Make Me Bad(9)

Ben Rosenberg.

God. His name should always be accompanied by a long lusty sigh. Even now, my heart does a little flutter kick in my chest just thinking of him. I was actually grateful for his busted lip and swollen eye. Without them, I’m not sure I could have formed coherent thoughts. Even with them, my brain was only running at about 50%.

I’m still distracted by his looks—the one piercing brown eye that wasn’t swollen, his hard cheekbones and defined jaw. Oh, and let’s not forget his tall muscular frame poured into a navy suit with a few specks of blood dotting his shirt for good measure. I mean, Jesus, give a girl a break.

I dip my spoon back into the pudding aggressively.

Other than his haggard state, the only other factor I had going for me was that I was in total shock that he, out of EVERY person in Clifton Cove, was the one to appear on the dark street as my white knight. It was so shocking, in fact, that it enabled me to keep my wits about me on the walk home. It was like I wasn’t convinced it was actually him. Am I totally sure the guy didn’t shoot me back there and this isn’t all some weird purgatory I’ve fallen into?

I’m still thinking about Ben later when we get home from the police station, after I’ve said every word I ever want to say about the incident, after they’ve cleaned up the small cut on my head and swabbed every inch of me for evidence. I’m finally able to sneak off upstairs and shower. I’m bone-weary and ready to pass out on any inanimate object that can support my weight, but my brain is wide awake, running through the conversation I had with Ben on our walk home. I try to remember if I sounded normal or not, charming or just weird.

It’s not that I’ve never carried on a conversation with a cute man before. I have, at least twice. The reason it’s such a big deal is because in Clifton Cove, Ben Rosenberg is a god, an urban legend, a man unto himself.

Let me put it another way. You know how people always have at least one story about a time they ran into a celebrity? Once, on a flight home, I was seated ten rows back from Jennifer Aniston! That kind of thing.

This night will be my celebrity story: Once, Ben Rosenberg saved my life.

There are quite a few reasons our paths have never crossed before today: he’s six years older than me; he went to Saint Andrews and I went the public route; he went Ivy League for college and law school while I commuted to the state college 45 minutes from my house; oh, and I’m a total dweeb who spends her days at the library surrounded by books and her nights in her childhood bedroom surrounded by books while he probably has a very busy, very wild social life that includes a veritable buffet of sexual partners.

With that thought, I slam down my soap and step out of the shower. I wrap myself in a thick terrycloth robe and pad quietly to my room across the hall just in case my dad has any more questions he wants to ask me tonight. I care about catching the criminal and bringing him to justice. I really, really do, but right now, given the choice, I’d much rather dwell on Ben and the fact that more than likely, our paths won’t ever cross again.

I throw myself onto my bed dramatically.

I’m an idiot.

I should have written my number on that ice pack.





5





Ben





“Community service? Are you serious?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Are you doing this for chicks? Because, man, I know like four women who would cut their right arm off to sleep with you. I know because they made that perfectly clear to me the other night at Nick’s barbecue. The last one gave me her number to give to you and I threw it in the grill out of spite. It’s these goddamn cheekbones.” Andy releases the bench press bar long enough to stroke my cheek goadingly. It tickles and I flinch, jerking away. “Do you sharpen them or what?”

I politely tell him to fuck off and he shrugs and looks away, bored. “I need a beer.”

I finish my last rep and sit up, pointing out the obvious. “We’re in the middle of working out.”

He throws my towel at me. I drag it down my face then hang it around the back of my neck.

“Yeah, about that—why did I let you talk me into this? My whole shtick is that I’m kind of chubby but charming nonetheless. Women love it—well, the women who don’t want you love it.”

I shake my head, careful to ignore him. On a good day, Andy is unbearable. Most days, he’s fucking ridiculous. He’s the brother I never had, and we’ve been friends since kindergarten. We went to the same law school then followed through with our plan to move back to Clifton Cove after graduation and start our own firm. I could have easily taken a position with my father, going for the easy hours and raking in the cash, but Andy and I had our own ideas. Besides, it’s better this way. I don’t like answering to anyone, not even Andy, which is why I own 51% of the firm and he owns 49%.

I glance over to the mirror to see him checking out one of the women across the gym. Arianna—he’s been in love with her for as long as I can remember. She waves before I motion to him to come spot me again.

“When do you start?” he asks as I lie back and grab the bar.

“Friday, after work.”

He looks crestfallen. “We’re supposed to get drinks after work on Friday.”

“Rain check.”

He drops the bar and walks away.