Chapter 11 #2
Tamara’s sobs stop abruptly as she pulls a tissue from her purse and composes herself. “Thank you.”
Then the bitch walks off.
Jesus Christ, I need a drink.
Back in the salon, I can’t seem to focus on holding a conversation, and Bonnie notices, picking up the slack for me.
By the time one o’clock hits, I’m utterly spent, and I leave the salon, heading home, wishing I wasn’t hoping to run into Asher. The one thing I want but can’t have. When I find no sign of him or his bike, I’m met with disappointment and hate myself for feeling that way.
I shouldn’t want him.
My house is too lonely now that the boys have left for university. It’s been nice having Asher here, even if his presence confuses me.
I absentmindedly climb the stairs, going into Jude’s bedroom.
I do this sort of thing sometimes. Go into their room and sit on their bed and… cry.
I miss them so much, but I need to let them spread their wings, so I try not to call them too much or be a helicopter mum, hoping that one day soon they will need me, or simply miss me, and come home for a hug.
Now, as I sit in Jude’s room, my eyes glass over, but no tears fall. Sometimes their absence feels like they are dead. Vanished from this world. But the pile of Ronan’s things in here now is a reminder that they were home earlier this week, moving their best mate in.
Getting up from Jude’s bed, I leave his room, closing the door behind me, coming face to face with the doorway to Ronan’s… Asher’s room.
The door is wide open, so I step in quietly, taking a peek.
It looks different. Mainly because where there were posters of naked women before, there are now pencil and charcoal sketches. I move through the room, examining the drawings.
They are remarkable. For such simple sketches, they hold so much power and emotion. The detail in each one tells the story.
A hand wrapped around a wrist.
A head buried between parted thighs.
A hand inserting a dildo…
Shit.
Holy shit.
These sketches are… of me.
And him.
Asher.
Our faces aren’t in them, but these are things we have done together. Recently.
Glancing around the room, I spot a sketchbook on the desk, and I move over to it, flipping it open with a single finger.
Oh my…
There’s a sketch of me. I’m asleep… and naked.
Oh wow, I look so beautiful in it. I don’t think I look like this when I glance in the mirror, but is this how he sees me?
Like a goddess?
The fact that I’m naked in it has me curious. Did he draw this from his imagination, or did he creep into my room?
My cheeks flush hot at the thought of him sneaking in without me knowing, his eyes raking over every inch of me on display while I sleep.
I quickly shut the sketchbook, my mind racing, trying to figure out how I feel about this. About him.
Panicked, I decide I need to get the hell out of my house before Asher returns. There’s only one thing that will happen if he shows up right now, and it’s going to involve a lot of naked skin.
Rushing back downstairs to my bedroom, I call Rose, a fellow vigilante, and we make plans to meet for a drink or ten. I change into a black skirt with a slit up the side, and a green lace sleeveless top before slipping on my black heels and rushing out to the taxi I called.
By the time Rose arrives at the Royal Hotel, I’m three drinks in.
“So what’s going on with you, my darling?” she asks after ordering herself a drink. Her French accent always takes me by surprise. She sounds so exotic.
“Nothing. Just need a girls’ night,” I lie, and she narrows her eyes.
“A girls’ night that involves you and me naked?” She beams, and I roll my eyes.
“Would you stop trying to get in my pants? I’ve told you a thousand times that I like dick.”
Rose giggles. “Who doesn’t? It is a delicacy, no?”
Sometimes I wish I was into girls. Rose would be the perfect choice. Not only is she stunning with her short platinum blonde hair and green eyes, but she’s funny. I always have so much fun with her.
Life with her would be simple, especially since I wouldn’t have to lie about my side hustle. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to after each kill. But I’m not a simple kind of woman, and I really have no interest in sex with a vagina.
“Who has you so hot and bothered, darling?” she asks and I cave.
Kind of.
“I’ve met someone. But he’s kind of off limits, and I’m struggling to hold myself back.”
“Ooh-la-la. The best kind of off limits.” She leans in. “Tell me. Is he thirsty for you, too?”
I blush as I nod, feeling ridiculous that I’m even reacting this way.
Maybe it’s the alcohol.
“Yes, he’s very thirsty for me, which is making it very hard to refuse him.”
Laughing, Rose claps her hands together in glee. “Wonderful. This is delicious, darling. But why is he off limits?”
“Ahhh.”
Can I tell her?
Shit, no. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell anyone.
It’s wrong.
Forbidden… right?
“It’s just… complicated,” I say instead. “We are too different. It just won’t work.”
“Oh, darling. You need to stop thinking of him as a relationship and just fuck him. Have a little mischief. There are no rules against having fun, Lily.”
Shit. That’s not what I want to hear. She makes it sound okay, and it’s not, even though it feels right when I give in.
“It’s not that simple.” I shake my head, taking another long sip of my drink.
Leaning forward again, Rose grips my shoulder and looks me dead in the eye. “Maybe you’re making it more complicated than it needs to be, no?”
“Maybe.” I sigh, my shoulders dropping.
“Well, since I don’t like sausage…” She waves a dismissive hand. “And you’re not going to give me access to your sweet little le minou, let’s talk about something else.” Rose grins, and I nod.
This is exactly what I like about Rose. She’s good at distracting.
We talk in hushed tones about the underworld of England for a bit. I update Rose on the envelopes that keep coming each week, and we brainstorm for a while on who they could be from. In the end, we are no closer to finding a suspect.
I don’t tell her about the text messages though, since she doesn’t know I’m an Australian Mafia Princess in hiding.
Our conversation moves on to my recent kill, Omar Bertini. Rose raises the question of the girls in the house divulging my identity because they saw my face. That’s all they know of me, but they could give a good description to a sketch artist and find me through facial recognition software.
I don’t think the girls will turn me in, but even if they did, the police need more evidence than that.
But now that Rose has brought up a sketch artist, I can’t stop thinking about Asher and the sketches he has in his room.
Shit.
All I want to do is go home to him. But that’s wrong. So wrong.
Rose starts chatting with a group of people, and a couple of the guys try to include me, but I’m not interested in them, so I say my goodbyes and get a taxi home.
When I walk in the front door, I hear the TV on in the other room, and my chest fills with a swarm of butterflies.
Asher is home.
Straightening my shoulders, I run my fingers through the ends of my hair, letting the buzz of alcohol take over.
Walking forward, my heels click loudly on the floorboards as I enter the open living room, only to stop short…
The blonde slag from the other night is here again.
She’s sitting with Asher on the couch, a blanket over their legs as they watch a movie.
You can’t kill her.
You can’t kill her.
You can’t kill her.
Fuck it. I really want to kill her.
The girl sits taller when she sees me, shooting me a friendly smile as she waves.
“Hi. We didn’t get to meet properly the other night.”
I don’t smile back, my eyes shifting to Asher who looks smug as hell as he lounges back on the couch like a spoiled king on his throne, the skank next to him one of his harem.
Unfortunately for Asher, that throne is mine, and I am the fucking queen.
I approach the two of them, and Asher sits a little taller while the blonde slag just flashes her teeth and flutters her fake lashes.
Bending, I grip the blanket, ripping it off their laps quickly, satisfied when I hear slagette gasp.
Did she ever tell me her name?
A quick assessment shows me that Asher and the slag weren’t touching under the blanket. In fact, there’s a decent gap between them, so I spin and plant my arse in the space, laying the blanket back over our laps.
“Oh,” slagette gasps again, shifting over to give me more room, but Asher doesn’t fucking move. No, he stays right there with his leg searing a trail against mine.
I don’t intend on moving either.
“What are we watching?” I ask, and before the slag gets a chance to speak, I recognise the movie. “Oh, I’ve seen this one. He dies in the end. It’s not really a romance. More like a love story. There’s no happily ever after.”
Slagette huffs, bouncing in her seat next to me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well, now it’s ruined.”
The faint chuckle from Asher has me smirking, and I relax back into the soft pillow top cushions to watch the movie.
When Asher’s hand slides through the slit in my skirt to grip my thigh under the blanket, I don’t push it away.
Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing through my veins, or maybe I’m territorial, but I simply don’t care if slagette catches me with Asher’s hand on my bare thigh.
Instead, I let his warmth seep into me, and before I can stop myself, I rest my head on his shoulder and settle against him like he’s all mine.