Chapter Fourteen #2
I wake to sunlight slicing through the glass, a square of white-hot light branding me across the belly. For a second, I don't know where I am. Then I remember the flight to LA and Asher's bed. The night before is a blur of sex and the kind of tenderness that feels like a trick.
Asher's not next to me, but I smell coffee. A second later, the sound of someone typing drifts through the open door.
I find him at the kitchen table in a pair of sweats and nothing else. His body is hard and dangerous, covered in old scars and newer bruises.
He looks up when I enter, tracking me with eyes as dangerous as they are beautiful.
Hints of last night's softness still linger in their depths, but his usual mask is firmly back in place this morning.
I don't mind. I think I understand him more now than I ever have.
He needs to hide behind that mask. It's the only place he truly feels safe, like he's in control.
And no one makes him feel as out of control as I do.
"Eat," he orders, nodding at the marble countertop where someone has left a spread of fruit, eggs, and bread.
"Did you hire a chef?" I ask, snagging a strawberry and popping it in my mouth.
"I don't trust LA food," he grunts. "I cook for myself when I'm here."
Of course he does. The flex would annoy me if I weren't so damn hungry.
He types for another minute, then shuts the laptop with a snap. "You planning to wear that?" he asks, eyeing my T-shirt like he's thinking about burning it.
I shrug. "I haven't had time to get dressed."
He stands, stretching, then walks out of the room. He returns a moment later with a hanger draped in a garment bag.
"Wear this. No panties," he says, dropping it on the table. "You know the drill."
I unzip the bag to find a navy slip dress…the kind that will show every inch of skin. I want to argue about wearing it, but he's already striding toward the bedroom.
The ride takes well over an hour. Asher makes me sit right next to him in the back seat, our thighs pressed together, his hand on my knee the entire time.
Every bump in the road sends the hem of my dress sliding higher up my thigh. He doesn't say a word, but every so often, his hand creeps just a little farther north, as if to remind me that he can touch me whenever he wants.
The showcase is at one of those massive hotels that's all glass and chrome. The lobby is a crush of bodies and nervous energy. Everyone here is desperate, except Asher, who stalks through the crowd like a panther.
He pulls me through a corridor of mirrors and gold trim, then into the main ballroom. I almost laugh at the decadence of it—long tables groaning with catered food, a full bar open at nine a.m., a stage set up at one end where hopefuls are already lining up for their chance to be discovered.
It's chaos, but Asher carves a path through the center without even saying a word. Every head turns as we pass. Some people nod, some flinch, but all of them get out of the way.
He keeps his palm on my lower back, steering me with the gentlest pressure. I'm honest enough with myself to admit that I like it. I feel safe when he touches me, in a way that's foreign. There is no such thing as safety in this world, not really, but his hand on me is the closest I've ever come.
A woman with a short bob and a tablet approaches. "Mr. Blackstock, your table is ready," she says, glancing at me, then back at him. She doesn't even try to hide her curiosity.
"Thank you, Mel," Asher says. "We'll be at the table in ten."
She gives me a look—half envy, half terror—before melting back into the crowd.
"What's my job today?" I ask, trying to sound bored.
He smirks. "Look pretty. Take notes. Learn something."
I want to get snarky, but don't. "Why did you really bring me?" I ask instead.
He considers, then leans in so close his stubble grazes my ear. "Because there's no one else I trust to watch my back," he murmurs, then straightens, his mask snapping back into place.
The morning is a blur of introductions and awkward small talk. Asher sits at the head of the table, his attention laser-locked on every hopeful who crosses the stage. I expect him to be bored, but he's not. He watches each performance like it's life or death.
At the first break, he leans over. "See the redhead at table nine?" he says, his voice pitched low. "She's going to be huge. Remember her name."
I jot it down, because of course I do. I get the sense that, if I remembered all these little details, I could take over the world. He just has this instinct that's fascinating.
When the crowd thins out, an actor with the build of a UFC fighter and the smile of a sociopath approaches our table. He's in a tailored suit, but the way he moves says he'd rather be naked.
"Blackstock," he says, offering his hand. "Heard you were in town."
Asher takes his hand, squeezing just a bit harder. "Gordon," he says, something lethal in his voice.
The man turns to me, his gaze running up and down me in a way I don't like. "And who's this?"
"My assistant," Asher snaps, his hand back on my hip, tense in a way that has nothing to do with jealousy. It's like he views this man as a threat, not to himself, but to me. "She's not on the menu."
Gordon grins, his eyes raking over me again. "Shame. She's a stunner."
Asher's grip tightens, his jaw flexing. "You're here to audition, not harass my staff. Don't make me kick you out of here."
Gordon laughs, unfazed by the threat. "See you around," he says, then moves on.
Asher releases a breath, his hand sliding up my spine.
"I take it that you don't like Gordon?"
"I have no use for pricks like him."
"What'd he do?" I ask, genuinely curious. With Asher, it could be anything.
"Tried to rape an extra on his last movie," he says, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "Someone else walked in, which put an end to it. He's been trying to find new management ever since because no one is willing to touch him."
"Jesus," I mutter. That wasn't the answer I expected. Honestly, it isn't even close. I think I expected him to tell me something asinine, like Gordon insulted him or laughed too loudly or something equally as ridiculous. Instead, his hatred is genuine, borne of his distaste for predators.
"If he ever bothers you, tell me."
"Why? So you can kill him?"
"Worse," he growls. There's not a single hint of irony in it.
At lunch, an older executive with a red face and beady eyes sidles up to the table. "Asher! I see you've upgraded your taste in arm candy," he leers, his gaze glued to my tits like he's trying to see through my dress. "How much did you have to pay this one?"
Before I can react, Asher stands, looming over him. For a second, I think he's going to punch the guy. Instead, he just smiles at him, so coldly I shiver.
"Morrison," he snarls. "If you ever speak about her like that again, I'll rip your fucking throat out and have your balls in a jar on my desk by morning."
The exec tries to laugh off the threat, but I see the fear bloom in his eyes. He makes a quick exit, muttering an apology under his breath.
I stare at Asher. "That was… restrained," I say. "Are you sick?"
He shrugs. "There are better ways to ruin a man than in public, and contrary to your opinion of me, I know how to behave, princess."
I grin, unable to help myself. Asher may know how to behave, but theory and practice are two entirely different concepts. "Will you, though?"
He studies me, then leans in. "What do you think?"
"I think you may have let him walk away, but you'll find a way to make him pay," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "You usually do."
"You're right," he says, "and I will. It's what he deserves for leering at you."
I shake my head. "You can't ruin everyone who looks at me, Asher."
His grin is all devil. "Yeah? Watch me, princess."
The shiver that runs through me has nothing to do with fear.
The rest of the day is a blur. Asher is everywhere at once—negotiating, intimidating, charming when he wants to be. But every so often, he glances over at me, and the same softness from last night flickers in his eyes.
He teaches me, too. When a new actor comes on stage, he leans in, pointing out every tell, every weakness, every flash of real talent. The way he brings me inside his world and shows me how he sees it is intoxicating.
By four o'clock, my feet hurt and my brain is mush, but I can't remember a day when I felt more alive.
When we're finally alone, waiting for the car, I glance over at him. "That wasn't so bad."
He snorts. "You look like you've been run over."
"Just tired," I say.
He studies me for a long moment. "You did good today," he says, and it's so unexpected that I almost don't hear it.
"What?"
He shrugs, awkward. "You caught things I missed. I'll remember that."
For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us is charged, but not with anger. With something like… possibility.
In the car, he takes my hand, tracing circles on my palm with his thumb.
"Why do you do it?" I ask.
"Do what?"
"Defend me." I swallow. "Protect me."
He looks out the window, the skyline a blinding mix of orange and violet as the sun sets. "Because you're mine," he says, his voice quiet and fierce.
"You don't own me, Asher."
He turns back to me, his eyes dark. "No. But I want to."
His confession should scare me, but it doesn't. It just makes me want him more.
I stare out the window, watching the city lights blink on one by one.
I'm losing the war, and I know it.
But I don't think I want to win.
Not anymore.
As dangerous as it is, I'm falling for him all over again.