Page 39 of The Devil You Know

And Webber, if asked, will tell them we flirted all night—that outside the bar, I stood close to him while we discussed going to his apartment, and one thing led to another. He’ll imply I wasn’t unwilling at all, but am simply someone who later had regrets, and they’ll believe him, instantly, because they’ll have stood in his shoes. Because at some point, every man thinks he’s navigating the “mixed signals” a woman is sending out, even when they’re not mixed at all.

I guess none of that matters now, however. What matters is getting Ben out of trouble, which requires a strategy.

Even if they think I’m full of shit, and they clearly do, they’re both from that generation where men defended their womenfolk—probably from the Iroquois, or perhaps the British Army during the Revolutionary War—so they’ll respect his decision to protect the gentler sex. “Ben saw Webber grab me and saw how upset I was,” I tell them. “He risked his job to defend me. I’m sure you both can appreciate how difficult the decision must have been for him.”

They nod. “He’s a good man,” says Fields approvingly. I’d be irritated by how easily they forgive their favorite partner if it wasn’t the outcome I was hoping for.

“A stand-up guy,” adds McGovern. “Good for him.”

Jesus Christ.

I force a smile. “Great,” I say. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

“I understand that you’re upset, but it would help if you could make things right with Webber,” says Fields. “Persuade him not to press charges.”

I stiffen. They want me to call the guy who assaulted me and ask for a favor, for fuck’s sake. Fields is as well-connected as anyone in LA and could handle all this with a few well-placed words, but he wants me to do it. He’s punishing me because he sees this incident as a problem I created, what with my female tendency to misconstrue things.

“Absolutely,” I reply through gritted teeth. “I’ll call him right now.”

I walk slowly back to my office. Webber won’t be satisfied with an apology, if I’m even capable of one. He got beaten up in public and is probably humiliated and lashing out. The only thing that will stop him in his tracks, at this point, is fear.

I spend a few minutes at my desk, rehearsing what I will say, which will involve some creative storytelling on my part. Webber answers on the first ring, as if he was expecting me. “Your boyfriend attacked me,” he says. “So this had better be worth my time.”

“I went to the ER the night you grabbed my wrist,” I reply. The trick, when lying, is to make yourself really believe it’s true. Right now, I can almost remember the hospital, late at night, fluorescent lights overhead, the smell of bleach. “The bruising is documented. I discussed the incident with several people at the time—the doctor treating my injuries was very adamant about me reporting the attack to the police. Drop the charges against Ben or I file for assault.”

“You think you can threaten me, you fucking bitch?” he demands. “You’ve got no proof.”

“I’m pretty sure I just told you I have proof, and I guarantee there was a camera that caught what you did outside the bar. But if you want to go up against me in court, let’s go. This kind of case is how I make my living. I will clear my goddamn schedule.”

He hangs up, which is when I stare at my shaking hands and admit, for the first time, how much this matters to me. That I didn’t go running to Fields’ office because it was the right thing to do. I did it because I don’t want to work here without Ben Tate.

I thought his presence at FMG was a glaring, obnoxious light.

But maybe it was simply the only bright spot in my day.

By eight-thirty, I’m too edgy and amped-up to work. I know I need to thank Ben, but it’s awkward, and my feelings at present are confused and chaotic, which leads me to avoid them entirely.

I’m running through a list of Ben’s greatest hits, trying to continue disliking him, trying to justify the fact that I haven’t said a word to him all day.

He stole my client.

He said “I told you you’d beg”.

But none of it holds the sting it once did, and I’m not sure how to keep my boundaries in place without that. Finally, I spring from my chair and begin packing to leave. Maybe I’ll go talk to him, but more likely I’ll sneak away like a coward. He’ll be in Charlotte next week…if I just avoid him entirely, perhaps things will be normal by the time he gets back.

I’ve slung the bag over my shoulder and am about to head out when Ben appears, looming in the frame of my door, looking at me without an ounce of his trademark certainty.

My stomach ties itself into a knot so tight it hurts. “Did Webber drop the charges?” I blurt out.

His mouth moves, a passing suggestion of pleasure. “He did.” He walks into the office, closing the door behind him. The sound it makes seems to echo through the room. “I thought you might have had something to do with it.”

I stare at my shoes before I look up to meet his eyes. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “For what you did. You didn’t need to, but…I’m glad.”

He’s moved closer since we began talking. “I’m so sorry that happened. I wish you’d told me.”

I fidget, hoisting the bag farther onto my shoulder. “We don’t tell each other things like that.”

His brows draw together, as if he is considering his next words. “Maybe we should start.” He’s close enough now for me to see the pale bruise under his eye. He got into an actual fistfight on my behalf, in public. I’m drawn to that small mark on his cheek, as if it has value, as if it means more to me than all my possessions combined.