Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Elio’s lips spread into a cruel smile. “He’ll make it his mission to destroy your name.
He’ll ridicule and mock you. He’ll take out his frustration with himself on you, because he still has the EQ of a corpse.
” He laughs, and the sound chills me to the bone.
“Actually, that’s an insult to corpses; he has the EQ of a rock.
Tread carefully.” He leans back, and his mean smile is replaced with an easy, camera-ready one.
“And if you ever want to jump to the part of the team that would actually support you, win or fail, you know where to find me.”
His words burrow deep, sewing the ugly seeds of doubt in my mind. I root for underdogs, yes, but the problem with cornered dogs is that they’re feral. They’ll snap, bite, and try to take anyone around them down.
Elio slinks into the depths of the club without a backwards glance, leaving me reeling.
“Hey,” Amanda says, touching her hand to my arm. “Elio’s a good person, but he’s also jealous, and he doesn’t like Asher because of a long feud.”
I gaze at her with wide eyes, unable to hide the fear from them.
“Is he right? Is Asher going to fuck me over if I screw up?” I’d already had the fear, but I managed to subdue it.
Hearing someone else talk about the likelihood, however, is jarring.
Internal doubts are one thing; external confirmation is much scarier and far more tangible.
Amanda purses her lips, considering this. “Kind of.”
I release a strained laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Nobody’s really rooted for him and actually stayed on his side. It’s whenever someone jumps ship that he gets angry, vengeful, and vindictive. He can be mean. But… I don’t know.” She sighs. “You’re obviously different. You actually care about him, and not just about what he can do—”
“I only care about him professionally.”
Amanda gives me a wan smile. “I might be blonde, but I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you.”
I swallow, somehow growing even more afraid. “How does he look at me?”
“Like he’s been suffocating his entire life, and you’re his first taste of fresh air.”
“Oh.” The word is barely a whisper. “Since when?”
“I mean, he’s stared at you since you got here. When he thinks you’re looking, the stare is contemptuous, but the rest of the time it was a mixture of curious and dubious. But since you’ve forced him into the simulator to help him… it’s gradually changed.”
I take a few beats to digest this. Then, I blurt out, “Is Asher Lawrence dating someone?” The words come out as a half-shout that should embarrass me, but I’m too invested in the answer to hold myself back.
“Gossiping again, Intern? Here I thought we were past that stage.”
Oh, fuck. Forget about being humiliated over showing up just to have him reject me. The level of sheer embarrassment that overcomes me from hearing Asher’s voice behind me is unsurpassable.
I want to find a hole to shrivel and die in. Holy fuck, how could I be so dumb to not look around before speaking? And speaking that loudly?
“Barbie,” Asher says offhandedly. His voice is closer now. I should turn around to face him, but mortification keeps me frozen in place and completely mute. I’ve totally lost it.
“Jerk,” Amanda responds. “God, I love the to-lovers part of this trope,” she sighs, practically gleeful with excitement.
I kill her with my eyes a thousand times over.
Her smile only widens.
“Sounds like you two have some stuff to catch up on.” Her hand falls from my arm, and then she abandons me.
Asher steps into her vacated spot, staring at me with such intensity, I nearly pass out. I should say something to recover, make a joke or a witty remark, call him an asshole, anything. But all I can do is stare at him like a gazelle caught in the sniper’s scope.
“You want to ask me that question to my face?” he asks. “I mean, I could turn around if it makes you feel better. It seems you’re only honest when you think I’m not paying attention.”
“I…” can’t finish my sentence.
“You?” Asher mocks, but his eyes crinkle with mirth.
The bartender chooses that moment to set a tray of shots down in front of us. “On the house,” he says cheerfully in heavily accented English. “Amazing driving today, Lawrence. I can’t believe—”
“Thanks for the shots,” Asher cuts off, momentarily ungluing his gaze from me to glare at the bartender. The attractive young man balks at whatever he sees on Asher’s face and promptly hurries away.
Asher and I are surrounded by dozens of people, but it feels like we’re totally alone. He returns to staring at me. I pick up a shot and down it without thinking twice, but underestimate the strength of the liquor, because it sends me into a fit of hacking and coughing.
I haven’t done shots since… that drag show when Keith kissed me. That’s the only reason I actually let him pull me onto the stage in the first place, and I swore off hard, undiluted liquor after that when pictures of us started circulating social media.
Asher hides a smile at my display of drinking incompetence. He picks up a glass and takes a shot himself, not even wincing, then lifts the tray in one hand and takes mine in the other.
Oh, shit.
Pleasant tingles erupt in a flurry of sensation where his warm hand wraps around mine, engulfing it entirely.
We’ve touched before, of course, but it’s mostly been casual or accidental—and each time sent a bolt of lightning through me.
This is nothing compared to those times, because it isn’t just a bolt; it’s a storm of butterflies that churn my stomach and light me up.
“Come on,” Asher says, flashing me a devilish smile over his shoulder. “Let’s find somewhere more private to talk.”