He puts his forehead against mine. We stay like that for a while. His breath on my face. My hand on the back of his neck.
“Okay,” he says after a while. “Now that we’ve settled everything, we’re going downstairs.”
“Tonight?”
“Right now. The bar is open. I have to go back to Miami tomorrow for work. I’m not waiting until my next visit to test this out. We’re going downstairs and sitting in the middle of that bar.” He grabs my face with both hands and gives me a quick kiss. “And you’re holding my hand, Officer Weaver.”
“It’s a Monday night,” I tell him. “It won’t be busy, but I would be honored to hold your hand anywhere, anytime.”
“I don’t care if it’s empty. One person who sees us is enough. We start with slow Mondays and we never stop. Let’s go.”
We take the elevator down. The bar is the typical Monday-night thin. A handful of regulars at the pool table. A few customers at the bar.
Sheila watches us come out of the elevator and cross the room. I wheel to the center of the floor where the light hits, where anyone who walks to the bar or the bathroom passes within arm’s reach.
Benji pulls out a chair and sits. I wheel up across from him, the table between us, the bar around us. His hand goes on the table, palm up. I put my hand in his. Our fingers lace together on the wood. On top of the table, where everyone can see.
Tex appears from the kitchen. He stands behind the bar with his arms crossed and looks at us — at our table in thecenter, at our hands together. He catches my eye. He nods once.
The jukebox shifts to something slow. A guitar and a voice that doesn’t try too hard. Benji stands up. He walks around the table and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Let’s dance,” he says. “You can hold my hand while I sway. That counts as dancing.”
“I could tell you that I’d be dancing with you if I wasn’t in this wheelchair, but I’d be lying,” I say. “I’ve never been able to dance worth a shit.”
“I already suspected that about you,” he says with a grin. “Don’t worry, I’ll dance for both of us.”
The music is playing, his body is moving and nobody is watching. Or maybe everybody is watching and it doesn’t matter because the man beside me is the only thing that matters.
After everything — the bullet, the chair, the hiding, the party, the beach, the silence — holding Benji’s hand in a room full of people is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
Chapter 44: Benji
The last note of the song hangs in the air before the jukebox clicks and goes silent. I lean down with my mouth close to his ear. “You passed the test, Officer Weaver. I want you inside me tonight. How much time do you need?”
His hand tightens on mine. He doesn’t hesitate. Not even a beat. “Three minutes,” he says. “Only long enough to get upstairs.”
The implication lands and I pull back to look at his face. He took the pill before we came downstairs to the bar. Before the hand-holding, before the dancing, before he knew any of this was going to happen. He took it because he hoped I’d forgive him.
“Look at the confidence on you,” I say. “The absolute swagger. You took it before you even knew if I was coming back upstairs with you.”
“I had an optimistic feeling.”
“You planned for sex on the off chance I’d forgive you?”
“I planned for every scenario. That’s what cops do.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “And optimism is a life strategy.”
I stare at him.Unbelievable. He planned for the best outcome without saying a word.
“Your confidence is a huge turn-on,” I tell him. “I love it. Now put your hands in your lap and let Benji take the wheel. You’ve been independent all day. You drove yourself to work.You drove me here. You’re very impressive. But right now, I’m in a damn hurry and I’m driving.”
I step behind the wheelchair before he can argue. My hands close around the push handles and I shove. The chair lurches forward and Mickey’s hands fly to his armrests.
“Benji, what the hell—”
“No time for questions!” I’m pushing him across the bar floor at a speed that is not appropriate for an indoor space. The wheels hum on the hardwood. A regular at the pool table looks up from his shot and watches a man in eyeliner sprint a wheelchair past him toward the elevator.
“Goodnight, Sheila!” I call out without slowing down.
