Undeniably Asher (The Colloway Brothers Book 2) (35 page)

“When I get back, I’m whisking you away to Mackinac Island for New Year’s Eve.”

“Okay.”

“I need you to suck me with your sinful mouth before I go, baby.”

“Now I’m the one corrupting you,” I laugh.

“No. You’re the one saving me, my sweet Alyse.”

His heartfelt words rip the breath from my lungs. He vacillates on a dime between wicked and sweet. It’s hard to keep up, but it’s exactly what I need, what I crave. It’s like he always knows precisely what to say at precisely the right moment to pull me in deeper, burrow further into my heart. As if he could.

He steps away, leaving a wake of fire where his lips have just been and makes quick work of his pants, dropping them to his knees right in front of anyone in the other office buildings who cares to look. Placing his palm against the cool glass, he leans forward, his pulsing, veiny cock jutting straight toward me, looking angry and in need of soothing.

Twist my arm. I guess I’ll volunteer.

Chapter 37

Alyse

“Deep breath in, deep breath out,” I mumble to myself as I pace the length of my temporary apartment, waiting for security to call. I hold my hands out. They’re shaking. I haven’t been able to eat a thing all day. Beck couldn’t meet last night, which would have been ideal, but Asher called this afternoon to say he won’t be home until Wednesday morning for sure, so I feel comfortable meeting Beck here.

The intercom buzzes, making me jump. “Ma’am, there is a Beck Mercado who says you’re expecting him.”

I press the talk button with a wobbly finger and answer with an equally wobbly voice. “Yes. It’s fine, Sam. Thanks.”

The next couple of minutes tick by like hours as I wait for the knock on my door, but when it comes, I stand there, frozen, unable to turn the knob. I think I may throw up.

“Alyse, you there?” a deep, low, disembodied voice comes from the other side of the thick wood. I couldn’t make myself call him so we just texted instead and now I know why. Jesus, it’s exactly as I remember. Low and gravelly. It makes my heart hurt and my stomach churn. I can’t respond. We stand there in silence. “Alyse, I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“No,” I whisper, still not able to make my hand grip the knob and twist, but unable to tell him to leave. I have to do this. I
need
to do this, as gut-wrenching as it’s going to be.

“We can’t do this through the door. Please. Open up, babe.”

I. SEE. RED.

Flinging the door open so hard it bounces off the wall, I spit, “Don’t you
dare
call me that. You lost the right to call me
anything
the day you let me believe you were dead.”

His eyes drop briefly before returning to mine. “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry. See? Wholly inadequate.

I turn and stalk into the living room, not caring if he follows, but when I hear the door close softly, I know he hasn’t left. I feel his presence as much now as the first day we met. I always thought Beck was larger than life. I think that’s why I fell in love with him so fast. He reminded me a lot of Asher in that regard.

Too bad I let myself fall for someone who was a complete enigma as well as a devious liar. That’s a mistake I haven’t made again, because I haven’t fallen for anyone in eight years until now. And Asher is neither of those things.

I stand in front of the window, watching the bright lights of Navy Pier, relishing the coolness I feel seeping into my skin and bones. I let it soak in and I store it away. I’ll need to be cold to get through this. I need to remain aloof and unaffected. But I’m about ten seconds away from a complete nuclear meltdown.

“I would offer you a drink, but since this isn’t a social call, I won’t.” In the glass’s reflection, I can see he’s taken a seat on the overstuffed chair facing me. Remorse is written over every feature, every action, the slump of his shoulders.

“That’s fine,” he mumbles.

“You have ten minutes,” I tell him, turning around to face him. I wrap my arms protectively around my middle. It physically hurts to look at him, to be this close. I want to run my fingers over his stubbly face as much as I want to slap it. I want to wrap my arms around him, holding him tight, to feel that he’s really sitting here in front of me. But I want to kick him out, telling him I never want to see his lying face again.

Jesus, he’s beautiful, and time has only made him even more so. He’s wearing a hunter-green sweater that fits his lean, muscular frame perfectly. The worn, dark denim on his lower half hugs him like a glove. His dark hair is shorter than I remember, but it looks good on him. I have to fight not to be drawn into his sparkling emerald eyes like I was from day one. And I’m a god-awful person, and girlfriend, to even think any of those things.

A fresh plunge of guilt injects itself into the toxic, roiling mixture that my emotions have now become.

“I don’t know where to start,” he begins quietly.

“Let’s see…how about we start with the fact that you tried to kill us when I told you we were going to have a baby.”

He cringes at my caustic words, but I don’t want to take them back. I’ve been in agony over this for over eight years. I thought I was over the anger and the hurt, but as I stand here looking at him, it’s fresh and raw and bleeding. I’m wrapped in it like a living, breathing entity and each second that ticks by it becomes stronger and more venomous.

“Alyse, it was an accident. I…can we not do this with you standing there, lording over me? This is hard enough.”

My bark is bitter and spiteful. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

I see a flash of anger, which he quickly hides. “Neither do you.” His words are slow and measured and full of secrets I’m no longer sure I want to hear.

I turn back toward the window, wishing I had poured myself a very healthy glass of bourbon before I let him in. For someone who doesn’t drink that stuff, it’s quickly become my numbness of choice this past week. I watch him rise and walk toward me with a slight limp in his step, our eyes connecting in the window.

When he stops behind me, I close my eyes, silently begging for him not to touch me, only I can’t force the words past my closed lips. If I feel the heat of his skin on mine, the cool and aloof I’m trying for will disintegrate into nothingness and all that will be left is raw emotion. I’m not sure I can get through these next few minutes with no protection.

“I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” I interrupt softly. “Please, anything but that.”

My eyes are still tightly shut when I feel his hands on my shoulders, gently turning me toward him. Tears sting and I refuse to open my lids even when he tips my chin up gently. I nervously chew on my lip, trying desperately to hold myself together.

“Alyse,” he coaxes. “Please look at me.”

I shake my head.

“Alyse.” He says my name with reverence and love, and when my watery eyes open and fall into his, I know he still feels those things. “I never wanted it to be like this.”

“Then why?” I choke, hanging onto my emotions by the very tips of my damn fingers. A traitorous tear leaks out, running down my cheek. I want to call it back. He’s undeserving of it.

He takes my hand, leading me to the couch and I let him. When he sits too close, I push myself back into the corner, getting as much distance between us as possible.

He looks resigned, nodding once at my action.

“I’m waiting,” I whisper, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, which are drawn up to my chin. I need to get as many things in front of my heart as possible.

“Before I start, I want you to know that I loved you, Alyse. I still lo—”

“Don’t say that. I don’t want to hear any of that.”

“Okay.” He sighs deeply, looking down at his hands. I’m trying to be callous, but the fact that I hurt him guts me more than I want to admit.

He lied to you, Alyse. Be strong.

“This may be hard for you to hear.”

“Stop it already!” I yell. “Just tell me the goddamn truth!”

“Your mom is married to my dad.”

That old adage,
the truth shall set you free,
pops into my mind. See…this is the thing about the truth. It does not set the
recipient
free; it sets the
teller
free. They can release their guilt because they’ve finally spoken it out loud. They get to let go of their burden, but then their burden becomes someone else’s. There’s a reason people keep secrets. It’s because they’re either shameful or they’ll hurt the person you want to protect most.

This couldn’t have hurt me more than if he’d held me down and cut out my heart while I watched.

“You’re my…” Gulp. “Stepbrother?”

“Sort of.”

“Jesus, Beck. What the actual fuck?” I scream, jumping off the couch. Pacing, my hands flail as I rage. “You either are or you aren’t. Did you know that when we were dating? Fucking?”

He winces at my vulgarity. “Yes.”

I can’t breathe. I stop in front of him, pointing to the door. “You need to leave.”

“No. You need to hear the rest of the story.”

“I don’t need to hear anymore.” My ears are ringing. “I think I’m going to faint,” I whisper before my knees buckle, but Beck is there, catching me before I can hit the ground.

He settles me back on the couch and heads to the kitchen. I hear a few cupboards open as the cotton and ringing in my ears starts to recede. He returns with a glass of water, which I greedily gulp.

“He’s my stepdad, actually.”

“What?”

“Can I get the story out this time without you freaking the fuck out?”

I glare at him, knowing full well I deserved that jab. “Yes.”

“You never talked about your mom, you know. It’s like you pretended she didn’t exist,” he says softly.

“She didn’t. She left me. Left her children, her husband.”

“She didn’t leave. Your father kicked her out. She was a drug addict, Alyse. You probably don’t even know that because you were so little. He couldn’t take it anymore. Back then your mom was not a good person. She slept around to get money for drugs. She had drug dealers in your house when you were home, putting you in danger. She sold anything she could get her hands on to get her next fix. For all your father’s faults, he did the right thing making her leave. It helped her get her life back together.”

“You’re lying,” I choke, unable to believe a word he just said. “I would have known if she was a drug addict. My father would have told us instead of just telling us she just walked out.”

Sympathy oozes from him. “It’s true, Alyse. Your father was trying to protect you and your sister. He still loved Elaine.”

“By telling us she abandoned us? How the fuck does that protect us?” I snarl.

He shrugs. I can tell he doesn’t really understand it either.

“I don’t understand any of this.”

“Your mom got better,” he continues. He’s now holding my hand. I let him, needing the comfort, human touch. Gravity. “It took her a few years, but she got herself into a program and got clean, but by then your father was the one in trouble with the gambling. She tried to come back and get you girls, but he fought her. By then he was a changed man, bitter. She threatened to take him to court to get custody and he said she’d never win because of her drug history. He was probably right, but who knows.”

I swallow down the bile that’s burning my esophagus. For the second time in little more than a week, everything I’ve always thought to be true is a lie. My head is literally buzzing.

“I need a drink.” Standing on unsteady legs, I head into the kitchen, grab the Woodford Reserve sitting on the counter and pour myself a highball glass full. Leaning on the counter for support, I take a couple large gulps and several deep breaths.

But the dam that I’ve been able to successfully keep my tears behind since Beck walked through that door cracks and the first sob involuntarily breaks free as I process his words.

My mom didn’t leave me.

She was kicked out.

She tried to come back.

My father wouldn’t let her.

My entire life could have been different. It could have been happy. Carefree. Maybe I wouldn’t be this fucked-up person who was constantly afraid of getting hurt, so she kept everyone out instead.

My body heaves and shakes and suddenly I’m engulfed in Beck’s arms. He’s whispering, “It’s okay,” over and over, but it’s not okay. It’s not. And I don’t know how to make it okay. I don’t know how I’m supposed to forgive everything that’s been done to me.

After my sobs subside, he leads me back into the living room and settles me on the couch, drink in hand. I stare down into the caramel-colored liquid trying to form all I’ve heard into some sort of shape that makes sense. I fail.

“Where do you fit into this? It wasn’t a coincidence we met, was it?”

“No,” he replies softly.

I cry, not even trying to stop it now. My heart is breaking. My soul, crushed.

“My mom married Roberto Mercado when I was just nine months old, but she died of breast cancer only five years later. Roberto adopted me, raising me as his own. Your mom met my stepfather during his campaign for city councilman in Dearborn. She was a volunteer. By then she was recovering and they fell in love and were married when I was fourteen. She wanted you and Livia back, but my father’s political career was taking off. He had moved quickly from councilman to mayor and had his sights set on state senator. They were trying hard to keep Elaine’s drug addiction under wraps and your father threatened to go to the press if she pursued custody, so she didn’t.”