Free The Travelers by Chris Pavone

extremely private ceremony.
    “Well…”
    “
Tell
me.”
    “There was this woman. Australian.”
    “
Ooh
. I
love
Australian women. They live on the
other side of the world.
The only thing better would be Japanese.”
    “We were leaving the dinner—we were all staying at the same inn, this was very late—and she asked me—get this—she asked me what
room
I was staying in.”
    “No way. No
fucking
way. So what did you do?”
    “I’ll tell you, it was hard.”
    “I bet it was.”
    Will wonders if Malcolm will ever behave like a grown-up. A married man in his mid-forties with two schoolchildren, the editor of a famous magazine, dozens of people working for him. Shouldn’t this guy be an adult? Or is there no such thing? Maybe all men are permanently trapped in psychological adolescence. Some just do a better job than others of hiding it.
    “I can’t tell you, Mal, how attractive—how appealing in every single way—this woman was.”
    “Show me a picture.”
    “It’s not just that she was great-looking.” Will opens his phone to the web browser, a few pages already loaded, among them a search of Elle Hardwick images. “And smart and funny and entertaining, and that accent—”
    “I
love
that accent.”
    “—but it was clear that she wanted me.”
    Taps his screen, a picture of a browned blond bikini’d babe.
    “And her desire was just…irresistible. Or, rather, extremely difficult to resist.”
    Behind them, a train rumbles by on the Williamsburg Bridge, a loud angry growl in the bright blue sky, one of those crisp cloudless days that Will has long thought of as September 11 th weather, even if it’s on the other side of the summer solstice.
    Will hands over his phone. Malcolm looks down at the screen, then closes his eyes, and nods, as if finally comprehending a nugget of sage advice.
    “You,” Malcolm says, handing back the phone, “are a jackass. You know that?” Malcolm sighs. “We get only one life, Rhodes. It could end at any given moment—poof, over, dead. Don’t you want more?”
    “You know I do.”
    “Wouldn’t it be better—fairer—if there could be
more
before we die?
More
experiences.
More
women.
More
everything. If you could just go bed a beautiful Australian woman in France? What would be the harm?”
    They’ve covered this topic before.
    “So, Rhodes, are you telling me that you did?”
    “Did what?”
    “Resist?”
    Will takes a swig of water. “I always do.”
    Malcolm shakes his head.
    “But I’ll tell you,” Will says, “
not
having sex with that woman? That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
    —
    Chloe pulls open the iron-and-glass door of Ebbets Field. She glances around the standard-issue industrial chic—bare brick walls, Edison bulbs hanging from cloth-covered wires, brass-bladed fans, recycled floorboards and matte metalwork and dark gray paint. It’s the sort of studied place that she knows is going to feature small-batch bourbon and homemade bitters, with those really big ice cubes that stack one atop the other in a highball glass. Half the barstools are taken by dining-alone guys parsing the menu.
    “Hello there.” It’s a good-looking stubbled man, with a great big smile for her.
    “Oh my God, if it’s isn’t Dean Fowler. What in God’s name are you doing here?”
    “Will didn’t tell you?”
    “No.”
    “I’ll have you know that I own this place.”
    “Really? Since when do writers own restaurants?”
    “Well, co-own. Which is to say that I dumped a shitload of money into the build-out, and since opening night I haven’t seen anything except more outstretched hands. It turns out that a pretentious gastropub isn’t quite the fail-safe investment vehicle I’d been led to believe.” He gives Chloe a once-over. “You’re looking pretty damn good, Chloe Palmer. You know that?”
    “I’m married, Dean.” She gives the smallest grin she can manage, which isn’t that small. “I go by Rhodes now.”
    “Of course you do.