22. Ashes Of Olympus
Ashes Of Olympus
Kiri
Someone is trying to murder my door. The pounding drags me out of sleep one blunt hit at a time, my head lifting from the mattress only to drop straight back down when the room tilts.
I have no idea where I am, what city I’m in, or why my entire body feels like it got wrung through industrial machinery. Then the hammering starts again.
“Kiri!”
Rithy.
I groan into the sheets. My mouth tastes stale, my hair is still damp enough to have soaked a cold patch into the pillow, and something is digging into my hip. The towel. I passed out naked except for a towel after taking the world’s least effective shower.
“Kiri, open the fucking door.”
“God damn, give me a second. I’m alive,” I call, except it comes out as noise that could just as easily mean I’m dying.
“Prove it.”
I force myself upright. The towel has twisted halfway around my waist and is barely performing its single assigned task.
I grab the edge before it gives up completely, stagger across the room, and wrench the door open.
Rithy is standing there dressed, showered, sunglasses tucked into the neck of his shirt, overnight bag hanging from one shoulder.
His fist is still raised to knock again.
The moment he sees me, his entire face changes.
His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.
“Preah aey." (Oh my god)
I squint at him through one eye. “Good morning to you too.”
“You look…” His gaze travels from my hair to my bare chest, pauses on the marks at my neck, tracks the evidence of her teeth on my shoulder, and finally drops to the towel I’m holding together with one fist. “You look like death herself took you home, fucked you blind, then kicked you out before breakfast.”
“Very poetic.”
“Well, at least you're here to receive my poetic musings. I assumed you wouldn't be.”
“Why?”
His brows lift. I stare at him and he stares right back. Then his eyes flick toward the hallway, in the direction of Natalia’s room.
“Oh, ha ha,” I mutter. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Well, now you can stop the investigation. I'm here.”
Rithy leans one shoulder against the doorframe, far too comfortable for someone who is milliseconds away from being shoved into the corridor.
“You're here, but you still look like you lost a fight with a very small, very angry animal. If I had to guess, it's blonde, too. Species begins with an N.”
My hand moves instinctively toward the bite on my shoulder. Rithy’s eyes narrow and I drop it. He grins slowly. I hate that grin. That grin has known me since childhood. It knows where every body is buried, including mine. He lifts both hands.
“I’m not judging. I'm enjoying this more than I’ve enjoyed most things in my life, but I’m not judging.”
“Glad I could provide this morning's entertainment.” I tighten my grip on the towel. “Was there a reason for beating down my door, beyond the interrogation?”
His smile thins, some of the humor leaving it as he shoves his way into the room and closes the door behind him.
“We were supposed to be downstairs eight minutes ago.”
I turn my head toward the bedside clock. The numbers take effort to focus on, then my stomach drops.
“Fuck.”
I step back from the door and look around the wreckage of the room. Clothes on the floor, my phone left on the bathroom counter. Jeans half inside out near the shower. I have no bag packed. No clue where my shoes are. Rithy watches the realization move across my face and lets out a whistle.
“This is historic,” He says as he watches me start sprinting around around aimlessly.
I grab a pair of boxers out of my suitcase, step into them, then drag a shirt over my head while crossing the room.
He continues his fabled retelling of my past, like I wasn't there. “You haven’t overslept since Bangkok on the Ashes of Olympus tour. That was seven years ago.”
“I remember. I had food poisoning.”
“You're just proving my point.”
I grab my bag and throw it onto the bed. Charger, wallet, shirts, underwear. I sweep half the bathroom counter into my toiletry bag, miss, swear, then crouch to grab the things that hit the floor. Rithy leans against the wall, enjoying this far too much.
I point toward the door while I grab a pair of black jeans and pull them on, hopping once when my foot catches, “Out.”
He doesn’t move. His attention catches on my neck again, and this time the humor disappears almost completely.
“Brother.” The change in his voice makes me look at him as I zip my jeans. He folds his arms. “You can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“There's nothing to keep secret.”
“Bull and shit.”
I look away as I pretend at straightening my shirt, smoothing wrinkles that have no hope of disappearing. Rithy lowers his voice to an angry whisper.
“I saw you last night. On the plane. At dinner. On the bus. I saw the way she looked at you when she came back from that bathroom, and I saw the way you looked like your soul had been yanked out through your dick.”
“Great lyrics, is that the next song you're working on?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about.” Unfortunately, I do. He glances at the door. “When Rafe and Kasia find out—and they will—there’s going to be hell to pay.”
My jaw tightens.
“Nothing happened.”
My shoulder stings in disagreement. I glare at him, then he gives me a tired look that cuts through every joke.
“I know you.”
That takes some of the fight out of me. Rithy means well. He always does, even when he’s enjoying every second of torturing me. Especially then. I drag a hand down my face.
“Then trust me. I know what I'm doing.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve decided to juggle gasoline next to a fucking blonde bonfire.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, little brother.”
“She isn't one of your usual conquests. Rafe is engaged, to her sister. He's never bothered with getting engaged before. You know what that means. She matters to them.”
“She matters to me, too.”
The words escape before I manage to stop them. Rithy goes completely still. So do I. The room seems to contract around us. Then his expression changes, from teasing to quietly stunned. I look away first.
“You’ve not said anything like that since—”
“Don't make it a thing.”
I walk away and head to the bathroom, I can't deal with what he's trying to make this into.
I grab a hotel lotion I don't even need and throw it into my toiletries bag for something to do.
He's getting too close to a past I don't want to bring up, a person and a version of me I don't want to think about. I shout to him in annoyance.
“Bus. Nagoya. Remember? I need to get ready and packed. Get out.” I spray deodorant on like I’m trying to fumigate myself.
He watches me for another moment, then he exhales.
“You've got nine minutes.” I wait until I hear the click of the lock before I move again.
I speed brush my teeth then nearly choke on toothpaste. I run through the mental gauntlet while I scrub. Bag. Wallet. Passport. Bass already went with crew last night, check. I spit then stare at myself in the mirror and shake my head. What the hell is wrong with me?
I grab my phone. There's three missed calls from management, two from Rithy, one from Ronan, and a message from Rafe consisting of a single question mark. Nothing from Natalia. I stare at the screen longer than I should. Of course there’s nothing.
I didn’t message her either, because we're both idiots.
The only thing we know how to do well is touch each other. I shove it into my pocket.
Shoes. Where the hell is my other—I find it beneath the edge of the bed, jam my foot inside, grab my suitcase and leave the room with my shirt only half buttoned.
Rithy is waiting by the elevator. He looks me over.
“You missed one.”
He reaches out and buttons the middle of my shirt. I slap his hand away.
“I can dress myself.”
“Evidence would indicate otherwise.”
The elevator arrives. By the time we cross through the doors toward the idling bus, I’m awake enough to regret it.
Morning light bounces off the chrome. Crew moves luggage beneath us, doors slam, Elise calls a final head count.
Rafe is standing near the bus entrance with coffee, talking to Kasia. Rithy climbs in first, then I follow.
The moment I step inside, I see her.
I stop dead.
Natalia is sitting on the long sofa with one leg crossed over the other, looking like she slept twelve perfect hours in a cloud.
No sunglasses or pale, dying expression of a hangover.
Not even a blanket over her head while she begs everyone to stop existing.
Nothing. Her hair is pulled into a high, smooth ponytail that spills over one shoulder.
Her makeup is clean and sharp, lashes dark, mouth glossed a soft pink that immediately drags every memory from last night back through me by the throat.
The outfit is fucking malicious. A charcoal knit dress fitted close everywhere it has no business being fitted, long sleeves, high neck, respectable from the waist up.
Then the hem stops halfway down her thighs like the designer simply ran out of fabric.
Sheer black tights. Knee-high boots. One ankle swinging idly over the other while she holds a coffee cup between both hands.
She looks rested. Satisfied. No hint that she spent part of the night crying in my lap, another part trying to undo my belt, and the last part coming apart around my hand while saying my name like she wanted it inked into her skin as a souvenir.
Her eyes lift and find mine. A tiny smile touches the corner of her mouth. It's so slight, it's not enough for anyone else to notice.
Just enough to stop my heart.