Asher (Ashes & Embers Book 6)

by Carian Cole

  “That’s okay,” the woman says, eagerly taking the paper from me. “It will make it even cooler if it’s different.”

  “It might be worth money,” the guy adds.

  I’m taken aback. Would these people actually sell my signature? The mere idea of that freaks me out, and I’m tempted to yank the paper back from them.

  Is having a signature from a famous person who can’t remember how to sign her own name considered cool?

  I think it’s sad and inconsiderate, and I don’t like this interaction with so-called fans at all. I want to go back home to Asher and Teddy and sit on our pretty porch and watch the butterflies.

  The man pulls out his cell phone. “Can we get a quick photo with you two?”

  “No,” Kenzi says sternly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but my mother isn’t comfortable with photos. She’s living a private life now. I’m sure you understand. Enjoy your day.”

  Still gripping my arm, she steers me away from them.

  “Thank you,” I mutter under my breath.

  I decline the offer to drive Kenzi’s car back home. I feel rattled and shaken by the exchange in the parking lot. I’m not sure how I’d handle that if I was alone. I didn’t like the feeling of being unexpectedly cornered and scrutinized by fans of the band.

  They recognized me. Wanted some little memento of me. My writing. My name. My face.

  It’s not real though.

  That’s not me. They want the me I used to be.

  But not me.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Wow, babe. That’s incredible.”

  I take a step back from my easel and study my latest painting project.

  “Do you think so?” I glance over at Ash, and my heart flutters at the sight of him sitting on the wicker love seat behind me.

  He’s wearing frayed and ripped jeans, barefoot, playing his guitar. His hair is pushed back by a pair of aviator sunglasses perched on his head.

  “I know so.” He stops strumming to peruse my painting. “It’s beautiful. I’m still blown away you’ve had this talent hidden in you all this time.” He winks at me, then starts up his slow melody again.

  There’s a cool fall breeze today, but it’s still warm enough for us to comfortably hang out on the back deck. For the past two weeks, it’s been my favorite place to paint, while Asher plays guitar and keeps me company. Teddy joins us too. Today he’s gnawing on the squirrel toy I bought when I went shopping with Kenzi a few days ago.

  I grab my brush and add a few little touches of amber light. This is my favorite of all my paintings to date. The image is of a sunrise—all orange, pink, and purple—reflecting on a serene lake. A girl with long, flowing dark hair sits on the edge of the lake, looking out over the water. Two butterflies flutter in the air around her. It matches the vision I saw in my head perfectly. I’m not sure where it came from—perhaps a memory? But the more I look at it, the more my gut tells me the scene is from my time in the coma.

  I think the girl in the painting is me.

  Satisfied, I clean up my brushes and paints then join Asher on the wicker love seat.

  He leans over and kisses my cheek, slowly moving his lips down to nuzzle into my neck, under my hair. Warm tingles jet up and down my spine, and I close my eyes, loving the affection. His lips and beard tickle me in that sensual but might-make-me-giggle way.

  “I couldn’t resist you,” he says with a sheepish grin when he lifts his head up. “Back to your painting—it’s beautiful. I feel like I could crawl right into it. I think we should get it framed and hang it in the bedroom.”

  “Really? You wouldn’t mind?” It’d mean a lot to me to have something that feels like mine in the master bedroom.

  “I wouldn’t mind at all. I like the sense of peace it has. I’d love seeing it every morning when I wake up. After I look at you, of course.”

  Smiling, I lean my head against his shoulder. “You’re sweet.”

  “Did you sign it?”

  “The painting? No.”

  “You gotta sign it, babe. It’s your art.”

  I chew my lip, contemplating if I want to do that or not. “I feel weird signing my name,” I admit.

  “I heard. Kenzi told me about the people in the parking lot.”

  I turn slightly to face him. “It was awkward. It felt really wrong to me—signing that name.”

  “It is your name,” he says softly, taking my hand in his. “I understand, though. It can be overwhelming when someone wants a piece of you.”

  “It felt like they wanted a piece of the wrong person. I’m not a rock star. I have no right posing for pictures or signing autographs. I can’t even answer their questions. I’m just a fake.” I stare down at our hands, focusing on his wedding band. He never takes it off. I’m wearing the butterfly ring, but I’ve never put the wedding band on.

  “Hey.” He tips my chin up. “You’re not a fake. Nothing about you is fake. I don’t like when you’re so hard on yourself.”

  “I felt fake giving my autograph to that woman. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel comfortable with that. Just thinking about it right now is making me feel like I never want to go shopping again.”

  He chuckles. “I don’t think you should give up shopping. Especially since I was hoping to take you to get a car this weekend.”

  I jolt with excitement and grab his arm. “Oh my God…are you serious?”

  “Yup. I had a little talk with our daughter, and she said I better take you to get your own car right away, or else she’s gonna take you herself to get one. She may have threatened me with a pink Lamborghini.”

  “I’ll take any car,” I say happily. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You can test drive a bunch and pick your favorite.”

  I throw my arms around him and give him a big kiss. “I’m so excited!” My own car! This is a big milestone for me.

  While I mull over car models and colors in my mind, he lifts the guitar off his leg and holds it out to me.

  I frown at it. “What’s wrong?”

  He gestures toward it with his chin. “Try it.”

  “Oh… I don’t know about that, Ash. I can’t—”

  He urges with excitement flashing in his eyes. “See how it feels in your hands.”

  Awkwardly, I take the guitar and hold it the way I’ve seen him hold it. It’s much heavier than I was expecting, and I have no idea what to do with my hands.

  Moving closer to me, he puts his arm around me and places his hands gently over mine, guiding them over the strings.

  “Feel the strings and the vibration.” His mouth is close to my ear, warm and whispery. The only thing I feel is a flush of heat between my thighs and the urge to kiss him.

  “Close your eyes… Your fingers might remember the movement.”

  I do as he says—closing my eyes and leaning back against his chest as he moves my fingers.

  He wants me to remember this part of our lives so bad, and I wish I could. For myself, for him, for my family, and for all the fans who loved me and my band.

  But I don’t feel anything at all.

  The guitar feels clunky in my lap. My fingers don’t move gracefully. Nothing resembling a beat or a melody drifts into my mind, begging for life on the strings. No lyrics haunt me.

  I pull my hands away. “I’m sorry. It just feels weird.”

  He takes the guitar away and leans it against the wicker table in front of us.

  “It’s okay,” he says, but there’s a shade of disappointment in his voice. “Maybe I could give you lessons a few times a week? That might help get you back into it.”

  The last thing I want is another weekly appointment with anyone.

  “That’s sweet, but I really don’t have an interest in it. At least not right now. Maybe someday…”

  “But you love to play. I’m sure it’ll come natural to you again once you just get the basics down—”

  “Asher.” I take a deep breath and lick my lips. “I don’t love to pla
y. Maybe I used to… but not anymore. I don’t even know how.”

  “I think it’s still there, babe. You’re like me—born to sing and play music. You had so much talent, such a unique voice. I don’t think that just goes away.”

  My chest tightens. Either Asher has incredible hope and faith, or he just suffers from an epic case of denial.

  “What if it is gone?” I ask. “Does that change things between us?” I stand and walk a few feet away to stare at my painting, anxiety churning in my stomach. “Can you be married to me if I’m not a musician? Not part of that world? What if I just want to paint now, or who knows, something else?”

  I turn toward him and lean back against the deck railing. Behind him, the sun is setting, and the sky looks just like it does in my painting—fiery splashes of color.

  “Of course I can be married to you. I didn’t marry you because you loved music. I married you because I love you. Music was something we bonded over, and it became our lives. It meant a lot to you, so I thought you’d want to try to reclaim that part of your life. That’s all.” He comes over to stand in front of me. “I just want you to be happy, Em. No matter what that means or what you do.”

  “I really, really want to believe that.”

  “You can believe that.”

  “I’m tired of trying to be Ember. And before you say it,” I hold up my hand, because his mouth is already open, “I know I’m Ember. But I don’t feel like that person. I don’t know that person. I might not ever be the Ember you remember. It’s been months, and yes…I’ve had memories here and there. Maybe this is it. I might just get bits and pieces of my past here and there for the rest of my life. But I think I want to stop trying to remember and just move forward with a new life. I don’t want to be Ember who has amnesia or Ember who used to do this or that. I just want a clean slate without the ghost of Ember following me around.”

  He stares at me, unblinking, for several moments, and I can almost hear his heart cracking and breaking. Nodding once, he looks down, takes a deep breath, then looks back up at me.

  The sadness in his eyes makes me want to remember every little thing about Ember Valentine, wrap it all up with a big red bow, and give it to him.

  I would, if I could.

  “I understand,” he says softly. “It’s hard. Because all those things you can’t remember? I can’t forget them. Our memories mean everything to me. They’re my life. It’s hard to let go of all that.”

  “I don’t think you have to let go or forget. But for us to move forward, we have to focus on the present. Who we are now.”

  “You’re right.” His voice is deep and raspy from holding back emotion. “I’m really tryin’, babe. I’m not usually so out of sorts with things. I’m the one who everyone comes to for advice, and now it’s like I’m this guy who keeps messing up.”

  “No, Asher.” I wipe at the tears brimming in my eyes. “You’re not messing up. I know you’re trying to help me, and you just want life back to normal. I do too.” I suck in a deep breath. “I wish things weren’t like this for either of us.”

  He steps closer and takes my face in his hands, wiping my tears with his thumbs. “We’re going to be okay, babe. We will.” His dark eyes swirl with a hurricane of hope, regret, and determination. “We’ll just find a new normal. Maybe you can’t play guitar anymore, but damn, your paintings are incredible. That’s something totally new and unexpected, and I love sitting here watching you paint.”

  “Really?”

  He bends down and kisses me. “No matter what, I want you to love your life. If that means lots of new things, that’s okay. I still want to be part of all of it.” He kisses me again. “Every.” Kiss. “Single.” Kiss. “Minute.”

  My chest aches with wishes for a happily ever after with him.

  They say you only live once. Somehow, it seems like I’ve been given the chance to live twice.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Dear Diary,

  I haven’t written in a long time. I’ve been so tired and running around nonstop. It’s amazing how fast things in my life have changed. I think it’s equally amazing how I thought I wanted something, and once I got that something, I thought I’d be totally happy. Surprise! It’s not really true. I thought I’d love being in a new rock band. I dreamt about it for a long time. It was my baby. But it’s been hard. Good too. But mostly hard.

  We just got off our first tour, which was amazing. We opened for A&E, which was kinda weird and maybe not the best decision. It got us out there, though. Some are saying that Sugar Kiss is only doing good because we’re an A&E “spin off.” Some are saying it’s because I’m married to Asher Valentine. Some are saying it’s just because we’re a bunch of half-dressed hot chicks. Ugh!

  Sydni, of course, is loving the attention and wears less and less on stage. I don’t want our band to have that kind of image, but she couldn’t care less. I mean, make up your mind, girl. Do you want to be a musician or a stripper? She’s having sex with everyone, and I keep telling her to calm down a little. She says I don’t understand because I’ve only been with Asher, and I haven’t experienced a variety of men. I don’t want to experience any other men. Ever.

  I’m not sure why, but I’ve been feeling kinda down lately. It doesn’t make sense because I have this amazing life. I have the best friend and husband in the world, I love my daughter, I love our home, I’m proud of the band, but I still feel depressed, and I hate it because I feel like I’m being ungrateful.

  I’ve been under a lot of scrutiny with the new fans and maybe I’m comparing myself to the other girls because they are all GORGEOUS and I feel like a plain Jane up there on the stage. My nose is huge and I’m not as toned as I used to be and I’m kinda tired of being a blonde and the stereotyping that comes with it. I want someone to just come and do a makeover on me.

  Sometimes I wonder if maybe Asher will get bored with me. Girls are constantly throwing themselves at him and I trust him completely but I don’t want him to be bored. He’s been with only me since he was fifteen. Sydni is constantly telling me that a man like Asher needs a lot of sex, and he’s going to want to take a spin with something new once in a while. Asher would never do that but I still worry maybe he fantasizes about it. I don’t know why I’m worried about all this. I have this odd sense of foreboding that I’ve never had before, like something bad is going to happen and I’m going to lose everything.

  I glance over at Asher, who’s sitting on the other end of the couch with me, rubbing my feet in his lap while he watches a John Wick movie.

  “Ash…did you ever think about wanting to be with another woman? I know you said you didn’t while I was in the coma, but what about before?”

  His head snaps to the right to look at me. “No. Never.”

  “You never even kinda fantasized about it? Wondered what it would be like to be with someone prettier, taller, curvier, more experienced?”

  “Is that in the journal?” His gaze zeroes in on the book in my hand as if it’s a weapon.

  “Yeah. Apparently Sydni was telling me that you’d want to try out other women since you’ve only been with me. It says here I knew you’d never cheat, but I worried that maybe sometimes you fantasized about being with someone else.”

  “Fucking Sydni.” He shakes his head and grabs the remote, hits pause on the movie, and tosses it onto the coffee table. “I’ve never fantasized about another woman, Ember. I only wanted you. I was one thousand percent happy with you. I never even watched porn. I didn’t want or need anyone else, physically or mentally. That’s what love is. Sydni wouldn’t understand love if it bit her in her crazy ass and gave her rabies.”

  “I believe you. I was just curious.”

  “What about you?” His eyebrows scrunch together. “Does it say in there if you wanted other guys? Were you bored with me?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? I want to know if you ever thought that.”

  “Honestly, every time you’re mentioned it’s
about how amazing you are. When I first started reading these, I thought it was just crazy puppy love, and eventually there’d be some entries about what a jerk you are sometimes, but so far, nope.”

  He flashes a smile that’s a mix of relief and cockiness. “I told ya.”

  “I also wrote that I was a little depressed. Apparently, this is right after the first Sugar Kiss tour. It says I felt like something bad was going to happen.”

  Running his hand up my leg to gently squeeze my calf, he frowns with concern. “You never told me that. Why were you depressed?”

  “It doesn’t say a lot about why. It sounds like I felt inferior around the other girls in the band. Like I wasn’t pretty enough. And that people were saying the band was only successful because I was married to you, and because it was an all-female band.” I hold the book out to him. “Do you want to read it? It might make more sense to you since you were there.”

  “No…it’s private. I can’t read your diaries.”

  “But I’m telling you what it says anyway, and I’m giving you permission.”

  “That’s different. No one should read your diary except you.”

  He crawls up the length of the couch and lies between my body and the cushions, half on top of me, wrapping his arm around my waist. “I had no idea you felt insecure about your looks. You’ve always been beautiful.” He kisses my shoulder. “I wish you’d told me. I would’ve shown you over and over how gorgeous you are.”

  I touch his hair, gently weaving my fingers through the soft silkiness. “Being with you is a little intimidating. You’re a good-looking guy, and you have this very magnetic aura about you that people—especially women—are drawn to. You’re sweet and easy to talk to. I haven’t seen women come on to you in person yet, but I see it on the concert videos, and it does make me a little bit jealous and insecure.”

  “You watch videos of me?” he asks, surprised.