Truly(19)

“It’s obscene.”

His mouth hitched into a smirk. “I talked her into naming the restaurant after it.”

“They should seriously consider naming the State of New York after it.”

That made him grin, which made May feel like she’d managed to accomplish something after all.

He picked out another kind of cheese and a thin slice of sausage. “This one’s smoky. Try it with the honey on top.”

She let him put it directly into her mouth, and then she had to concentrate all her attention on not making any more noises. It was quite a feat, with the taste of smoky meat and rich cheese in her mouth, sharing space with herb-flavored sweetness and Ben’s salty fingertip.

Just the tiniest bit of fingertip, and just the tiniest flick of her tongue over it. Surely an accident on both their parts.

“Hey, May?” His voice was lower than it had been earlier, rumbly and almost as delicious as what he was feeding her.

“Yeah?”

“Come home with me.”

She chewed. Because the food was delicious. Not because Sensible May was rolling around the floor of her brain, tussling with Hedonistic May, who wanted more food and more low-Ben-voice and more fingertips in her mouth.

“I couldn’t impose,” she managed, after Sensible May stunned Hedonistic May with a punch to the face. “It wouldn’t be—”

“You’re not imposing,” he said. “I’m inviting you.”

He’d perched one hip on the desk, and his head blocked out most of the light. Like talking to a god—distant and difficult to interpret. Did he want to help her, or did he intend to stake her to Mount Olympus?

And if the latter, what happened after the staking?

You wear a gauzy white dress, but it’s all ripped up because the staking has been so vigorous. And he kneels over you, chest heaving from how hard he had to fight you to get you pinned down. He stares at your breasts, naked underneath the thin fabric, and then with no warning, he reaches out and rips the dress open. Those big, scarred hands close over your breasts, his thumbs finding your nipples, and he lowers his head—

“I won’t try anything,” Ben said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh.” The word came out so disappointed, she tried again. “That’s good.”

Ben frowned, a chevron of irritation between his eyebrows. “I just don’t think you should spend a ton of money on some sterile hotel room where you won’t have a computer or a phone or anybody to talk to. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll take the couch. In the morning, you can hang around until you figure out what to do next. I’ll cook you breakfast.”

She should turn him down. It seemed likely that a dishwasher’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen would involve a scattering of pizza boxes and a bare mattress pushed into a closet.

Also, roaches.

But if she said no, she’d never see him again, and it felt too soon for that. He was her ally, the only friend she had tonight in this gigantic, alien city.

It’s not safe, Sensible May warned. It’s not smart.

When she tried to imagine telling her mother about it, her cheeks went hot.

Ben leaned even farther in, until his eyes were a few inches from hers. “I promise, I won’t touch you,” he said quietly. “If you want, you can leave a note with Cecily or some random customer who doesn’t know me that says what you’re about to do, and you can tell her to post it to the authorities if I kill you or whatever.”

Damn. Now he was appealing directly to Sensible May, and Sensible May had to admit, it was working. Plus, Hedonist May really liked being so close to his eyes. Those strange light brown eyes of his were starting to grow on her.

“I’m not worried you’re going to kill me,” she said. “Or hurt me.”

“What are you worried I’m going to do? Rob you?”

That made her smile, and he grinned again. A quick flash of lopsided boyishness.

He’s from Ashland, she reminded herself. And we met him at Pulvermacher’s. He’s practically family.

“Okay,” May said. “I’ll come home with you.”





CHAPTER SEVEN


Ben’s apartment was twenty-some blocks north, so they took the train. May was grateful for that. Her feet hurt like mad.

They got off at Fiftieth. He led her down a street crowded with five-story redbrick tenement buildings that had shops and restaurants on the first floor. They stopped in front of a Greek tapas restaurant.

“This is me,” he said, pointing to the short flight of steps that led to a scratched and weather-beaten black door. The window above displayed the number 406 in friendly gold and red. Someone had done the trim in red and painted the columns flanking the door an eyecatching sky blue. But whoever that whimsical person was, she’d made the effort a long time ago, and the paint had chipped off in hand-size chunks, revealing the deteriorating cement beneath. “I’m all the way on top.”