He scraped his hand through his hair. “Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.”
Garrett chuckled, more like a cackle, and Ben glared at him. “Cass said this would happen.”
“You and Cass were talking about me?” he fumed.
“Don’t be so conceited. We talk about other things. The weather, gallery openings, if the Atlantics will win the pennant,but yes. I agree that this English Rose of yours could be good for you. Abby is ready to send out wedding invitations.”
Ben pinched the bridge of his nose. “For fuck’s sake, we’re not—it’s not like that, at all. I ruined everything by acting like an ass.”
“How was what you did a departure from your typical behavior?”
He snarled, but Garrett snickered.
“What did you do?”
A fresh wave of guilt washed over him. “She makes me… talk about myself.”
Garrett clapped his palm to his chest and gasped. “How dreadful,” he deadpanned.
“We agreed to keep things between us purely physical.” Ben sighed. How quickly that line had been crossed.
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
Ben recoiled slightly, irritated by his friend’s ability to see past his defenses. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, you don’t do anything half-hearted. Do you really believe you could keep her at a distance?”
No. “Of course.”
Garrett pressed his mouth into a thin line and pushed to his feet. “Well, I predict absolutely nothing will go wrong with your curing-my-broken-heart-with-meaningless-sex plan. Carry on.”
“You’re reading way too much into this—”
“I tend to do that.” Garrett picked up Ben’s discarded jacket and tossed it into his hands. “Get overly involved in elaborate schemes to see my friends happy. Put on your coat, we’re getting a drink.”
Ben rolled his eyes, feeling like a petulant child and more than a little perturbed by his friends’ meddling. “I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired. And Colleen just hired three more servers you recommended to her, so we should show our support.”
The work did not end when the tenants left his building. They needed employment, safe living situations, books and shoes for their children when times got lean. The problems never seemed to ebb, only grew in magnitude. Was he making any difference at all, or was all his work simply screaming into the wind?
“Fine.” Ben shrugged the jacket over his shoulders, ignoring the triumphant look on Garrett’s face. “Just one drink.”
The Pearl should have been indistinguishable from the myriad bars that lined Furman Street. The degenerates who wandered off the docks separating Brooklyn Heights from the river needed a place to forget the labors from the day, and more than enough establishments were eager to provide. Colleen Flanagan’s pub was difficult to spot, the simple painted sign nailed above the immaculately clean marble stoop and the brilliant yellow door the only hint of its presence.
Colleen had arrived at 138 Willow with two children, three broken teeth, and a barrel of rage. When her husband had grown bored with throwing punches her way, the man turned to their oldest son. He barely brought his fist back before she’d clobbered him with a frying pan and packed up while her husband lay moaning on the stained carpet.
Now that man lived somewhere in New Jersey, and Colleen and her children dwelled in an apartment above the bar she purchased last year. Mr. Flanagan had been a lucky man to escape with a bump to his head; Colleen was a bruiser of a woman, her build a clear nod to what must be Viking ancestors. Her flame-red curls brushed the top of the doorframe when she emerged from the kitchen at Ben’s entry as her face split into a wide smile. “Ben!” she called, slinging a towel over her shoulder. “I’ll see if I can find you a seat.”
A tall order, given the state of the pub. Colleen’s clientele was carefully cultivated; women had first pick of the stools, welcome to imbibe in an environment where they were to be treated with the utmost respect. If Colleen caught a whiff of improper behavior, the wrongdoer was unceremoniously tossed into the street—by Colleen herself. Ben had helped her turn the dilapidated former restaurant into a bright and cheerful Irish pub, drawing a blend of Brooklyn’s more affluent residents and Irish immigrants eager for a taste of nostalgia.
“No need,” Ben called in return. Colleen didn’t need his business, and he had no intention of staying long enough to sit.
“Your friend is already in the back.” Colleen winked as she passed him a pint.
Garrett snorted. “Ben doesn’t have friends.”
“He’ll remember this one. Theprettyone.” She winked again and Ben fumbled with his glass, spilling half the beer over the bar as his stomach plummeted to his knees. Colleen wiped it up and smirked as he turned away, fuming as he left Garrett behind to chuckle with the bartender.
