Chapter Thirty-Three #2
She gave him a once-over, the kind that says the verdict was in before the trial even started. “You’ve been acting moodier than usual the whole night. I’m not gonna ask why.”
He gave her a look over the rim of his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching. Sometimes he really hated that she could read him so easily. “Thoughtful as ever.”
As he stood there, drink cool in his palm, cigarette burn steady between his fingers, a faint prickle threaded the nape of his neck.
Low at first, almost imagined. He turned and let his gaze drift across the hall, past the sway of the dancers on the stage and the murmured talk at the tables, to the far corner.
Griffin. Standing half in shadow, drink in hand, watching him with the same fixed hunger as earlier in the alley.
For fuck’s sake. Some guys couldn’t take no for an answer unless it came gift-wrapped with a broken nose.
Ash took a long drag, stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray, and drained the tequila in one swallow. “I’m going home,” he told Tess, voice low.
“Hey—what about the rest of your shift?” she called after him.
“Tell Vinny I didn’t feel well,” he said over his shoulder, already moving, weaving through the maze of tables toward the backstage exit, frustration rising with each step.
The narrow hallway took him in, the music muffling to a dull throb as he pushed through the dressing room door.
The space had emptied out—most of the performers were either on stage or working the floor.
He grabbed his jacket from the hook, shrugging into it as he moved, the familiar weight settling over him like armor.
Nino was still at the staff entrance when Ash reached it, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He straightened when he saw Ash approach, brows lifting. “Leaving already?” he asked. “Thought you had another set.”
“Not feeling it tonight,” Ash muttered, pushing the door open before Nino could ask more.
“Shame,” Nino mumbled behind his back. “I was looking forward to it.”
The night outside hit harder than he’d expected, mist curling off the pavement, the air tasting of rust and sewage, Bellona’s sour breath creeping up from between the buildings.
His bike waited at the curb where he’d left it, patient as a tamed panther, chrome catching the streetlight in restless glints.
He swung a leg over the saddle, fingers curling around the grips, ready to coax the engine awake, when a shout, too close and too eager, cut in behind him.
“Ash! Hey, wait up!”
Griffin emerged from the shadow of the club’s side wall, his smile bright but brittle at the edges, fists shoved deep in his jacket pockets. He moved with the jittery energy of someone who’d been waiting, watching for the right moment.
“Hey,” he said, closing the distance quickly, boots scuffing over damp concrete. “I saw you leave. Figured I’d catch you before you took off.”
Ash kept his stare on the street ahead, watching the oily shimmer of lamplight in puddles, palms on the handlebars. “Not interested. I told you earlier.”
“Come on, don’t be like that.” Griffin’s voice took on a coaxing edge, stepping right up beside the bike, one hand reaching out to rest on the handlebar near Ash’s. “We had fun before, didn’t we? I know you felt it too.”
Ash pulled his hand back, jaw tightening. “That was a one-time thing. It’s done.”
“But it doesn’t have to be.” Griffin leaned in, his cologne too sharp, too insistent in the crisp air. He laughed, but it came out strained, desperate. “We could go back to my place. Or yours. Wherever. Just you and me.”
The words were needling under his skin now. He tried to keep the tone even. “Go home, Griff.”
But Griffin leaned in and reached out, hand grabbing at Ash’s arm, fingers digging in too tight.
That’s when something inside Ash let loose.
That heat in his chest, the one that had been simmering since the dance floor, surged. Not mere irritation; something coiled, feral, an instinct that leapt before reason could muzzle it.
He turned his head, meeting Griffin’s eyes directly for the first time, and the world seemed to cinch tight around them.
The background blurred into a dim watercolor wash.
The pressure inside him unspooled— not a thought, not a gesture, only force—and Griffin lurched backward as if shoved by an invisible hand, his grip torn away.
His spine slammed into the brick wall hard enough to rattle the drainpipe beside him, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs.
His eyes flared wide, shock fracturing into fear.
His breath came in short, panicked gasps, fogging between them.
Ash sat frozen on the bike, his own pulse a drumbeat in his ears. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t touched him. His hands were still on the handlebars.
“What the…” Griffin’s voice trembled as he scrambled upright against the wall, staring at Ash in terror.
The heat in Ash’s chest ebbed, replaced by something colder: the dangerous clarity of control.
He slid off the bike slowly, stepping close enough that his shadow fell across Griffin’s face.
When he spoke, his voice was a low tide receding, each word settling into Griffin’s mind like silt.
“You’re fine,” he murmured, the words wrapping around Griffin’s panic, smoothing it away.
“Nothing happened. You tripped, that’s all.
Hit the wall. You’ve been drinking. You need to go home. ”
Griffin’s posture slackened, the fear draining from his face, replaced by a mild, glassy vacancy.
He blinked slowly, confusion flickering across his expression before settling into dull acceptance.
He nodded once, mechanically, and pushed off the wall with the gracelessness of a sleepwalker.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, tone flat. “Yeah, I’m… I’m tired. Gotta go home.”
He turned and shuffled down the alley, footsteps uneven, spine hunched, his silhouette vanishing into the mist within seconds.
Ash stayed where he was, the cold air brushing over him without finding a way in. His hands felt empty, hollow, as though he’d set down something heavy but intangible. A tremor climbed up his spine—not from the chill, but from the thing he’d just done. Effortlessly.
Telekinesis? That was comic-book shit, not real life. And yet…
He raked a hand over his face, his skin still prickling with residual energy.
The river breathed again, bringing up the scent of dark water and rusted steel, and for the first time tonight, it made him feel unsteady, untethered, like the ground beneath him wasn’t quite solid anymore.
Without thinking, he swung onto the bike, kicked it into life, the engine’s growl swallowing the last of his hesitation.
He aimed it toward the only person who might be able to tell him what the hell was happening.
If Rick wouldn’t come to him, he’d damn well go to Rick.