Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
SPENCER
T he circus outside the FBI was a shock, to say the least. That fucking woman and the way she touched Asher. I could have wrung her neck. The audacity!
It’s not like she knows y’all are together . . . if that’s what you want to call it.
Now is not the time to define what Asher and I are. If we even are anything at all!
And who the hell came up with the name the Bride Butcher? Probably that dumbass bitch, Sherry.
Too much is racing through my mind to make sense of everything. Zane went down on me in the fucking FBI building, Anthony has been out there killing women because he can’t find me, and the news is going to plaster my face everywhere as the cause of the current killing spree in New York. Not to mention my hiatus from work and the fucking exhibit I should have been working on this whole time! If I get back to the studio and my to-do list has become so impossibly long that it has its own zip code, one of these guys will get punched in the face.
Now we’re all in the living room watching some ESPN while the guys debate statistics of various basketball players who are retired and compare them to current players. It’s all stupid, in my opinion, because it’s almost impossible to compare when the game is clearly played differently now than it was then. Which the people themselves have pointed out!
I’m ready to jump out of my skin when Rio and Zane start debating on their own over who would win in a one-on-one: Stephen Curry or Ray Allen.
I pop off the couch and stomp into the kitchen, where Asher is busy making us dinner. He places a tray of chopped, seasoned potatoes in the oven and turns his attention to some marinating chicken breasts.
“Anything I can do to help?”
Asher peeks over at me. He has a kitchen towel hanging on his shoulder, his sleeves are rolled up, and his suit jacket is resting on the back of a chair. “You want to cook?”
“Not really, but I’m going crazy just sitting around. If y’all would just give me my phone back, I could get out of your hair.” I sigh.
He turns to the stove and begins cooking the chicken in a pan. “Not happening, Spencer. We’re monitoring it for texts from Anthony. He’s gone silent since the last dead body turned up.”
I move to stand next to him and lean back against the counter. “I have other reasons for needing my phone, especially now that I’m staying.”
“If there’s anything pressing that comes up, we’ll let you know.”
I let out an exaggerated groan. “I’m bored and going crazy.”
“Read a book.” His concentration stays on the pan.
I cross my arms. “I don’t want to read a book.”
He raises a brow at me. “Do you know how to relax?”
“No.”
He laughs. “I figured.”
I don’t know when the last time I “took a break” was. That phrase isn’t even in my vocabulary. When you own a business and are hiding from your psycho ex, you tend to not take a day off.
He turns to me and places a gentle kiss on my forehead, cupping my face in his hands. “We’ve got you covered, Princess. Let us take care of you.”
My insecurities flare, and I wrap my hands around his wrists, holding him in place. “Us?”
“Yes, us.”
“ Is there an us? You and me?”
So much for not defining the relationship.
He gives me a half smile. “For as long as you’re here, there will be an us.”
My brows pinch. “As long as I’m here? Do you think I’m going to leave?”
“I think it’s your instinct, and instincts are hard to fight.”
He’s pushing again.
“I think you’re afraid, and I think it’s because of Rachel.” His body tenses at my accusation, letting me know that I’m right. “You don’t have to tell me who she is, but don’t make me pay for her sins.”
He closes the distance and lightly brushes his lips against mine, then rests our foreheads together. “Sometimes it feels like you see too much.”
I chuckle. “I feel the same way about you three.”
We jump apart when there’s a pounding on the door. Asher grabs the kitchen knife while Rio and Zane jump from the couch, each with handguns at the ready, before moving to peek out the front window.
“We got a runner,” Zane observes, then bolts out the front.
“Shit,” Rio shouts as he jumps over something on his way out.
I dart around Asher and run to the open door. The sun has begun setting and is right in my eyes, causing me to squint down at the dark lump on the front steps.
“Spencer!” Asher shouts from behind me.
“Oh my God,” I gasp and throw a hand over my mouth, holding down the bile threatening to make an appearance.
On the steps is a bruised and bloodied teenage girl. There are two bullet holes in her body.
One in the heart, one in the skull.
“No,” I whisper.
Asher grabs my shoulders and turns me around. I bury my face in his chest and squeeze my eyes shut, but the image is branded in my brain.
The girl is young, maybe in her teens, and holding a bouquet of purple hyacinths with multiple knives sticking out of her stomach.