Shay…
What’ll it be? From him? “Nothing.”
I didn’t want food or anything slick businessman Benjamin Bishop offered.
The weight of his stare landed on me. Assessing. Like if those dark penetrating eyes lasered deep enough into my brain, he’d expose all my secrets.
He laid down his menu, leaned back, and crossed his arms. “You don’t ever need anything.” An accusation. A challenge. And it fell heavy between us, like a judgment to some falsehood he’d discovered.
I shrugged. Air. Water. Food. My gaze dropped to the menu’s laminated picture of a melty cheeseburger.
Then I pegged him with a hard stare back. “We all need things.”
“Just not tonight.”
Nothing to do with need. Want, maybe. Curiosity made me follow him out of the safety of my alley, nothing else. But time ticked by as the night’s deadline loomed. People were counting on me. And I counted on myself. No one else. Never again. “Not from you.”
My stomach grumbled for the second time in angry protest, but I ignored it, even as my mouth watered with each slow inhale of tempting fried food.
The pang of my heart? I refused to listen to that too.
I didn’t feel comfortable eating in front of him. Especially in the place we sat in.
And I did my best not to think of the imposing man who sat in front of me all relaxed and casual, as if he hadn’t chased me down—the first time anyone had ever cared enough to want to make things right with me. And I got the sense it had more to do with him than me. Which made me feel a little better, a little safer, and a whole lot more curious about the what and why of it.
Fidgeting on the booth’s burgundy vinyl seat, I forced myself to look around, take in the late-night version of the old railcar diner, overwrite idyllic memories that haunted me with their shallow lies.
A familiar elderly man sat at the end of the bar, his overflowing army duffel carrying what I’d often suspected were his only possessions. The ends of his thin silvery hair brushed the countertop. Leathered fingers gripped the edge of a white dinner plate heaped with fluffy eggs, blackened sausage links, and toast shellacked with butter that glistened under the harsh lights. His pale gray eyes darted toward the exit every few seconds, making him look as uncomfortable as I felt.
But Jim, the owner, who probably still ran the kitchen himself, had always had a strict homeless policy: no begging at the back door like a dog. “You sit at the counter, like a human being.” Jim’s clear voice, overheard by a wide-eyed little girl over the chattering hum of a busy breakfast crowd, echoed into my head a dozen years later. But I’d never forgotten him. Jim stood out as the best kind people in my book.
The brief memory disappeared as more powerful images exploded in: sunny booths jam-packed with families fresh from Sunday service, a line out the door and around the corner, laughter and giggles from kids in colorful clothes and shiny shoes. Not just from other booths, from mine too.
“You okay?”
I blinked. Moisture flicked down onto my cheek. I sighed and brushed it away with my hand, irritated at the weakness. “Yeah, why?”
“You started to smile. Thought maybe the world had ended.”
“Ha. Ha.” And maybe the world as I’d known it pre-Ben had. Because when I’d been busy fighting against believing him, daring to hope again, he’d distracted me into one of the places I’d sworn never to return to.
“Sooo…” —he dipped a nod at my untouched menu— “not eating.”
“Nope.” No point in throwing the whole thing up from the nerves that churned in my gut.
“Coffee, then.” He held up his white mug to the server as she approached again.
After she filled both of our mugs with her pot, he sipped his, black. “So, what’s your story?”
Right. Do I look like an open book? “None of your business.”
“True.” He settled the mug onto the table. “Would be if I wanted to hire you.”
With the tips of my fingernails, I pushed the base of my steaming mug to the center of the table, parking it to be even with the bottom edge of my rejected menu. “You just fired me. Make up your mind.”
“Not helping.”
“Not trying.”
“Okay.” He kept that relentless stare on me. “So…no ID you want to share. No story. How do you expect to get hired anywhere?”
“Don’t.”
“What if I did want to hire you? You obviously have Rafe on your side. What does Rafe know that I don’t?”
Way more than I want anyone to know about me. But Rafe was built like me. Bear too. We did what we had to—had done whatever we’d needed to—in order to survive.
I planted my hands on the table edge and pushed up from the booth. “Let’s blow this place.” Done with facing my demons, I listened to my deadline-clock, every next tick echoing louder in my head.
Ben peered at me over the rim of his mug, taking a slow last pull of his coffee. Then he stood, reached into his pocket, and fanned a handful of singles out before tucking them under a saltshaker.
“That’s too much,” I scoffed. “Your coffee was a buck twenty-five.”
“We still took up her time.”
Furrowing my brow, I counted the green dog-eared corners. “Not five-hundred percent of her time.” Without guilt, and determined to fight for my share of control every step of the way, I swiped three of the bills.
Ben said nothing, simply watched me with interest as I walked over to the old man at the counter.
“Hey, Joey,” I murmured. Everyone from my world knew him. The man often talked to himself, anyone willing to listen, or no one in particular who just happened to be walking by. When he turned weary eyes my way, I put a gentle hand over his, then curled the few dollars under his palm. “Somet’n fo’ latuh.”
“What was that?” Ben frowned and stared back at the meek homeless man. Joey had already returned to his late-night dinner plate, chewing another bite with slow precision, like it might be his last. The hearty meal was probably the first food Joey had eaten all day.
“Redistribution.” The way the system should work. Instantly. Where it mattered.
“Of my money.”
“Consider it a non-tax-free donation.” Yep. No qualms about twisting the language of the rich. Went right along with warping their “justified” self-benefiting laws.
I stepped back out into the crisp night air, and the bell above the door tinkled again.
“Where you going?” Ben called out, suddenly farther away from me, but still inside.
I glanced over my shoulder to see him back at the booth we’d abandoned. He peeled and dropped down a few more dollars for the waitress. Then he jogged back but paused behind Joey to slip out what appeared to be a crisp twenty from his wallet and slid it beside Joey’s plate. Ben then handed him something else, smaller, a slip of paper or a card…maybe a hotline number?
Interesting.
But not enough to wait around.
I bounded out into the street, took a deep inhale of mineral-rich air, then stared up at a dark sky where a thin layer of glowing clouds obstructed all but a sliver of moon ghosting through.
“What’d you hand Joey?” I asked as he walked out the door. I contemplated the possibilities. That I’d been wrong about Ben. That he wasn’t one-dimensional. That he hid something deeper—a strong moral compass. Why else would he have hunted me down? And maybe he was hiding more than simple morality—the extra bills to the server and to Joey, handed over without a second thought; the monumental “shitty day” he’d had. Maybe he protected secrets...like me.
“Where are you going?” The soles of his shoes clicked louder as he gained ground.
“Better food,” I replied, eyeing my ultimate destination at the far edge of the park.
“A business card,” he finally answered. What he’d handed Joey.
“Hiring the homeless now?” Shocked at the lengths Ben Bishop seemed willing to take, I stopped at the curb and crossed my arms, reassessing yet again the man who’d ruined my night, a man I couldn’t seem to shake.
“No. Cade owns a restaurant with his wife, Hannah. Gave him one of their cards. If Joey comes here at night, maybe he’d go to their restaurant in Fairmount Park during the day.”
Ah. Okay. Great idea. Ben continued to redeem himself, bit by bit. I made a mental note to check out the place, make sure it was good enough for Joey, maybe tell the rest of my crew.
A horn honked as I stepped off the curb, tearing me back into the real world. The one where my stomach growled as mouthwatering scents of cooked salt and fat teased through my nostrils, luring me on.
But I couldn’t eat yet. Not until I’d earned it.
I scanned the pedestrians, searching each for possibility, even with Ben right on my heels.
When I darted across the street, I picked up the pace. But Ben jogged to catch up again, his footfalls scuffing the asphalt in my wake.
“Better food.” Doubt laced his tone. “Out here?”
“Yep.” Hearty food. Made by real people. Not industrialized. Not commercialized. No overhead, no employees, no parking spaces to hold overpriced cars—or vintage train booths haunted with memories.
“The Station Diner is Zagat rated.”
The moment the words left his mouth, my attention landed on a weathered park bench. Not just any park bench. My park bench. At the base of a boulder outcropping, in sight of a massive forest, a place of protection, where a lost little girl had come to dream...learned to hunt.
Forcing my thoughts from the past—grounded by my place, in my home—I glanced up at him. “Not everything worthwhile is acknowledged by snobs.” Not even close.
His gaze locked with mine, searching, wanting to understand.
Refusing to give him even the slightest hint, I hardened my expression.
Amusement lit his eyes. “Defiant much?”
“Any other way to be?” If there was, I hadn’t figured it out yet. Anti-authority had gained me my freedom. Anti-establishment had given me purpose. Anti-culture had offered me a home, the only true protective family I’d ever known.
Freaking out a little from the unexpected self-analysis, I glared at him. Then I turned and charged up the street at a brisk pace. Taking the scenic route with purpose, I veered along a pristine tree-lined sidewalk, then angled toward the corner of Grammercy Park and Fifth; executives from our growing financial district streamed by from there. Late on a Friday? Guaranteed pickings.
Suddenly, I spotted the perfect mark: camel hair trench with a scarf draped under the lapels, three-piece suit, crisp white shirt, impeccably knotted ice-blue tie. Black leather wingtips reflected a soft shine from the lamplight that the mid-forties man passed under.
Too tempting to ignore, I resolved one final time to break that naïve go-legit vow and keep my deadline. Ben had put me right back where I belonged, after all. Why bother fighting the forces of the universe?
Done.
With a sudden rush of adrenaline, I spun around, thrust my hands up toward the night sky, then beamed my best fake smile toward Ben. “Isn’t it amazing?”
The edge of my sneaker caught on a sidewalk crack. Weight thrown from my twirling momentum, I collided with Mr. Impeccably Dressed right as he strode onto my sidewalk square.
We grabbed one another for balance, eyes wide with surprise: his genuine, mine flawless.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed.
“So sorr…didn’t s…see,” I stuttered out.
The stranger patted me down, innocently, of course, to make sure I remained unharmed. I patted him in a similar way, under his coat where my hands had landed, naturally, not at all innocently, to relieve him of the unnecessary weight burning a hole in his left inside coat pocket.
“Are you okay?” The man’s eyes searched mine.
With a convincing nod, I smiled a little. “Good. Thanks.” For righting me, plus a handful of others who needed righting too.
It all happened in a flash. The stumble, the righting. Four seconds, tops. The slip? In a blink.
Not turning to look at Ben, whose presence I sensed close in on my other side, I continued with quick steps that led me to the edge of the sidewalk and up a grassy berm.
“What was with…the sudden excitement?” His tone weighed heavy. I took it as doubt.
Good. Men off-balance? The best kind to take advantage of.
Finally, the stainless steel food cart I’d spotted ten minutes ago, and had been smelling for a block and a half, came into view. “No excitement. Just randomness.”
“No. I don’t think so.” His voice softened as gentle pressure gripped my upper arm.
When I paused, turning and glancing up to face him, my breath caught at the compassion in his dark eyes as they searched mine. He reached up, caressed my cheek with his fingertips. “You don’t always need to be tough, you know. I’m not going to hurt you.”
My pulse quickened, his words burning into my heart. I forgot for the tiniest moment what it was to be me: alone, fighting for everything, strong all the time. Letting out a slow exhale, my eyes drifted shut, and I leaned into his touch, pretending for precious seconds that the world wasn’t out to hurt me, that maybe one guy might actually be one of the fabled good guys. Maybe Ben.
Had he caught what I’d done? I’d intentionally blocked his view, or I thought I had.
If Ben found out, would he agree? Would law-abiding Ben let my criminal act slide, open his ever-flowing wallet and add to the cause?
A bicycle bell rang from the sidewalk, and I blinked back to reality.
No.
And no knight in shining armor existed. Only in the fairy tales I’d read so long ago with…
“Right,” I muttered and gave Ben a nod before taking quick steps toward my destination and increasing the distance between us. “You won’t hurt me.” The words were spoken into the crisp air, directed not just toward Ben, but to everyone out there in the world. “Because I’m not going to let you.”
Distant laughter and the scents of grilled meats and spun sugar wafted from a block to our west. The Arts District’s inaugural First Friday had been going on for hours, the road supposedly blocked off at either end with the art galleries and boutiques open till midnight.
Colorful fliers had been posted in coffeehouses and other neighborhood stores for weeks. To someone like me, the opportunity would’ve been a gold mine of temptation. But I’d refrained from even going there in my mind the last week, new job and all. Which I no longer had. Hmmm…
But I had a more important errand to run.
“How far do we have to hoof it to get this great food, New York?” Ben’s teasing voice came from a few paces back, but I could hear those pavement-scuffing shoes getting louder. He’d never make a decent pickpocket. Might as well wear a bell around his neck.
I slowed with a growing smile. Not about Ben. In fact, we’d arrived. Plenty more important things to focus on. A few yards ahead, at the end of the sidewalk, where the park ended and a row of charming brownstones began, stood my destination. My deadline.
Tony’s Hot Dog Cart. “Antonio!”
“Ciao bella!” Hello, beautiful!
The Italian greeting had been our thing from the moment I’d met Tony eight years ago. Made funnier, because he served nothing from his homeland from the cart, and I’d teased him about it the first time he’d ever served me my first taste of heaven in a bun—on the house, he’d insisted. Tony had carved a sweet little niche for himself capturing those dedicated executives, typically stock traders who’d skipped dinner to work late finishing West Coast business but detoured by his cart on the way home for the best dogs served in town.
Only available from 7:00 p.m. till midnight, Monday through Friday.
Tony had a pizza joint to run during the day.
And a wife counting on him to feed their eight hungry mouths, with a ninth on the way.
But he also served as a stopping point for our greater family, those in need who couldn’t provide for themselves. Tony was passionate about helping others—like a starving girl who’d believed herself to be a Lost Boy. And I’d returned the favor, helping Tony and his growing family stay off the streets when they’d once struggled to make ends meet.
“Two, please. Both of ’em with the works.” I nodded back toward Ben. “I’ve got company.”
Blocking Ben’s view with my body for a moment, I pulled a wide-mouthed tip jar from its high perch on the upper corner of Tony’s cart and lowered it to the edge of his prep area. Then I dropped the entire wad of cash I’d stolen. The rest of the wallet? Dropped into the trash can at my feet.
Tony’s eyes widened an instant before they began to glisten with moisture.
I shot him a stern glare, lowered my brows, and gave him a nearly imperceptible headshake, trying desperately to wave him off.
He took a deep breath, eyes still watering in gratitude and disbelief.
I forgave him instantly.
Even though we took care of one another, me and Tony, and—with the help of our street network—our extended family, it still got to each of us that anyone cared enough to help, tugged hard at our hearts to know that humanity showed its colors brighter down where we lived, ground level.
“Seriously?” Ben eyed a mustard tube, then surveyed the steaming trays lined with foil, seemingly oblivious. “You dragged me all the way down here for a hot dog?”
No. We had guardian-angel work to do.
“Yes.” My renewed glare held Tony’s gaze for another brief beat, then shifted toward Ben. A zipped-lip Tony handed him a steaming dog that had already been loaded with mustard, white onions, and crisp pickle slices.
“Not just any hot dog,” Tony defended with pride.
From not just any vendor. Our work for the night was done. Tony had what he needed to make his rent and food without worry, plus enough to share with Charlene, Lando, and anyone else who needed food or a few bucks to tide them over.
Ben had his food, something to distract him from being on my back about the job. And I could relax for a few minutes.
When Ben turned toward the far corner of the cart and grabbed a fistful of napkins, Tony handed me my dog with a last look of gratitude, eyes welling again with moisture, behind Ben’s back.
I winked at Tony, trying to end his misty-eyed emotions.
Tony held up two beers, brows raised.
With a headshake, I politely declined and grabbed two waters from his cooler instead.
A groan sounded from Ben’s direction, and he turned back toward me, mouth filled with a third of his dog as he chewed. “Mmm…” All he could manage before his eyes rolled toward the back of his head.
“Told you.” I inhaled the scent of heaven, then took a more manageable bite.
“Best dog ever,” Ben urged around a mouthful of food.
I nodded, in complete agreement. “Something to do with his spices. I figure Tony laces ’em with something special. Like some ancient Italian family recipe hides under the casing. But he passes it off as ordinary street food while he addicts us all with his secret drug.”
Ben eyed me, but said nothing.
I handed him a bottle of water, then walked along and ate my dog, following a line of lampposts, one yellow glowing pool after another, toward the increasing sound of laughter and music.
“What’s with all the revelry?” The warmth of Ben’s shoulder brushed my arm.
I gasped at the shock of our unexpected contact. But when I glanced up, Ben seemed unaffected, unaware even, as he chomped down the last quarter of his meal. He wadded up the paper wrapper, then arced the foil ball into a wrought-iron-caged trash can to his left.
Forget the jolt of his touch that still sizzled across your skin in the best kind of way. Focus on his question. Which hadn’t been about us at all.
He’d meant the live folk band streaming an electric violin solo, the buzzing of dozens of conversations, the clinking of glasses. A street party in full swing. “First Friday.”
“Right. Heard about that.”
Me too. Unable to stop ingrained habit, my gaze flicked across the crowd, identified brand names, gleaming precious metal, bulging pockets weighed down with excess money.
“So, about that job.” Ben remained beside me, shoulder to shoulder, close, but no longer touching.
Still impacting me, though—down to my bones.
What is it about you that makes me want to risk...touch?
On a frustrated sigh, I dove into the middle of a foursome of wealthy girls who stumbled by. They were ridiculously easy marks with their designer bags dangling, forgotten, while glazed eyes tried to focus on the red wine that sloshed in the mason jar each girl held steady with great care—their liquid valuables seemingly more precious than any other at the moment.
Child’s play.
A whole lot easier than a boring, feet-aching, eight-hour bartending shift. “No job.”
“Yes, job.”
“Why?” I whirled around and planted my hands on my hips, abandoning the treasure trove of unsuspecting donators. The girls weren’t going anywhere fast, but Ben sure as hell needed to be.
As in gone. Off my back.
Because I couldn’t handle new and different. I couldn’t handle Ben—not with everything I’d been through. And I definitely didn’t want to find out why he affected me to such a great degree.
“Because.” He pegged me with that penetrating-stare thing again. “You need me.”
I snorted. “You’re high.”
He took a step closer, spoke lower, slower. “You want what I have to offer.”
Ouch.
I did want it. Or had wanted it.
The job. You naïve fool. Not him.
Yep. I’d wanted that bartending job.
But that’d been before he’d yanked the rug out from under me. Before I’d gone out on a limb and trusted in something new, an ideal I’d thought I’d wanted. Not gonna happen again.
“Not buyin’.”
“Not selling.”
“Sounds like you’re sellin’ it pretty hard to me.”
“How would you know? You won’t even listen.” He raked a hand through his dark hair, ruffling it until several locks tumbled in a wild mess over his forehead. “Please. Hear me out.”
His voice had softened. Frustration pulled down his brows, but then he raised them a fraction, wrinkling his forehead. Big dark-gray puppy-dog eyes pleaded with me.
“Fine,” I grumbled.
I’m gonna regret this on so many levels.
But I couldn’t turn away someone in need. Hadn’t ever been able to. Had been there once. Very, very in need. And in my darkest hours, when I’d really needed the smallest act of kindness to keep up hope, I’d gotten it. Since then, I’d made it my life’s mission to help those who asked—and those who didn’t.
Ben hadn’t outright asked for help. But he definitely needed it. His pain rode between the lines in his expression, shimmered in his eyes.
“I can’t have you work behind my bar.”
I waited. That listening part? Apparently involved a huge amount of patience. “Established. But I’m not bussing tables. Not waitressing.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Uh…I’m never waitressing.” In a boob-puffing bustier? No way. “My only interest is in bartending. I can’t work behind your bar? Stalemate.”
He gave a subtle headshake. “I meant not yet behind the bar at Loading Zone.”
“Intriguing.” Congratulations. Interest piqued. “Go on. Wherever am I going to tend bar not at your bar.”
“At a charity event.”
Amazed he had any other business besides Loading Zone, my mind blanked for an instant. Then it rebooted at the appealing idea. Helping others. Legitimately. Only there had to be a catch. Why would Loading Zone’s bar be off-limits, but no problem with me working a charity? Maybe the money sucked. Or the event.
“What kind of charity event?” I took a couple of slow steps back, placing Ben squarely between me and the tempting street party.
I’d learned about crazy charity events, through bits of eavesdropped gossip at expensive restaurants while I’d been doing my own form of charity. The last one I’d overheard, auctioning off hot eligible bachelors for a date—while they strutted down a catwalk in nothing but their underwear—popped into my brain.
Drawing in a shaky breath, my gaze drifted down Ben’s body as I imagined him in nothing but his underwear: black briefs hugging lean hips, clinging to muscular thighs.
My skin heated as I stared at some imaginary line under the denim he now wore, where the bottom of those black briefs would end. And what hung, heavy in my mind, above that imaginary line.
“Golf,” he said.
Annnd done. Mind totally blanked.