She’d have been looking through that trash container when she had shadows and low foot traffic, which meant the security asshole who’d done it was a nightshift stiff. He wasn’t oblivious to the irony of hunting down a guy who’d hurt her. But hypocrisy was the least of his crimes tonight. He knew he was out of focus, more than a little out of control. He should go home, bolt the door, get blind drunk and leave it at that. But he hated being closed in when he felt like this. He needed to move, to keep moving, until things evened out. He’d go beat this guy to a bloody pulp, buy a cheap bottle of whatever junk one of the convenience stores had, then go drink it on top of his cemetery perch. If he was lucky, he’d pass out, roll off the top and break his fucking neck.
Pfeiffer was within walking distance of the K&A offices. The building had a spiffy silver and glass façade revealing the lobby inside. He contemplated picking up one of the big stone planters up front and tossing it through, but then he noticed the security desk was visible. He could wave and get the attention of the two guys sitting there, entirely dissatisfying. He was going to throw the planter anyway.
Then he noticed Peter sitting on a sidewalk bench, ankle balanced on his knee, patiently waiting for him.
Max was too damn intuitive to be a fucking limo driver.
“If you’re out trawling for paid pussy, that’s up on Canal Street. Blind women can smell that kind of thing though, so you better sleep with one eye open. Dana will shoot you full of holes, even if she can’t see you.”
Peter gave him a level look. “You can’t make me beat you into unconsciousness, no matter how much you deserve it.”
“Stand back and watch me beat one of these guys into unconsciousness then. Other than doing the same to me, there’s no way you’re going to stop me.” Ben tightened his jaw. “Go home, Peter. I don’t want to be around anyone. Particularly anyone I know.”
Peter rose, stretching his substantial bulk, cracking his thick neck. “The guy you want isn’t working tonight. I happen to know where he lives.”
“Why would you share that information?”
“Because I’ve seen him. I think you need to see him as well. It’s not far.” Sliding his hands into his jeans pockets, Peter began to walk up the street, literally whistling Dixie. Biting back a vile curse, Ben fell in with him in a few strides, since the asshole was ambling. Once there, Peter picked up the pace, but not by much. “Nice night.”
“Not interested.”
“Okay.” He said nothing further, and in a few blocks, he made a left, taking Ben down a street where the buildings had upper-level apartments much like his own place nearby. Peter stopped in front of one with a side staircase that led to living quarters above the Ruby Slipper restaurant. Ben went there regularly for breakfast and sometimes to watch ball games on the several wide-screens. He and this guy were practically neighbors.
“What’s his name?”
“Why? You thinking of exchanging Christmas cards?” Arching a brow, Peter rapped on a door that looked in need of painting.
“Hold on. Jesus. Like a fucking train station tonight.” The rumbling voice within sounded like it came from a bear.
Ben gave Peter a look when they heard a thud, a curse, then a slow progression to the door. “How old is this guy? Ninety?”
The latch was thrown, and his target opened the door. Ben had to look up several inches. The guy freaking filled the door. Normally he’d throw Peter at him first, to soften him up, but Ben was riding on blood lust, wanting to work the guy over personally. Unfortunately, someone had beaten him to it.
The man held a frozen slab of meat against the side of his face, nursing the mother of a swollen eye and nose. The way he protected his side suggested bruised ribs, his reason for taking his time. As he shifted to lean on the door, Ben recognized the semi-hunched walk, the symptom of very sore balls.
“You did this,” he accused Peter.
“No, asshole.” The tenant gave him a grumpy look. “He came by, took a look at me, said he needed to bring someone else by to gawk. Paid me twenty bucks to open the door again. Otherwise I’d have told him to fuck off. I’ve already lost a day’s work this week, and I ain’t no salaried suit. If I don’t show up, I don’t work.”
Ben blinked, looked at Peter again. “You didn’t do this.”
The corner of Peter’s lip curled. “Nope. Wanna guess who did?”
The bear looked between the two of them. “Oh fuck. You two know that crazy bitch?”
“Hey.” Ben took a step forward, but Peter put a light hand on his shoulder. It didn’t stop Ben from saying what was on his mind though. The guy’s hands were the size of tennis rackets. “You popped a woman in the face who weighs less than a buck thirty. Have you lost your mind? You could have just picked her up over your shoulder and tossed her off the property.”
Bear-guy looked at Peter incredulously, as if they were allies, then came back to Ben. “Sorry, is there something you missed about this steak on my face and the ice I’m having to put on my nuts? I could have picked up a porcupine easier than that bitch.”
“You should stop calling her bitch,” Peter said mildly, but with enough steel to warn the guy they weren’t buddies. Even so, Ben knew he was still here to be his leash. It rankled, because he was feeling a little thwarted and conflicted. He remembered overhearing Marcie in the break room, telling Janet she didn’t work out in the usual girl ways. She did MMA and strength training. At the time, he hadn’t given any more thought to that choice, assuming that, like most women, she did it to maintain her toned and entirely hot body, not for functional purposes. He could almost hear her reaction to that.
Once again, sexist pig assumption triumphs over reason and logic.
“Okay, okay.” The security employee held up his hand. “Hell, a little sympathy here. She cracked two of my ribs over a ream of papers.”
“No, because you punched her,” Peter said patiently. “She was defending herself.”
“Fine. Listen, I don’t want any crap for hitting her. Hell, if I brought assault charges, I’d not only lose my credibility, but a judge would look at the two of us and laugh me out of court. It doesn’t change the fact I’ve taken easier beatings when I was a bouncer at a strip bar. Fuck, guys, she was caught red-handed, going through our garbage.”
“If you throw something in a Dumpster in a public alley, there’s no guarantee of privacy,” Ben said automatically.
“Figures that you’re a lawyer.” The guy eyed Ben like he was a cockroach who’d crawled up on his mat. “Is that what this is about? You guys here to bring a suit against me or something?”
“No,” Peter said, deadpan. “My colleague is thinking of hiring her for his own security needs.”
The bear-guy relaxed considerably, grunted. “You’ll have to stand in line. My boss says if she ever wants a job, he’ll pay her twice what he’s paying me.”
* * * * *
Back out on the street, Ben stopped at a lightpost. Peter leaned on the other side of it, pulled out a candy bar and broke it in half, offering. Ben shook his head. He wanted a drink.
“Can’t wait to tell Dana about this,” Peter commented. “She’s been looking for a sparring partner more her size. Maybe I’ll ask that guy, since Marcie may be out of both our leagues.”
“Yeah.” She’d taken on a guy probably three times her size and come out on the winning end. Because she’d been level headed, prepared for what she faced. It was way different when an attack came from a blind spot, from someone she trusted. She’d let him tie her up, beat the living hell out of her, and came back asking for more, because she believed he’d never abuse the faith she put in him. The friendship she believed they’d shared. The fact they were family.
Yeah, she’d been kicking on a door he’d intended to keep shut, a place she had no business being, but for him to blame that on her made him more of a shit than he already knew he was. “I’m fucking going home.”
“No you aren’t.” Peter chewed on nougat and chocolate. “You just think you’ll ditch me if you tell me that.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“It’s girls’ night. Dana’s out late. I’m lonely.”
“Well, as much as I love being your substitute cuddle toy…” Ben drifted off. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “The girls were all at Cass’.”
“Yeah. They took care of her, man. She’s all right.” Now Peter’s expression changed from that neutral calm into something sharp and way more focused, though he kept his voice mild. “What the hell were you thinking?”
Nothing. He’d stopped thinking, which was why it had happened. If he closed his eyes, he saw her there again. Master L touching her, Frank undressing her. When he’d taken over, ironically he’d still been in control then. The practice of a lifetime had taken him through that session, every move choreographed, monitoring her stress level, her arousal, though something inside had been cold and numb. Then he’d hauled her outside and she’d hit him. That blow, the pain of it, and something had exploded. He’d just reacted, all that shit boiling up and over, all over Marcie.
Moving to the curb, he dropped down on it, to hell with whatever grime his custom tailored slacks were accumulating. “Fuck.”
He was suddenly really tired. Nothing and nobody to be pissed at, other than himself. Nowhere to go. Just an empty place, and an empty hole inside himself.
When his head dropped into his hands, he felt Peter approach. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
That large hand settled on his shoulder, making him scoff. “You think I really deserve to be comforted? I hurt her, Peter. Just like I told that asshole. She weighs half of what I do, and I threw her up against the car like a doll. There’s no coming back from this.”
“Yeah, there is. It’s just a hard road.”