ASHER (The Beckett Boys, Book Three)

by Olivia Chase

  When he finishes, he collapses on top of me, and I reach one hand up to stroke his hair. The anger seems to be gone now, and left in its place is someone who’s spent everything.

  We stay like that for a while, and then he lifts up and removes the ties from my legs. Rubs the stiff and sore limbs to get blood flowing better. Removes the condom and disposes of it, then comes back to bed.

  Nothing is said for several minutes. We both just breathe, our sweat-slick bodies pressed together, limbs tangled. I feel tired and heavy and satisfied and something else. Something heavier throbs in my heart.

  I know what it is, and it scares me. Because the L-word is such a big thing when I still have no idea what the hell we are.

  Asher was rough, yes. But I still saw more behind his eyes when he looked at me. Deeper emotion.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Asher murmurs against my shoulder.

  I don’t move, try to stay still. “I can’t imagine.”

  “I have no memories of her at all. Jax and Smith, they at least remember something, even if it’s small. But she’s a stranger to me, and for my entire life, I’ve thought she was dead.”

  “Where was she?” Brooklyn didn’t divulge that information when she told me that the Beckett brothers’ mom returned to Rock Bridge.

  With a sigh, Asher fills me in on the story. A lump in my throat keeps me from commenting as he explains her prison sentence. “And now she’s back here and she wants to have a relationship with us.”

  I hear the weight of his heart in his words, and my own heart aches for him. I roll to my side and stroke his hair. He curls against me, and something in my chest shatters. I think it’s the last of my reservation about Asher. “So you don’t want to have a relationship with her?”

  “How can I?” He sounds genuinely baffled by this idea. “She abandoned us.”

  “That was wrong,” I agree. “But it sounds like she wants to make amends for it.”

  “It’s too fucking late for that.” His voice drops flat.

  The words sit between us, in the air surrounding us. I feel for Asher, but I also can empathize with his mom. The shame she must have felt about being sentenced to prison, not wanting her sons to know that, perhaps wanting to spare them the agony of seeing her waste years away behind bars.

  And maybe it was the wrong choice, but she seems to feel terrible and desires to make things right.

  “How do your brothers feel?” I finally ask.

  “They’re shocked, too, but they’re gonna give it a try.” There’s a hint of disgust in his tone. Like he can’t seem to envision why they’d do that.

  “Is forgiveness hard for you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

  I feel his shrug. “I dunno. I guess in this case it is.” He yawns. “Let’s go to sleep. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” He tugs me tighter against him, and after a few seconds, I feel him start to relax.

  My head is swirling with emotion and thoughts. Uncertainty. I’m feeling so much right now that I don’t know if I can sleep. Asher opened up and talked to me about something very sensitive to him. He fucked me senseless, made me come twice, was rough on my body…but he also dropped his guard at least a couple of times.

  Asher is complicated, that much is for sure. I don’t know what he and I are, but I know me, and at some point, we’ll need to talk about it. Especially given that I’m already feeling torn about leaving him at the beginning of next year.

  I still want to go to school, desperately. It’s been my goal for a while now. The one thing I’ve focused on attaining. And it’s right in my grasp.

  And then Asher is here, literally in my grasp…and I don’t know how I can walk away from him.

  I stand in front of my bedroom mirror and eye myself with a critical gaze. The costume I have on isn’t the sexiest—I’m dressed like a zombie cheerleader with thick tights on to protect my legs against the chilly October air. But I worked hard on the makeup and I’m pretty damn proud of it.

  I have no idea what Asher is dressing as. When he asked me to come to the costume party, he said we should surprise each other. I agreed.

  Over the last couple of days, we’ve avoided the topic of his mom when talking or texting. I know he’s still feeling confused, angry, sensitive, and I don’t want to add to his tension. But it’s just another thing I feel like we aren’t talking about.

  The list keeps getting bigger.

  I slip into my intentionally scuffed-up beater tennis shoes, give my hair one last muss, careful not to disturb the leaves I tucked in there, then head downstairs.

  Mom is sitting by the front door, a bowl of candy in her lap. “You look amazing,” she says with a laugh. “I don’t know how you manage to pull it off and still be beautiful.”

  I smirk and give her a sassy wink. “I have good genes.”

  “So is Asher on his way to get you?” Behind her question are a hundred other questions, and I can see them all in her eyes—are he and I together? Have I forgiven him for running off the way he did? Do I love him? What am I going to do about college?

  I sigh. “I know you’re worried, Mom.”

  “Of course I am. I don’t want you to get hurt again. Or have your life thrown off balance by all of this.” She stands and hands me a small Snickers bar, which I unwrap and eat. She knows my favorite candy, of course. “I know you’re an adult, and I can’t tell you what to do. I just worry.”

  “Ironic, you talking about how I’m an adult as you ply me with Snickers bars,” I laugh.

  She smiles, a little sadly, but proud too. “You’ll always be my child,” she says.

  “Thanks. I’d hug you, but I don’t want to get zombie mess all over you.” I grin.

  “Yeah, let’s not do that,” she says with a mock shudder.

  “I’m going to be careful, I promise.” Well, reasonably so. I haven’t been able to protect my heart from falling for him again. “And I’m still going to school.” Most likely. God, even thinking that, being wishy-washy on the topic, makes a hot surge of guilt flood me.

  I can’t change myself for a guy. I shouldn’t. But Asher makes me rethink everything I thought I wanted.

  Can he and I make it work if I’m not living in Rock Bridge? Would he even want to?

  The doorbell rings. Mom opens it, bowl of candy in hand. “You’re a little old to be trick-or-treating, aren’t you?” she says wryly, opening the door wider to let Asher in.

  He’s wearing his old high school football uniform…which is scuffed up and dirty. And he has zombie makeup on.

  “No way,” I say with a laugh. “No way. That’s hilarious.” We purposely never divulged what we would be dressing up as, and yet here we are—kind of picking the same costume.

  His jaw drops when he sees me. “Holy shit. Are you kidding me?”

  Mom shakes her head. “Okay, maybe you two do belong together. That’s pretty eerie, you guys.”

  We head out the door into the cool night air, and Asher leads me to his car. It warms up again quickly, and I sigh as I press my chilly hands to the heater.

  “I can’t believe we had the same idea,” he murmurs in wonder, eyeing me again. “Your makeup looks way better than mine, though.”

  “I dunno. You’re pretty attractive with pasty gray skin,” I say, grinning. “You pull it off well.”

  We take off, going very slowly to be careful of trick-or-treaters prowling through the neighborhood. We take turns pointing out costumes that catch our eye, laughing at the massive pillows some kids carry that are stuffed with candy.

  After twenty minutes, we pull up along the curb of a nice neighborhood behind a row of cars lined up, and Asher shuts off the car, looks at me. There’s a definite warmth in his eyes as he rakes his gaze over my breasts.

  “If we had cheerleaders who looked like you in school, I never would have been able to focus on football,” he says.

  I flush at his compliment. “You’re silly.” Besides, if I’d been a cheerleader, I
wouldn’t have been able to focus on cheers. It was bad enough going to the football games to watch him—my attention was riveted on Asher the whole time.

  He leans over and brushes his lips against mine. “God, I want you again. Always. I crave being inside you.”

  The hushed words make my skin heat up, and suddenly the cheerleader uniform is too warm. “You turn me on,” I admit. “Even just your words. There’s an intensity in you that draws me.” I will myself to stop talking, because with every day that passes, I find that I want to confess my feelings for him. And until we talk about what we are, I can’t do that.

  I won’t do that.

  Asher pulls back, brushes the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. “How about we go inside and get the party started?” he says with a wink. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a little bit of fun.” He pauses, and his voice drops. “And then after, I’m going to hike up that sexy fucking skirt and eat your pussy again.”

  I tremble at the promise in his words, knowing that he means exactly what he says.

  Asher

  “Dude!” A hand claps me on the back as soon as I get inside. “Glad to see you made it, fucker.” It’s Scott, who played ball with me in high school and is the host of the party. The room is filled with people in a variety of costumes, drinking beer, the music cranked loud and bass thudding everywhere. Scott’s family is pretty rich, so the house is massive and filled with white furniture.

  “Thanks for the invite,” I tell him.

  “Go help yourself to anything you want in the kitchen. There’s beer, liquor, pizza.” Someone calls Scott’s name, and he says, “Shit, gotta go. See ya around!”

  Whitney stays by my side. Rock Bridge isn’t a large town—pretty much everyone here knows each other. But she and I ran in different crowds in school. This was my group of friends, the jocks. The partiers.

  “Let’s get a drink,” I tell her, taking her hand and guiding her through the clusterfuck of people. It takes a while to get there, because every foot or so, someone is stopping me and trying to gab away.

  In the kitchen, a couple is making out against the fridge. I see coolers on the floor overflowing with ice and beer bottles. I grab two bottles and crack them open, then hand Whitney one.

  “There are a lot of people here,” she observes wryly. “I didn’t know we had this many people in Rock Bridge total.”

  I keep finding my gaze drawn back to her. It’s so funny that we both dressed alike. Funny and strange and cool. Makes me feel like there’s something real here. I have a rush of emotion for her and try to swallow it down. Not here, not right now. I need more time to deal with everything. Tonight is all about relaxing and not thinking about anything serious.

  I take a swig of beer. Someone jostles me from behind, and I shoot the guy a glare. He holds his hands up with a drunken laugh.

  “Wanna go outside?” I ask Whitney.

  “God, yes,” she says with a relieved sag of her shoulders. “This is a little bit much for me, to be honest.”

  We head out the back door, a cool breeze hitting me as soon as we step out. There are people mingling in the yard, but not nearly as many. More room to walk around. Stars are emerging overhead as the sky nears full darkness.

  Whitney tilts her head up and sucks in an audible breath. “It’s gorgeous out here. Crisp and clear. Fall is my favorite season.”

  I can’t tear my gaze away from her profile. The glow from the house makes her skin warm and golden, and her long lashes flutter against the tops of her cheeks as she smiles. She’s fucking gorgeous. “I remember,” I murmur to her.

  She opens her eyes and fixes her gaze on me. I can see her cheeks pinking. “Duh. Sorry. Of course you already know that. I’m sure I said it enough over the years.”

  A sudden need for her courses through my blood. My cock rises. “I see you have a lot of skin covered up,” I say darkly, giving her a knowing grin.

  She gives a husky laugh. “Thank God for long-sleeved costumes. And for fall. No one is questioning why I have everything covered up.” Her eyes dance, and I step closer, remembering the night earlier this week where we had that insanely hot sex.

  Her submitting to me, letting me bind her legs and wrists, take her. So rough, so dirty, so fucking good.

  “—surprised to see you here,” someone behind me is saying, interrupting my thoughts. I turn around and see Davis, a fellow ball player from high school, holding a red cup in his hand, eyeing me with bold interest.

  I never liked him. Arrogant, overly aggressive, with a big mouth. He wasn’t a good team player, either, too worried about making the big catches and impressing people. “And yet I’m not surprised to see you at all.” Of course he’d show up at the party. There are people around to show off in front of.

  He quirks a brow and widens his eyes in an innocent manner. “Is it true your mom showed up out of nowhere a few days ago? Word around town is that she was in prison or something for like twenty years. Maybe I should go pay her a visit, huh? She’s probably wound up after twenty years, I could help her let off some steam.” Davis laughs and looks around to see if anyone heard his sick joke.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, my fist is flying toward his face and smashing into his nose.

  “Fuck!” Davis screams, dropping his cup and reaching to his face.

  I pull back to hit him again when Whitney grabs my arm. I shake her off and shoot her a glare. This fucker deserves to be hit again.

  “Stop it!” she cries out, glaring at me.

  I try to control my breathing, though my rage has flared up and is surging out of control. I’m almost shaking with suppressed anger. “Get the fuck out of my face, Davis, before I start smashing your ugly nose up again.”

  Davis stands up, blood streaming out of his nose. “You’re a fucking idiot, just like your whole criminal family.”

  I move to punch him again when he dodges, then socks me in the stomach. The wind is knocked out of me, and another punch lands on my mouth. I feel my lip split open, and blood fills my tongue.

  I tackle Davis to the ground as we punch each other, grunting and grabbing and trying to take control of the fight. I can hear people around us, gathering in a circle, but I have no fucks to give about that. All that pent-up anger I’ve been carrying for days—hell, for weeks—finally has an outlet. Beating the shit out of this arrogant fuck.

  Davis delivers a hard blow to my ear that sets it ringing. I punch him in the kidney, and when he gasps and freezes from the pain, I slam his mouth with my fist, watching in satisfaction as more blood covers his face.

  Fucker.

  Large hands grasp my shoulders and pull me off him as a couple of guys yank me away. “I’m not done beating this asshole up,” I gasp, scrambling to get out of their grip.

  “Knock it off,” Scott says sharply on my right. He’s clenching my arm. “You need to go, Asher. I don’t want any fighting here.”

  I manage to shake him off and glare, panting. Now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off, pain flares all over me, my mouth, my side, my ear. My knuckles throb with my pulse, which is frantic and erratic. I bite back a groan.

  Whitney comes up beside me and takes my arm. “Let’s go,” she says evenly.

  I let her lead me out of the yard and back into the house, the crowd parting for us. We’re silent as we emerge through the front door and walk down the sidewalk toward my car.

  Whitney holds her hand out. “Give me the keys.” There’s a vibration of anger in her voice now. Her eyes are narrow slits.

  “I can drive,” I say stubbornly. My fist is pulsing harder, my knuckles raw. Fuck, I punched Davis good. Feels like I hit a brick wall or something.

  “I’m not arguing about this. Give me the keys.” There’s a sharpness in her tone now that makes my irritation flare back up.

  “Whatever.” I dig with my good hand into my pocket and drop them in her hand. When she clicks the lock, I settle into the passenger seat.

  The
ride back to my place is stilted, with neither of us talking to each other. Thankfully, Jax and Brooklyn are out, so I don’t have to answer questions from them about why I’m so ragged-looking. Whitney keys the door and goes inside, and I follow. She heads right for the kitchen, running water from the faucet and grabbing a few paper towels to dampen.

  I drop into a seat at the table when she walks over to me. The paper towel touches my eyebrow, and I rear back from the shock of cold and resurgence of pain on my face. There’s blood clumped on the paper towel. I didn’t even know that my eyebrow had been split. Fucking Davis.

  Whitney eases up on her ministrations, her eyes softening as she dabs at my injuries. I force myself to sit still. When she gets a fresh damp paper towel and reaches for my hand, she sighs. “God, honey, you look like you punched a two-ton truck.” Her touch is gentle over my bruised knuckles. “I know why you did it, but this is a bad way to handle your feelings about your mom.”

  “Doesn’t matter how I feel about her. No one runs their fucking mouth about my family,” I say.

  Whitney sighs and tosses the paper towel on the table. “You’re so damn stubborn, Asher!”

  “Of course I am,” I retort. “I’m a Beckett. We’re idiots, didn’t you know? Our mother went to prison, and our father died, and—”

  Whitney’s mouth covers mine, and the words die on my tongue. Her lips brush over me, careful to avoid the split on the side. She cups my face and locks her eyes with mine. I can see all her emotions shimmering in them. “I worry about you, bottling everything up, never really dealing with things,” she whispers against my lips. “All the stuff we haven’t talked about just keeps brewing in you, getting stronger and stronger.”

  I reach over with my good hand and touch her fingers, press her palm to my cheek. “I’m not good enough for you.”

  “Don’t say that.” Her whisper is harsh, and she rests her forehead against mine, her eyes fluttering closed.

  But it’s the truth. Deep down, I know that. I’ve always known that. I don’t deal with my emotions well. I run from problems or ignore them and hope they’ll go away.