Chapter 19 Asher
Chapter nineteen
Asher
“Do you like her?”
The question comes out of left field so fast I almost forget I’m driving.
We’re rolling toward school after my night shift, doing that dance where you blink a little too long and tell your own eyelids to get it together.
Night rotation always hurts more on day two.
The streets are early-morning empty—sprinklers ticking, a dog trotting with a leash in its mouth like it fired its owner.
“Like who?” I say, stalling for time and caffeine I don’t have.
“Jasmine,” Brick says, like there was a multiple-choice and he picked the only answer.
My foot twitches on the brake. “What are you talking about?”
“I was asking if you like her, and you didn’t answer. Do you not like her?”
His question ricochets around my very tired skull. I give myself a beat. The answer settled last night, right after the kiss—clean, bright, the kind of jolt that pulled me through a whole shift better than bad coffee.
I do like Jasmine.
“I think I do, yeah,” I say. I’ve never lied to my son and I’m not starting with this.
He grins. “I like her too. She’s nice and she knows how to talk to you.”
“Knows how to keep me on my toes, you mean,” I say, turning into the lot. And I mean it. Jasmine’s a live wire—stubborn in a way that makes you want to be better just to keep up.
“Do you want to marry her?” he asks, same tone he uses to ask for more syrup.
That one knocks the wind out of me, plain and simple.
I don’t let it show. I pull into our usual spot and look at him with the biggest dad-smile I can manage. “Looks like we’re here.”
He slides out, slings his backpack over one shoulder, then pauses. “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re allowed to be happy.”
He says it like he’s older than both of us and then he’s gone—folded into the swarm of kids and backpacks and whatever passes for cologne in the fifth grade. He turns at the door, gives me a quick wave. I wave back and sit there, hands on the wheel, listening to the engine tick.
Allowed to be happy.
I pull out of the lot and aim for home, bargaining with my brain.
Fifteen minutes. Just keep it together for fifteen, then collapse.
I try not to think about her; that never works.
Every thought I push aside brings two more.
What if she decides it was a mistake? What if I imagined that look in her eyes?
Fourteen minutes, the dash says. Great.
On impulse I detour two streets and idle in front of Scotty’s, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment. The OPEN sign blinks. I don’t go in. Not today. I settle for staring at my own tired reflection in the glass, then roll on.
***
The bullpen is noisy in that oddly gentle Golden Heights way—phones chirping, chairs rolling, the coffee machine making a sound like a small jet achieving liftoff.
I popped in after a nap to catch the afternoon briefing and write up a report I’ve been avoiding.
The whiteboard is divided into neat boxes: PETTY THEFTS, TRAFFIC, ANIMAL COMPLAINTS.
Someone’s drawn a ferret wearing a cape next to “FOUND: ferret answering to ‘Pablo.’”
Deputy Otto stands by his desk in socks, holding his boots like they insulted him. “I swear the new polish is a crime against feet,” he tells anyone listening. “We should make an arrest.”
Sergeant Ruiz sets a box of donuts beside the coffee and flips open the lid like he’s unveiling evidence. “No jelly. We’re cutting back,” he announces. A chorus of groans. Marla from dispatch leans in the doorway with her headset crooked and a notepad at the ready.
“Morning, sunshine,” David says as I slide into my chair. He taps the stack in the middle. “You got three pinks.”
Pinks are impulse complaints - noise, neighbor drama, chickens on the wrong lawn. I flip the top one. “Loose goat?”
“Name’s Susan,” Marla says. “Owner says ‘Susan is particular.’”
Sergeant Ruiz points his marker at me. “Two things. One, your dashcam’s firmware update is still pending. Don’t drive into a sinkhole. Two, we’re getting another round of prank 9-1-1s this week. Teen trend, apparently.” He draws air quotes around “trend.”
“Because, of course,” I say. The coffee is brutal and effective.
David wiggles his eyebrows. “And three—purely as a friend—did you know the Scotty’s punch card in your wallet has seven stamps? Bold, my man.”
“Maybe I like scones,” I say, taking a donut-that-isn’t-jelly. He grins like a hyena. Someone wheezes a laugh. The whiteboard ferret judges me silently.
Marla taps her headset. “Heads up—be on your toes for SWATTING calls. The last one was a ‘bear in a bathtub.’ Turned out to be a very hairy man named Walt.”
“Thanks for that image,” I say. The room chuckles. It feels good, normal. For a minute I can pretend I’m just a guy with a job, a son, and not in a growing storm with Harold Swanson’s face on the horizon.
We roll through briefing. By the end, I’ve got a list: patrol swing on Brime and Bay, check the new traffic sign on Peyton, swing past Baxter to reassure a lady who’s convinced her ex moved into her shed (fingers crossed, raccoons again).
I sign the clipboard, finish the coffee, and remind myself not to text Jasmine from the squad car like a teenager.
***
“I’m leaving,” she says that evening.
We’re anchored at opposite ends of the kitchen counter; the sink is running over with a pile of dishes, the smell of garlic and red pepper clinging to the air from my ill-advised attempt at chili.
Brick’s upstairs, face-planted into his pillow after basketball club.
The house has that humming, warm, safe sound I’ve been trying to build for him since Miami.
“What?” I ask, thrown.
“I can’t do this anymore. Hiding. Peeking through blinds with my heart in my mouth. That’s not me, Asher. I need to leave for my sanity before I turn into somebody I don’t recognize.”
“Did I do something? Did Brick?” The questions sprint out.
“This isn’t about you or Brick.”
“Is this about the—” I can’t believe I’m saying this like I’m in a bad decades-old movie— “the kiss?”
Silence expands between us until I feel ridiculous standing in it. I put my hands on the counter so she won’t see them shake.
“If this is about the kiss,” I say, voice uneven, “I… I need you to know that I—”
Her eyes lift and hold me. “You what?”
“I want more.” It comes out quieter than I expect. “I’m in love with you, Jasmine. Honestly, I think I’ve been in love with you for a while, because you’ve had an effect on me from the start.”
Something in her face softens. It’s there. I didn’t imagine it. So, I keep going, because I’m an idiot but also because it’s the truth.
“I want to keep kissing you. I don’t want you to leave. It’s dangerous out there. The only reason Harold’s guys haven’t tried here is because of the security measures I put in place. Please. You don’t have to go.”
Another silence, louder. I can hear the refrigerator click on, the neighbor’s sprinkler start up.
“Look…” she says finally, careful. “I— I need some time to think about this.”
It isn’t no. But it isn’t the thing my raw, hopeful heart wanted either.
I nod, because that’s what adults do. We nod and then we go to work.
The evening went by, but I don’t recall breathing much.
What does she want to think about? Was my confession too much?
Too soon? Too whatever? I lay awake thinking until my eyes betray me and close.
***
The next morning, I decided to remain on patrol duty instead of desk work.
I want to keep my eyes on the town. “Dispatch, 211 in progress at 7th and Clarkson.” The cruiser’s siren splits the afternoon air.
Robbery call—Yellow Stones, the little jewelry store a few blocks from Scotty’s.
I’m the closest unit. “En route,” I say.
On the radio, Marla is a metronome. “Copy. Be advised, we’ve had three prank calls this week. Caller ID blocked.”
David cuts in: “2-1-7 is on Peyton with a stalled hay truck. Literally made of hay. Send help.”
Another voice: “We got a chicken versus school bus situation on Mill. Chicken winning.”
Small town, big noise.
Yellow Stones Jewelry usually runs like a bank—double locks, cameras, an owner who looks like she sleeps on the showroom floor.
The minute I see the storefront, the itch flares between my shoulders.
No broken glass. No panicked customers. I park across the street and kill the siren, let the engine idle low.
I think, stupidly, about calling Jasmine. About saying, Don’t hate me for saying it. Just sit with it. About asking, Are you safe? Instead, I breathe, count four in, four out, and get out of the car.
Inside, the A/C hits like a slap. The cases gleam. A woman in her forties at the register—sharp suit, sharper gaze—goes wider-eyed when she sees the uniform.
“Afternoon, ma’am. Officer Vaughn. We received a 9-1-1 call about a robbery in progress. Is that correct?”
She looks at my holster, back at me. “No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Pretty sure if there was a robbery, I’d notice,” she says, bone-dry. “The only thing being robbed here is my patience with diamond prices.”
I give a tight nod, thumb the door open, and step back into the heat.
“Dispatch, negative on Yellow Stones. No 211. Likely a prank,” I report, popping the patrol car door.
I know I’m cornered before I’m even fully seated.
A man fills the passenger window and aims a pistol at my cheekbone, cold and indifferent. He slips into the passenger seat.
“Drive,” he says.
Of course.
I put the cruiser in gear. In the side mirror, two more men melt up from the blind spot and slip into the back. The smell of leather and gun oil and stale cigarettes floods the cabin. The hair on my arms stand up, just like my inner defense mechanisms.