Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Savannah
When I wake back up after having been out for—I check the clock—four minutes, Asher is standing in the middle of my bedroom floor, pulling on his pants.
I sit up. I’m still naked, and I feel more naked than I did even a few minutes ago.
I grab a handful of the comforter and wrap it around myself. “The door—”
But Asher already shut it.
I propel myself off the bed to the dresser, grab clothing at random. Pull on a shirt. The tag scratches against the front of my throat. Well, Brayden probably won’t look too closely…right?
I can hear him stumbling around downstairs. Is he noisier than usual? Is he drunker than usual?
“He come home this drunk a lot?” Asher situates himself between my bed and my bedroom door as if he’s going to intercede. As if Brayden—who pulled back from me earlier—is a threat. To me.
“No.” Because it’s true. Why is tonight different? “He doesn’t…” Like me like that. “He doesn’t give me a hard time, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Asher’s face goes dark. One of his hands balls into a fist, but his anger is very clearly directed out the door. “Yes, that is what I’m asking, Savannah.”
Not princess. Not Mrs. Forsyth. Savannah. “He’s never put a hand on me.”
“There are other ways—” Asher shakes his head. For the first time since I’ve met him, he seems like he’s struggling to find the correct words. “That’s not the only way to hurt someone.”
“Hey.” I go over to where Asher is standing by the door. “I know you don’t like him. Is it because of something he did?” I think of the brief Wikipedia page detailing Asher’s life, the mention of his mother, the absence of his father. “Or is it because his behavior reminds you of someone else?”
Asher shakes his head, not like he’s answering, more like he’s clearing his mind. “If you say you’re all right, I believe you. But if you ever need anything…don’t keep it secret, okay?” Something in his eyes flares momentarily, sincere and a little searching.
Guilt washes over me. I’m keeping secrets, but not the way you think. Slowly, I nod. “He really isn’t like that. He leaves me—” Despite my best effort, my voice hiccups. Months ago, when I agreed to this marriage, I didn’t think about how much I’d need someone to confide in. “He leaves me alone.”
“See, that’s how we’re different—I wouldn’t.” Asher raises his hand to my cheek, different from how he was touching me before. Something if Brayden came in and saw, he wouldn’t be any less angry at. Or hurt by. I don’t know which is worse.
I should tell Asher to stop. I should move away from him. I turn my face into the cup of his palm then, with effort, draw myself back. “We need to get you out of here.”
“I can sleep in your bathtub until he goes to bed.”
“That’s what—” That’s what Brayden did on our wedding night. He came back drunk and slept in the tub without waking me, even though the bed had been large enough for two people to share without touching.
Downstairs, the noises have stopped. Did Brayden pass out on the couch? Did he go into the kitchen for food—or more to drink? Did he notice Asher’s car parked out front? It doesn’t matter. Asher needed to be gone five minutes ago. He needs to have never come over at all.
“I’ll deal with Brayden,” I say to him. “Once he’s distracted, you can go downstairs and leave.”
Asher’s mouth curves. “You sneak a lot of guys out of here?”
“No.”
“Good.” He leans in like he’s about to kiss me goodbye. Something that feels doubly wrong with Brayden downstairs. Then he pauses and diverts his lips to my cheek. “You need anything, you just say the word.”
I take exactly one deep breath before I step out into the hallway. If I can just get Brayden into his bedroom, then Asher can sneak out the door like I told him to—leaving his shirt in a tangle in the dryer, taking his bat.
His bat. Which he left on the kitchen counter. There’s no way Brayden didn’t see that. There’s no way we’re going to get away with this.
What other choice do I have? I summon my courage and step out into the dark.
The backstairs are narrower and steeper than the ones at the front of the house.
Each riser announces my presence. What will I find in the kitchen?
Brayden drunk? Him holding the bat and telling me to pack my bags and get the fuck out of his house?
I imagine his disappointment, his disdain.
Worse, the subtle hurt in his eyes that I put there.
At the bottom of the stairs I find—nothing. Just an empty kitchen with an emptied glass on the counter.
There’s a noise from up the hall. Someone moving, then a thump of clothing circulating in the dryer. Brayden emerges from the laundry room.
Guilt washes over me. I push that down and replace it with a smile. “Brayden, hey.” I try to be casual and miss by about a hundred miles. “Everything okay?”
He’s looking at me in a way I can’t interpret. Suspicion? Maybe just home late and drunk, though he’s not stumbling or slurring. Maybe that’s worse—being drunk so frequently you can appear sober during it.
“Did something happen?” he asks.
Instantly, I can feel every place Asher touched me, all at once, the bite mark on my chest throbbing. My voice feels stuck in my throat.
“There were a bunch of towels in the wash,” Brayden continues.
Right. Right. The sink breaking, which felt like it happened eighteen years ago. “The faucet broke and one of the pipes was leaking pretty badly. I tried calling a plumber, but no one was picking up.”
“Is it still broken?”
“No, I fixed it.” Somehow, something that still doesn’t feel real.
I watched a YouTube video a few times, found the water line leading into the sink, turned off the water, reattached the faucet handle, removed and drained out the pipe, tightened various connectors in the pipe, and turned the water back on.
“We should probably get someone to take a look at it just in case.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I—” My jaw clicks shut. In my panic, I’d never even thought to ask him for help. I called your teammate before I told you. “You were out,” I finish.
Something in Brayden’s shoulders deflates, some sense I’ve hurt him in a way neither of us was expecting. “I would’ve come home.” He says it quietly.
“I managed okay.” I smile. “Actually, I used a wrench.”
He grins back at me. “Yeah?”
“I’d never used one of those. Oh, I should probably put that away…” I turn to examine where it should still be on the kitchen counter. The wrench is already gone. Did Brayden put it back in the garage? But the bat is still sitting there like a question.
“That’s not one of mine.” Brayden says it mildly, but there’s something lurking under that. Whose is it?
I scramble for an answer. “It’s my dad’s.
Was my dad’s. He gave it to me for protection.
” Something my actual father would never do, because protection was a security detail, not a metal baseball bat.
“I just thought…late at night, someone might see the light on in the kitchen. And I was sort of, uh, spooked, by being all alone.” It feels mean, pressing on Brayden’s sympathy like that.
Brayden’s face softens. “Sorry for not being here.”
“It’s okay. It was nice, fixing something for myself.” The first thing I’ve said to him as part of this conversation that wasn’t mostly a lie.
“If you need anything, you should tell me.”
I blink. Asher had said the same thing, more or less. If you didn’t hate each other, you might get along. “I promise I will.”
“Good.” Brayden looks, if not sober, at least definite, like he’s committing this discussion to memory.
I want to reach for him—to hug him, maybe, if I didn’t think he’d flinch back. So I settle for stifling a yawn with the back of my hand. “We should probably go to bed.” A couple-ish thing to say.
Brayden seems to realize how late it is. That we’re standing in the dim hallway between the kitchen and laundry room, that I’m in short pajama shorts and a stretched-out T-shirt with no bra. “Bed—yeah, that’s a good idea.”
There’s no good way to bypass the kitchen stairs in favor of checking the front to see if Asher has left.
Please let this have been enough time. I walk up the stairs, mindful of Brayden at my back, mindful that when we get to the top of the stairs, that might be the end of my (fake) marriage.
I listen. Nothing from my room or Brayden’s.
“Well”—I exaggerate a yawn—“good night.”
I go into my room: empty, save the crumpled bedspread. Dash to the window and look out. Asher’s car is gone, the only sign he was here the motion-activated streetlight still illuminating the pavement.
That and my necklace laid out on the windowsill, chain glinting in the reflected light. Beside it a note in blockish handwriting. Call me next time you want someone to take this off, princess.
Next time…There can’t be a next time, not with Brayden so obviously suspicious. Not with regret already sticking to my skin. I reach for the note about to crumple it or tear it to shreds. Then carefully, I fold it, and slip it into my nightstand drawer, and climb into my bed—alone.