out of the dark corridor the instant I’m passing it, nearly toppling me onto the icicles sticking out from the city sidewalk.
“Jesus—”
“Watch where you’re—”
We’re both cut off by the other. Decide our death stares are better than our words.
“Excuse me,” Ben says, turns his back, and starts walking.
I’d let him go, if it weren’t for the bright red droplets in the snow he was leaving behind.
“Ben,” I say, and when he doesn’t stop, I catch up to him. “Hey, Ben!”
“What.”
He says it with such visceral emotion, it gets caught between his teeth. I falter, one hand raised, about to touch him.
“You’re bleeding,” I say flatly, then point to the blood trail.
He fists his wounded hand, looks at it, and shrugs. “So?”
“What happened back there?”
Our breaths are coming out in cold puffs, and the longer we stand here, the more our organs will shut down, but I can’t help but be concerned. I only like hating Ben when he’s healthy and unwounded.
“Nothing,” he answers. Predictably.
“Ben—stop.” This time, I lay a hand on him when he starts to turn. “What’s going on? Why were you so weird at brunch? And why did you punch something so hard, you broke skin?”
His eyelids shutter. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” I say automatically, and he nods like he expects it. “But since my niece is very much in your life, I’d like to know you’re okay.”
“I’m good enough,” he grunts, then shakes my arm off.
“Fine then,” I say to his back.
But swear when I realize where he’s going. Our destination is the same: the subway up ahead. Stomping my feet against the cold, I figure I can wait until he descends, then follow, and once down the stairs, swing in the opposite direction he’s standing on the platform.
Problem is, its damn cold and there’s no coffee shop or other store to duck into in this direction to wait out the asshole.