Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s easy to reach out and nudge inebriated minds so that bodies move out of my way.
I’m not sure how I ended up on the dance floor, leading the women away, but I got them to the table.
Anne thrashing under one arm and Ash coming along easily, which I’ve attributed to her shock.
While I know a little about what was done to her mind, I know enough to assume that she is likely still avoiding violence in any form.
It wasn’t hard to read the animosity, lust and need to consume in the drunk man with his hands on my female.
Getting them out of harm’s way before he or his goons got physical had to take priority.
Now though, with Anne and Ash safely under Betsy’s supervision, I walk away. Betsy catches my eye and gives me a slight nod, a flash lighting up her eyes. I nod back. I promised my lady another drink and ice for her friend’s knuckles. I just have a stop to make first.
I exit the bar and slip around the corner, keeping myself to the shadows. Even without my powers, I’d anticipate this guy’s next move. I’ve barely settled myself in to wait when the drunken trio exits. They’re slow and stumbling, so I’m treated to some of their diatribes.
“Stupid whore. Out dancing with her cunt friend, dressed like a total slut, with the purpose just because she wants attention. Then I give her what she’s asking for, show her what she’s been missing, and that fucking bitch sucker punches me?”
They round the corner, walking past without seeing me. Allowing the sweet, still silence to take over my mind and blood, I strike.
With two well placed hits, Brett’s friends hit the ground. The guy is overflowing with self-righteous anger and focused on his spewing of women-hating rhetoric as he makes it three full steps before he realizes that his audience is lying in a crumpled heap in the alley.
Before he can mutter much more than “What the—” I have one hand around his throat and have whipped him around, slamming his back against the exterior of the building.
I hear a random drunk laugh as someone stumbles down the sidewalk, but I’ve raised enough power to ensure we won’t be bothered for the next little while.
"Casie,” I croon, leaning close.
An ugly look passes over Brett’s face, which is turning what should probably be an alarming shade of red. Idly, I wonder how long it’ll take him to turn purple. Or blue, depending on how this goes.
Despite that, he tries to sneer. “Whore,” he manages to wheeze and I slam his head back in answer.
Well that was the wrong answer. Entirely.
I increase the pressure on his throat, cutting off any other vile things he thinks he can get away with saying.
“Now, boyo. When I saw you making my female uncomfortable in the bookstore, I let you walk away. I told Casie, however, that if you ever touched her again, I would break every bone in your body.”
Even without oxygen getting into his body, he still has the audacity to try to bluster and posture.
What is it with human men? For fucks sake.
“And boy, oh boy, did you go past just friendly touching, yeah?”
The poor boy squeaks out something that sounds like “mine.”
Red flashes across my vision. Locking it down, I bring my focus back to the cold.
Clearly, regular intimidation tactics aren’t going to work. His ego is even larger than his survival instinct. However, I’m almost positive Casie would feel guilty about being “responsible” for a dead body, no matter how peripheral her involvement.
I take a deep breath and focus. Skimming over the thoughts in his mind, I feel my stomach clench. The thoughts. The fantasies. The absolute filth he indulges himself in, day after day, is horrifying.
Bracing myself against the onslaught of horror, I dive deeper into his thoughts.
While his eyes go glassy, I push a thought deep into his consciousness. A thought of what I can do, what I will do, the devastation I will unleash upon his body if he doesn’t fucking back off.
His eyes widen to what would be a comical size before he goes limp in my grasp. With a vague sense of amusement, I realize he’s pissed himself.
I let his body drop to the dirty alleyway, careful to keep my boots out of his piss puddle — although it looks like his tight, white washed jeans have absorbed most of it. I leave him there to go take care of my girls.
As I stride back to the entrance, I reach out to give a mental tap to Calida, who slipped out of the bar after me. She will follow them, at a distance, to be sure that there won’t be any further trouble from that corner. Once they wake up, that is.
“Your drink, milady,” I bow at the waist, offering Ash a new glass. “And for your valiant warrior.” I add, tossing a baggy of ice to Annemarie. She flips me off. I thought she was about love and light?
“Thank you.” Ash says.
Betsy makes eye contact and I stare back at her, blandly. If anyone at this table currently knows what I’m capable of, it’s her. She smiles and re-arranges her boa. Then she gives me a nudge and cuts her eyes to Ash.
Rolling my own, I take a swallow of my fresh beer. I wasn’t surprised to see that the puddle and the broken glass had magickally disappeared in the time it took me to escort the women back to the table.
It’s been a long evening already and it’s still early.
Sipping my beer, I lean back in my chair.
I’m tuning out the conversation, but am watching Ash.
The way the light catches on her rainbow hair.
The arm full of ink that she didn’t have before leaving home, but is undeniably attractive.
Words and phrases wrap around one another in different fonts, different colors, and I can’t help but ponder their meaning.
Studying the way she crinkles her nose when she laughs.
The way she touches Annemarie, showing that she is completely focused on their conversation, a physical contact to cement the moment.
While Ash is focused on her conversation with Anne, I see Anne catch my eye and lift her eyebrows.
“Wanna dance?” I blurt, looking at Ash.
She cuts off whatever she was saying and whips her head towards me. “What?”
“Do you wanna dance?” I’m already on my feet, offering my hand.
I know damn well the woman loves to dance and, as awkward as I always feel, it never fails to make her happy.
She and Anne went through the trouble to get the four of us here; I’d like for Ash’s evening to end on a less shitty note, even if that does mean I have to dance.
She looks at me so long that I start to feel self-conscious but she finally offers me her hand and says, “I’d love to.”
I lead her down the stairs, nudging more drunk people out of the way as we go.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe it's the fuckery of the evening or maybe I just want her to have good thoughts, but I ask, “What do you want to hear?”
“What?” she yells, trying to be heard above whatever is being played now. It sounds like banjos being electrocuted.
I put my lips close to her ear. “What do you want to dance to? I’ll put in a request.” Gods, I hope that’s still a thing here.
She suddenly seems shy. Not only can I not hear her, but she’s no longer making eye contact.
“What?!” I yell.
I pull her close and bend, so her lips are against my ear. I fight off a shudder. If we’re about to be slow dancing, this is hardly the time to let my body run away with its more basic urges.
“Damocles.”
“Damocles?” I repeat, confused.
She nods, still leaning close, but she suddenly looks uncertain.
I wonder what is so important about this song. Why does it make her nervous?
Burying my curiosity, I smile and say “Coming right up.”
I make the request of the music man, vowing to focus on the words to see what message she has for me.
While the instrumental parts of music have always pulled me in, Ash has always been more focused on the lyrics, pulling deep on her heart strings even when they weren’t meant to.
She has always held the belief that some of a person’s most important messages are conveyed by the music they listen to, the songs that are important to them.
Selfishly, I’m hoping it’s a slow song, so we’ll have time to connect.
When I return to her side, Ash steps close, my hands finding her waist with trembling uncertainty, just above her perfect ass. Her fingers curl behind my neck like a prayer, teasing the ends of my hair. It takes everything in me not to close my eyes and moan.
I follow her lead, unsure of what I’m doing.
The current song is winding down, but is catchy and upbeat.
Despite that, she begins to move. Every movement is slow, reverent, her eyes holding mine.
Once I’m sure that’s all I’m expected to do, even if it doesn’t really fit the music, I relax into swaying in a slow circle with her.
“Damocles” by Sleep Token pulses through the dimly lit dance floor like a heartbeat, thick with tension and aching beauty.
As the haunting melody begins, all soft piano notes trailing like whispered secrets, I give in enough to rest my cheek against her hair, inhaling the intoxicating scent of amber and nudging her just a little closer. She obliges as the lyrics wash over me.
As the song builds, so does the storm of emotion building inside me — the sword of love, edged in fear.
The longing that I’ve lived with for so long now.
The weight of everything that’s been buried between us.
I internally brace. I’m so hesitant to believe, but…
Gods. It’s been so long. Maybe, just maybe, she really is starting to remember.
And, if she is, the lyrics have more than one reason to rip my heart out.
By the time the final chorus crashes, we’re both lost in the moment — bodies close, breath shared, a dance that’s less about the steps our bodies are taking and more about surrender.
It’s not just background music and that was always Ash’s point.
It’s her unspoken dialogue, her breaking point, her fears, our fall.
When the last note fades away, the silence left behind is almost unbearable and I ache to fill it with all of the things I don’t dare say.