Chapter 7
LAURA
Asher is so romantic for someone as big as he is.
Really, he surprises me with every new message.
I can’t take my eyes off my phone as he squeezes compliments into his every word.
We’re chatting about music, and he talks about my flawless taste.
No matter what I suggest he listens to, he thinks everything is great.
I mention a couple of things about my job, and he awes at how smart I am. Shoot him a picture of me drinking my fourth cup of coffee and he goes on and on about how pretty I look.
And it’s so funny because he doesn’t need to do any of that.
I’m already his. He already popped my cherry, and I half-expected him to leave, disappear, never to be heard from again.
Instead, he sticks around. He wants to know what I like and dislike.
He already asked for my favorite food and flowers and chocolate so he can gift them to me.
Asher Grant is bent on having my heart, too.
I smile like a fool at the phone screen. He’s told me about his routine as a firefighter and some stories, the ones with happy endings. Saving cats from trees is still a thing. Rescuing a duck who got stuck in a manhole, only for the duck to fall into another one a moment later.
Asher’s passion for what he does is clear in every story.
I can’t help but feel a little jealous about that.
God, what I wouldn’t give to feel the same way.
To love what I do so much I can’t wait to wake up in the morning and do it.
I think of Mom again and the days she taught me how to play the piano.
How I wish I could live like that. Teaching other children how to play it, how to fall in love with music.
I’m so deep in thought, so lost in the memories and the dreams, that I completely miss the steps in the corridor.
Someone yanks my phone from my hand. I blink, staring in confusion at my empty palms. Lifting my eyes, I see Dad standing in front of my desk. Shit. I missed his approach.
“I knew it,” he roars, gripping my phone so hard I hear a tiny crack. “Your cursor hasn’t moved in thirty fucking minutes. We’re loaded with work, and you’re on your fucking phone?”
Shit. My heart starts on a gallop. What am I supposed to say now? He caught me red-handed. “Sorry, Dad,” I mutter, unsure of anything else to say. “I… Sorry.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, imitating my voice with sarcasm on his tongue. “Is that all you have to say? What the fuck were you doing that’s so important?” And he turns the screen to read from the phone.
My heart shoots to my throat. I get to my feet, stretching my arms. “Dad, please, don’t—” Oh, God. I’m dead. I try to reach for the phone, but he merely steps back. The desk between us keeps me away, stuck against the wall. What have I done? He can’t read the messages I exchanged with Asher.
From the way his face pales, I know he did exactly that. Dad’s eyes shoot back at me, and he stares. The phone creaks in his grip again. I freeze to the spot under the heat of his glower.
He takes one step closer, then pain explodes to the side of my face. I wince, my head snapping to the right. My head swims with confusion. My cheek stings. I reach a hand up to the hot skin of my face and find my father’s gaze drilling into me, his hand raised.
Did he just hit me? He never hits me.
“Whore,” he spits. The word is another slap. “Fucking slut. You’re a fucking slut, Laura.”
“D-dad…”
“You’re fucking a man twice your age, who’s not your husband.” Oh, because that’s the problem. It wouldn’t matter if he had sold me off to some rich seventy-year-old, as long as the man was my husband. “Fucking Christ. How could I have raised you this wrong?”
The disappointment on his face is much starker than usual. It sinks into my stomach, mixing with the heat, the pain. My eyes sting with unshed tears. I blink them away. Dad always hated tears, and I don’t want things to get any worse.
“Dad, please, Asher is a good man. I’m in?—”
“Don’t you fucking say you’re in love, Laura.
” And he approaches again, his hand raised.
I wince, curling away from his hatred. He doesn’t hit me, though.
Instead, he leans forward and yanks open my drawer.
My face flames with realization when he reaches for my music books and magazines.
I’m so shocked I don’t even reach for them.
Dad turns around and starts down the hallway.
“I’ll fix this. As I fix everything else in this fucking family. ”
I watch him go for a moment. Where is he going? Fix it? How? “Dad?” And I try to squeeze past the desk.
“Stay here!” he roars. “This fucking joke is done, Laura. You’re never going close to music, ever again. And you’re never seeing Grant, either.” And he slams the door shut.
His words are knives to my chest, every one of them.
I jerk into action, shoving myself against the desk until I squeeze past it.
It shakes hard and my coffee mug drops, toppling to the side of the desk.
The liquid splatters on the ground, but I don’t look at it.
I don’t give it a second of my attention.
Darting to the door, I grab the knob and yank on it. It doesn’t budge. Again, but nothing happens. I’m locked inside. Dad just locked me inside the archive so I can’t follow him. So I can’t try to stop him.
My knees buckle. I drop to the ground, tears streaming down my face.
What am I going to do? What am I going to do?
Dad will throw my books and magazines away.
He’s going to find Asher and forbid him from seeing me.
How can I possibly be happy without Asher and music?
My heart sinks, and the pain inside me is much stronger than the one on my face.
Pressing my forehead to my knees, I let despair take over. It rattles me to my core, and huge sobs make me quiver. Hugging myself closer, I try to stop; I try to control myself, but the pain of never being happy again overwhelms me.
It’s the crackle that catches my attention. Usually, it’s so quiet in here. I lift my head to find the source, and it’s then the smell of smoke hits me in the face.
Fire eats up my desk and the jamb. Bright red flames licking up at all the wood, reaching for the ceiling. My heart skips a beat, then another, and I gawk at the scene without understanding.
The coffee. It spilled down the side of the table, where all the power cables are. The liquid must have caused a short circuit in this old building’s wires.
Shooting to my feet, I rush closer, looking around me for a fire extinguisher. There is none. I remember my father said we didn’t need them. My heart starts on a gallop again, and adrenaline shoots through my veins. This time, I’m screwed on a much different level.
Squeezing past the fire, I go for the window and try to open it. It’s stuck and only goes a couple of inches. It’s too narrow for me to jump from either way. The heat gets too close, too overwhelming, so I step away and run to the door once more.
“Help!” I cry out, punching the door. “Fire! Help!”
There are no phones up here, not after my father took mine. The door is at the end of a flight of stairs, and the others will have a hard time hearing me. With this much wood and paper, the fire will devour this floor in moments.
I press my back to the door and gasp air in. This is it. It can’t get any worse than this.