CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
“I’m sorry for ruining your night,” I told Asher as we walked to the door.
“Ruining it?” His brows rose. “You made it a thousand times better.”
I didn’t know what to make of that. Inside, he disappeared into his room while I stalled in the hallway.
Mandy’s betrayal echoed in my head. I’d always thought I could read people, but I hadn’t wanted to believe she was one of the shitty ones.
Mom used to say everyone deserved a second chance, but I’d already given Mandy too many, overlooking her sarcasm, her selfishness, her lack of care.
Our friendship was one-sided, and I was done.
Sighing, I rubbed my palms over my face. I hardly drank, but tonight I wanted to erase everything, and I knew exactly where Dad kept the liquor.
I opened his office door. The tang of citrus cleaning spray lingered in the air. Switching on the desk lamp, I crossed to the glass-doored bookcase that filled the far wall.
Among rows of books, bottles of expensive liquor glimmered.
I knew nothing about good alcohol. The stuff I’d tried at parties was cheap, harsh.
I didn’t care. I just needed to forget. These bottles probably cost as much as the second-hand car I desperately needed, but Dad only spent money on what mattered to him.
Jaw tight, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey.
A throat cleared. I spun, exhaling when I saw Ash in the doorway. The blazer was gone; he stood in a loose black shirt and jeans. I knew what was under the clothes. Lucky me.
“You weren’t in your room,” he said softly. “I just wanted to check on you. Are you okay?”
“Never better.” I lifted the bottle. “You won’t snitch, right?”
“Are you going to drink alone?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. Unless you want to join me.” My breath snagged. Did he?
He leaned a forearm on the doorframe. “Always.”
Relief whooshed out of me. The thought of drinking with him soothed the ache, even if sitting this close while knowing he’d never be mine felt like punishment. The heart was never wrong, but mine was greedy for hurt.
I switched off the lamp. “Okay. Your room or mine?”
“I like yours better.”
Asher followed me upstairs.
“So,” he asked, settling on my bed, “why are we drinking?”
I tugged the hem of my dress down and eased beside him. “You’re pity drinking. I’m drinking because it’s the anniversary of my mom’s death—something my father couldn’t care less about—and because my ex-best friend sided with the asshole who tried to mess with me at the party.”
A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw, his eyes darkening. “And you’re telling me now? What did he do? Did that piece of shit hurt you?”
Warmth bloomed in my chest. He cared.
“Ash.” I curled my fingers around his wrist. “It’s no big deal. I kneed him in the junk, so he got what he deserved. I’m just pissed at Mandy for believing him.”
Asher covered my hand with his, heat buzzing where our skin met. “I’m sorry. About your mom too. I’m here if you need to talk, peque.”
“Thanks, but no. I’d rather drink.”
“Pass me the bottle.”
I handed Ash the whiskey.
The corners of his mouth lifted as he read the label. “An eighteen-year-old Macallan? You could’ve done worse.”
“I doubt my father will notice. He’s got at least ten of those.”
Ash opened the bottle. “Got glasses?”
“I forgot. Wait—I’ll be back.”
I hurried downstairs, grabbed two glasses and a bag of chips, then remembered the cheese in the fridge. A quick slice later, I carried everything upstairs.
Asher stood by my desk, eyeing the stack of photo albums. He relieved me of the glasses and plate. “Let me help.”
I opened the bag of chips. “Do you want to see the photos?”
He frowned while pouring the whiskey. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop. You don’t have to show me anything.”
“I don’t mind.” I pulled the top album onto the rug, leaning against the bed. “I was looking at the pictures earlier today. Come here.”
He stretched out beside me as I flipped the first page. His chuckle rumbled. “Wow. What a start.”
He stared at a picture from my newborn photoshoot. I was in a basket, and a huge pink bow adorned my head.
“I had great style, even then,” I teased. “Well—Mom did. She loved dressing me up.”
The next photo showed Mom holding me, smiling at the camera.
“She was beautiful,” Asher said softly. “You look like her.”
“Thanks for calling me beautiful.” I patted his thigh. “But you’re right. Mom was stunning.”
We reached a picture of me at three, wedged between my parents. Asher’s expression sobered. “Does your father ever smile?”
I chuckled, lifting my glass. “He does. Just not at me. I get the stink eye.”
“That’s the last thing you should be getting, peque.” Asher raised his drink. “To your mom.”
“And your dad,” I whispered as we clinked glasses.
The whiskey scorched down my throat, eyes watering. Asher didn’t flinch, just handed me a slice of cheese. “Eat something. It’s worse if you’re not used to drinking.”
I nibbled a piece. “Do you? Usually drink, I mean.”
He shook his head. “Only sometimes. Never if I’m racing the next day.”
I kept flipping pages. Ash asked me to pause a few times so he could study the photos. Maybe it was the alcohol, but some made my eyes sting—especially the ones where Dad, Mom, and I were still a family.
Things had started to change even before Mom got sick. I remembered Dad working late while she waited. She’d cook elaborate dinners, but in the end, it was just the two of us eating in the living room, cartoons flickering on the TV.
Dad was never really there. Not even when he sat at the same table.
“Peque.” Ash’s fingers threaded through my hair. “What’s on your mind? You got quiet.”
I closed the album and took another sip of whiskey. Still awful, but I was getting used to it. “Just remembering.”
“You looked sad.”
“I remembered sad stuff.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t look at more.” Ash carried the album to my desk and set it down.
“So, what can we do?” I asked.
He returned to my side. “Play a game?”
“I love the idea. But let me turn off the light first. It’s hurting my eyes.”
I lit two candles on my nightstand and switched it off.
“Truth or Dare,” I told him, sliding back beside him. My chance to be nosy—I wouldn’t waste it.
Ash leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Alright. Want to start?”
I giggled. “Truth or dare, Ash?”
“Truth.”
I bit my lip. “When did you have sex for the first time?”
“Joder, peque.” He sat up straighter. “Remind me not to play drinking games with you again.”
“So, you’re a virgin?” I teased, though I was sure he wasn’t.
He sighed. “Seventeen.”
Younger than me. Bet his first kiss had been early, too.
“How was it?”
He chuckled. “Really?”
“I’m a virgin.” I shrugged. “Girls at dance told me their first time sucked. I figured it’s only fair to know how it is for guys.”
Ash crossed his feet at the ankles. “Fair enough. It was good, but not great. The next times were better. He tipped his chin toward me before I could pry further. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth.”
His gaze lingered on my mouth. “Have you ever been kissed?”
Warmth pooled in my stomach. Why was he asking? Did he want to kiss me? If he did, he better not pull away like last time. My heart couldn’t take another rejection. “No. I didn’t want it to be with just anyone.”
Ash tossed back the rest of his drink and reached for the bottle. “Good. I don’t think I could handle knowing another guy kissed you.”
Air deserted my lungs. I prayed my voice wouldn’t shake. “Truth or dare, Ash?”
He locked eyes with me, serious. “Dare.”
I dare you to kiss me.
No. I couldn’t. If he turned me down, no amount of whiskey would erase it. If he wanted to, he’d have to make that move himself.
I took a slow sip, meeting his eyes over the rim of my glass. “I dare you to take off your shirt.”
A smirk curved his lips. “I should’ve known that time in my room wouldn’t be enough for you.”
I snatched a pink throw pillow from the bed and flung it at him.
Ash caught it and set it aside with infuriating calm. He lifted the hem of his tee, smirk widening. “I’ll do it slowly so you can focus, okay?”
“You’re so full of yourself.” I crossed my arms and schooled my face, pretending not to care as he uncovered his abs inch by inch, every bit as deliberately as promised.
By the time he tossed the shirt aside, heat prickled under my skin. Damn it. I should stop drinking.
But it was already too late.
“Truth or dare, peque?”
Two could play this game. “Dare.”
“I dare you to move closer,” he said, his voice low.
I shifted toward him until our thighs brushed. His scent made me dizzier than the whiskey.
“Still too far.” He tugged my hand. “Come here.”
He guided me until I sat between his legs and leaned against him. The room spun—whether from alcohol or the warmth of his body, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
“I think I’m drunk,” I whispered, resting my head on his shoulder.
He brought my hand to his mouth. Warm lips closed over my fingertips, and my belly clenched.
I couldn’t stop the heat spreading through me as his fingers traced up my arms to my shoulders. “Then you need to rest.”
“Not yet,” I whispered, eyes closed. We’d never been this close. What if he turned cold again in the morning? “We haven’t finished. Truth or dare?”
His palm cupped my face, thumb stroking along my jaw. “Truth.”
“Why did you take back what you said about kissing me?” Damn it. I didn’t mean to ask. My chest squeezed as I braced for his answer.
He stilled. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But you did.”
His arms tightened around my waist, pulling me closer. “If I could go back, I wouldn’t take them back.”
The reply died on my tongue. My eyelids grew heavy, the room tilting faster.
As if sensing it, Ash let me go and rose.
Then I was in his arms, my face pressed to his chest as I looped mine around his neck. He laid me gently on the bed, pulled back the comforter, and tucked me in.
The last thing I felt before sleep claimed me was his lips brushing my forehead and a whispered, “Buenas noches, peque.”