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.

Turns out, avoiding it has only brought me to this breakfast table.

“There’s been some kind of huge bust in Staten Island. It’s everywhere,” Locke says.

He’s trying to curb his sister, but it’s only fucking me over. I curl my fists under the table.

“Omigod, yes,” Carter breathes. “Something about a slaughtered family? I had to turn the TV off, couldn’t stand to hear about it.”

“Typical gang member bullshit,” Astor says. “I bet it was some kind of initiation rite.”

No. It wasn’t.

“Wouldn’t new kids trying to get in on a gang bungle it somehow? These murders happened something like, twenty years ago, and they’re only just solving it now.” Locke grabs a croissant and rips into it with his teeth. “Sounds like a pro to me. But you’d know better,” he says to his sister.

“Not professional enough that they couldn’t be caught.” Astor shakes her head. “I’m fairly certain I’m about to know too much. My firm’s snagged it. We have an emergency meeting today.”

Every single piece of muscle I own solidifies into one, concrete mass.

“Seriously?” Carter says. “How?”

Astor lifts one shoulder, then sits her fork and knife on her empty plate. I can’t stop staring at the crumbs she left behind.

“Great publicity, for one,” she answers. “The criminal defense department is slobbering all over it. These two defendants, they’ll want the best to represent them, and that’s us.”

I open my mouth enough to utter, “Isn’t Mike…in criminal defense?”

All three—and a half—sets of eyes land on me, like they forgot it’s been a while since I’ve spoken.

“Yeah, actually,” Astor says. “He’s only a junior, though. Mike’ll be assisting.”

This would be the moment I point out Astor should be talking her fiancé up, not shrinking his dick, but I don’t want to.

“That poor baby boy,” Carter says, and strokes Lily’s hair. “He was the only survivor, right? I wonder what ever happened to him.”

I can barely hear her. All sound has muffled, tunneled, into a vicious hole, and I’m curled up on the bottom.

“I gotta go,” I say and stand too quickly. My thighs hit the table, rattling all the plates and nearly tipping over Carter’s juice.

“Watch those tree trunks,” Locke says.

“Ben, are you okay?” Carter asks.

“Fine.” I turn from the table, then spin back and say, “Thanks. For all this.” I sweep my hand around. “You know, breakfast.”

“Any time, man,” Locke responds.

I barely spend any time grabbing my coat from the couch, and storm out of the apartment before I stick my arms all the way through, but I’m slow enough to hear Astor say, “He’s such a rude sonofabitch.”

“Sumbish!” Lily parrots.

I slam the door behind me.

My hands are cupping my mouth to bring them some heat as I stomp to the subway, too amped to stand on a curb and call a car, and too stubborn to return to Locke’s place and wait.

I’d rather be among other miserable people as they make their way into Manhattan, the supposed City of Dreams.

I shouldn’t take out my anger on NYC. Sorry, Lady Liberty. You’ve done nothing but stroke my ego, skyrocket my career, and bring me women, money and fame. But when I’m made useless, the first thing I want to lay waste to is my environment.

It’s better on the field, when I can barrel into other bodies and send them sprawling. That gets a lot of damn frustration out, believe you me. In this instance, I’m left with my pants down, dick dangling, unable to do anything about what makes the news. I can’t punch anyone, either.

And I shoulda known this would become a major headline. It’s a twenty-two-year-old murder case, but the brutality alone is enough for juicy clickbait in this flailing journalistic world.

What’s killer, though, what’s really making me chomp and chip teeth, is that Mike Douchebag Ascott will be part of the team representing my parents’ murderers.

In what fucking realm do I deserve this kind of comeuppance?

I stare at the small slice of sky I can see through the buildings, dark and gray as my fate.

Only thing worse would be if Astor were their attorney. Except, it is worse because it might as well be her. She’s Mike’s second hand—first, actually, if anyone with eyeballs takes a look. He’s nothing but a pussy in fancy suits. Which makes her privy to all the information, every moment of my mom’s suffering and my dad’s pleading. She’ll see the crime scene photos, she’ll be looking at me, and she won’t even know it.

Nobody can know it.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I rasp into my hands, then give my face a long, hard rub.

Walk. I have to keep moving, not become a frozen buffoon in the middle of Who Knows Where, Brooklyn, where someone might see and take a picture.

Goddamnit. Pictures. I got drafted into the NFL and became a public face because I figured my parents’ case would be forever cold. There was no way to connect the tiny, skinny, four-year-old boy to me, and yet there’s the very real chance I’ll be exposed. It’s not only reporters that know how to dig these days.

Bloggers.

Trolls.

Teenagers.

Everyone’s a fuckin’ internet Jimmy Neutron.

The fact they have the killers in custody means nothing. Those guys have a network, and if they find me…if they figure out who I am…discover there’s a surviving witness…

I’m dead.

Just like that.

Doesn’t matter I’m a witness to a crime now two decades old and can’t remember details. I escaped when I was meant to be buried along with my parents.

Crime rings don’t forget shit like that.

Dodge Hennessy’s face rushes at me as I lift one foot forward and gain enough strength to eat up some sidewalk. The way I felt back then—I laugh. I bray out loud and slap my thighs at the memory of believing he would be my downfall. Dodge was nothing, the pecker’s basic knowledge meant zero, now that my parents have been unearthed and Astor’s firm has taken the case.

The worst part is, if this goes the way I think it will, I fucked Astor over to keep a secret that was always meant to come to light. I thought I was breaking her heart to preserve her life.

All for nothing.

I can’t take it anymore. “God. Fucking. Dammit!”

I punch the nearest wall, hear the crunch of my knuckles against the brick, the slice of pain moving from my hand to my elbow, and I don’t give a damn that it’s my throwing arm.

My breath mists out in frigid puffs. I’m gasping like I’m going to cry. But I don’t bust out tears. I don’t think back.

Don’t look back.

I heave off the wall with a roar and continue my trek down the avenue.