Asher (6 page)

I’m okay. It’s just a nightmare.

At least some of it. My fingers search for the scar on thigh where metal sliced into my flesh, then move up to my lower belly, where they operated to fix the bleeding in my liver and kidney.

You’re fine
, I tell myself.
It’s over. You survived. You’re alive.

But the pressure in my chest won’t let up and I struggle to breathe through it. I haven’t had a panic attack in quite some time.

My fingers curl against the biggest scar, the one on my leg. Why did I dream of Ash? And those things he said in the dream...

Dread sours my mouth again. I have such a bad feeling. I’m not one to put stock in premonitions, but suddenly I fear for Ash. I need to make sure he’s alive, that he’s fine.

Shit.

I fumble for my cell on my nightstand and hit call on his number.

Like before, it rings and rings. He never picks up.

I glance at the time. Three in the morning. Of course he doesn’t pick up. He’s asleep. He probably turned the sound off.

The dread persists, slicking my palms. It’s the nightmare, I tell myself. The memories. The attack on campus. Maybe also the things Tessa said earlier, about Ash blaming himself.

Well, all he has to do is pick up the frigging phone and I’m ready to pour my heart out, tell him I don’t blame him. That I really, really like him, even though I’ve been giving him other signals. That I’ve missed him more than I thought possible, and I want...

I clench my fingers around the cell. I’m not sure what I want. Right now, I just wish for the horrible fear to go away and leave me in peace.

I try calling Ash one more time. Same result.

Sighing, I lie back down and try to get some sleep.

***

Next day, I limp out of the building to find Tessa’s Jeep parked outside.

Predictably her first words as I climb into her car, before I even close the door, are, “Did you call him?”

I roll my eyes. “My ankle still hurts, thanks for asking, Tess.”

“Well, did you?”

“Yeah,” I grumble. “He didn’t pick up.”

Tessa frowns. “That’s odd.”

“Is it?” I belt myself in, stretch my throbbing leg. “We barely know each other.”

“But you used to.”

“That was too long ago. Besides, I think he heard you say I hate him. I can understand if he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“I don’t think he’d believe that.” Her frown deepens as she sets off toward the campus. “Would he?”

“You know him better than I do,” I say, my chest tight, because the admission hurts.

“Not sure about that. In any case, the Ash I know, as much as I do, wouldn’t avoid your phone calls.”

“Well, he has.”

Now she looks worried, as if she was hoping I’d say I was lying and now she realizes I’m not. “That’s really weird.” She sighs. “You picked a guy with quite a lot of baggage.”

“Picked? I didn’t pick him.” She doesn’t know about the kiss, or my feelings. And with Ash avoiding me, it’s better that way.

“But you’ve wanted him for so long. I often wished you’d fallen in love with a normal, happy boy.”

“I’m not in love with Ash.”

My words sound hollow in my ears. Because I know I am. Have been all along.

And now I’ve been rejected once again. I’m not sure I can take it.

The nightmare still haunts me, though, and Tessa seems so concerned about Ash... It’s all so confusing. He appeared like a knight in shining armor, saved me, kissed me—then he’s gone once more, without a word of explanation about the past, about the fact he tossed me aside and ignored me those years in high school.

I often wondered how he turned from being my best friend into a violent, aggressive boy I wasn’t sure I knew.

And now things certainly aren’t any clearer in my mind.

Christ.
I really should distance myself from Ash, and this time for good. The Devlin family has only brought me heartache, and I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.

Chapter Six

Asher

Again I find myself on the streets. Only this time it’s real bad. And it’s fucking cold. Thank god I thought to grab my jacket as I left the house, at least.

The world spins in circles. My head’s fucked up, my balance shot. As I stagger around, I have to stop from time to time to puke my guts out. I’ve no idea where I’m going.

Concussion
, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers. I know the symptoms. I’ve had one before. I dimly know it can be dangerous. But I can’t force myself to think about it or decide which direction to take—and go where? To Zane’s?

Yeah, sure.

Even in my half-conscious state I know I won’t. Erin will have a fit, and Zane—what can he do for me anyway? What can anyone do?

It’s all my fault. For being a loser, for being so worthless my dad has turned to drinking again.

I’m not worth anyone’s concern.

I find myself outside a building, leaning against the wall, staring at people going in and out. The Bulldog. An underground fight club—run by the Chicago mafia. I fought there once. Down in the basement, in the huge cages. Marty works there, and I ask for him.

He lets me in and frowns at me. “Why’re you here, Asher? You can’t fight like this.”

What does he know about it?

That’s when I finally take stock. My right eye is swollen shut. My jaw is inflated like a balloon and hurts like hell. My ribs ache. My back hurts like a motherfucker.

Christ.

“Don’t you have a place to go?” he asks and I shake my head.

Marty rolls his eyes and mutters something about stupid people and exposure. He says we’re expecting snowfall in the night Then he shoves me into a storage room with a long bunk. Tells me to sleep there but be gone by morning.

I don’t need much convincing. Exhaustion drags me down. At some point Marty wakes me up and shoves a bottle of water into my hand, saying something about dehydration, and I drink, then fall back into sleep.

I don’t surface until Marty shakes me awake, telling me I’ve been there long enough, and throws me back out onto the street.

By the way, Marty’s right. It’s damn cold. Snow blankets every surface. Looks like it’s afternoon. Or is it morning? How long did I sleep?

I wander the town, trying to keep warm, but the nausea and dizziness linger. Finding a place to sit becomes my number one priority.

My feet take me to a familiar place. State Street. The homeless there know me. The Family, they call themselves, and I’m an adopted son. Not many are there now in winter, most of them staying in the shelters.

I curl on a bench, shivering. My face hurts, and my stomach is trying to push its way up my throat. I swallow hard, blinking. So damn cold. People pass, throwing me curious looks. I curl up tighter.

A cover falls on me, waking me up from a fitful sleep. It’s a heavy-duty sleeping bag that stinks of old sweat and humidity.

“Come, boy. Get up.”

The shrill voice belongs to an old woman with a nest of curly white hair. I can’t remember her from before. She keeps tugging on my arm and telling me to get up. And go where?

“You lost?” she asks. “Where do you wanna go?”

I close my eyes. A safe place. A place where I can see the lake, watch the water move and shimmer. “The lake. The park.”

I like looking at the calm water; always have. Makes me feel good. Though by now the lake must be freezing over—like me—white meshing with the blue. Utterly still. Asleep.

Just like me.

She tugs on my arm again, not giving up until I gather the dirty sleeping bag close and follow her unsteadily down the pedestrian street. “Where are we going?”

Snow flakes drift down from the sky, landing on my face, as she drags me to a shop entrance. Warm air blows from a ventilation duct and I huddle over it, drawing the sleeping bag around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say, but she’s already hurrying away.

Evening is falling. Protected from the icy wind and the snow, I settle for the coming night as best I can. I’m damn exhausted, and my head is killing me. People rush by, not looking at me. I huddle under the sleeping bag, frozen to the bone. It’s slowly sinking in that I’m not going back home.

Home.
The word irks me. I have no home. Never did. Just a house where I’m in danger of dying every time Dad starts drinking. How stupid to think I could change him.

And still the feeling of guilt lingers. Is it my fault? Is it because of me that he’s so angry? Because I’m never good enough?

My vision is beginning to clear, but my lower back is still agony and I have a headache from hell. If I don’t die from an internal injury, the concussion, or the cold, I’ll just probably starve to death, since I left my wallet at Dad’s.

Do I care? Not really. I’m drifting away and it feels peaceful.

That is, until hands begin shaking me so hard my teeth rattle. My back screams at me, as does my head, and I groan.

“Fucking hell, Ash, what happened to you?”

Zane. I shouldn’t be surprised. Who else would come looking for me?

In the flickering light of the shop sign, I see his face. The rings through his brow glint. I can tell by the curl of his lip that he’s pissed and I raise my fists reflexively to protect my sore head from any blow.

I’m that fucked.

But Zane doesn’t hit me. Of course he doesn’t. He sits down on his haunches and grunts, a horrified look in his eyes. His tongue toys with the barbell. “Holy shit, fucker, your face is black and blue. Your dad do this to you?”

Who does he think? Santa Claus?

Hey, it has to be almost Christmas, right? That strikes me as funny for some reason. I start to laugh and have to hold my aching ribs with one hand, gasping for breath.

That seems to snap Zane into action. He tugs on my arm until I sit up and steadies me when I sway. “Goddammit, man, that bastard did a real number on you this time, didn’t he?”

I have no words, and I’m nauseous again. Fuck, I thought that evil was over. “Not the first time,” I say, my words slurred. “Caught me by surprise. I thought he stopped drinking.” I moan, grabbing my head. “I’m not going back.”

God, I have to stop talking. Can’t lay all this on Zane. Not with what he has to deal with. I can handle myself.

He stands up and pulls me to my feet. Black spots swim in my vision and my knees buckle. Good thing he grabs me under the armpits.

Yeah, I can handle myself just fine.
Right.

“You bastard,” he hisses in my ear. “I told you to call me when you needed something, and this qualifies as needing something, got it?”

I’m too busy trying not to hurl to reply. My lack of answer doesn’t seem to faze him. Maybe he takes my silence as agreement. Maybe it is.

I’m past thinking and past caring.

“You’re coming with me.” He slings my arm over his shoulders and leads me to his car. I let him buckle me in. I’m exhausted just from crossing the street.

Boy is Erin gonna be pissed to see me. The thought sends me chuckling again, and ow, my ribs smart.

Zane keeps sending me strange looks as he drives. “You okay?”

It strikes me as funny he should ask at this point and I want to laugh harder. But then I realize he must be thinking I’ve gone off the deep end. I probably sound like a lunatic, laughing without a reason, and force myself to stop.

“You should have called me,” Zane is muttering under his breath. “You should have.... Damn, fucker, you could have died if you’d stayed out there tonight. What the hell were you thinking?”

I have no answer to that.

But Zane’s on a roll. “If you’d died, I wouldn’t have known. You should have called me. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No. I’m okay.”

“The hell you are. Let me get you checked out.”

“I said no.” We’ve had this discussion before and Zane knows my answer won’t change.

He tries a different tack. “Temperature’s going down to zero tonight. Don’t you know any better? Where’s your damn cell?”

My cell?
“Must have left it at home.”

“We’ll drive by and get it.”

“No!” I make a grab for his arm. “I said I’m not going back there, Z-man.”

I can’t put Dad in jail. But I also can’t fight him anymore. God knows I’ve tried—hell, he goads me all the time, leaves me no choice—but he’s too strong, too unpredictable, friendly one day and in a murderous mood the next. Ever since Mom fell sick, and since her death, he’s been so angry.

Anger runs in the family.

Zane is giving me a wide-eyed look. “Okay, we’re not going to your dad’s. Dammit. Where will you go?” He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth. “For now you’re staying with me, that goes without saying, fucker.”

But later... Yeah, I know. I let go of his arm and lean back in the seat, gritting my teeth. I have to find another solution, but I’m too damn tired and the heater blows warmth on my icy face, making me sleepy.

I’m dozing by the time he parks and comes around to pull me out of the car. Then I’m wide awake because the pain leaves me breathless. It’s as if blades are being shoved into my lower back and, I swear, my head’s about to split in half.

“Come on.” Zane frowns at me, then slings my arm over his shoulders once more, which is a good thing the way the street keeps tilting. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I follow him up the stairs, doing the best I can to keep up. Zane ushers me inside and drops me on his sofa. I groan and just sprawl there, wheezing. It’s so warm inside. I feel as if my skin is melting.

“Man, you’re fucked up,” he says and shakes his head in wonder as he shrugs off his jacket.

Yeah, you can say that.

He leaves and comes back with clothes—underwear, drawstring pants, a T-shirt. “You stink. Go shower. Towel’s on the rack.”

He’s merciless. He leaves me no choice, pulling me to my feet and helping me to the bathroom. “Want me to undress you?” he asks.

I give him the finger, and that seems to please him. Bastard. He makes kissy lips at me and leaves before I try to punch him in the face.

‘Try’ being the operative word. My balance is still shot to hell, and my stomach has been empty for a while. It sure doesn’t help with the dizziness.

I take a hot shower, hissing when the water hits plenty of tender spots. My whole back is a mass of pain. I can’t remember Dad hitting me so much but my memory is hazy. Or did he do it after I blacked out?

Shuddering at the thought, I rush through my cleaning ritual, shampooing my hair. The water swirls dark down the drain. I stare at it for a moment before I mentally shake myself and grab the towel. Securing it around my hips, I reach for the clothes.

It’s then I notice the banging on the bathroom door.

“What?” I throw it open and Zane steps inside, a frown on his face. He folds his colorfully inked arms over his chest.

“I’ve been knocking for a while” he says. “Are you deaf?”

I lean on the sink, not sure of my balance. “I don’t know, man. What do you need?”

“I was just checking you didn’t fall on your face and—” His eyes widen. “Fuck, Ash. Your back.”

Um yeah.
I haven’t taken a look in the mirror yet, but I turn now.

Shit.

The scars aren’t what shocks me, although I’m pretty sure they’re one of the things turning Zane’s face pale. He’s never seen them before. I still have some impressive purple welts striping my pale skin, a souvenir from Dad’s last violent fit.

No, what shocks me is the color of my lower back, a really deep black and blue.
Jesus Christ.

“There’s an urgent care not far from here,” Zane is saying, his voice hushed. “In fact, I’m taking you there right now. What if you ruptured something? Let me get my things and—”

“No.”

“Dammit, fucker, this is serious. I’ll just—”

I get in his face then. “If I go to the hospital and they see the damage, they’ll arrest my old man for parole violation. Leave it be, Z-man.”

“You’re eighteen now.” He sucks on the barbell studding his tongue, like he always does when he’s nervous. “You won’t be going into the foster system, so why do you care? Let him be locked up. Bastard deserves it.”

Foster care. That was my great fear after the accident, partly because of Zane. He told me some stuff from his own experience with the system that set my hair on end—and I have a feeling he hasn’t even told me everything that happened to him.

I’ve been lucky so far, in this at least. Dad received a suspended sentence and never went to jail. The fact he had no criminal record and Mom’s death had clearly affected him made the judge lenient.

But I can’t do it. I hate the bastard, but he’s the only family I have left. I guess I’m still hoping I’ll find a way to make him stop drinking one day. Help him find his old self.

“Ash.” Zane sounds exasperated. “Come on. Let me take you to the hospital.”