“That’s your dancers’ faults!” I cry. “Blame them!”
He frowns. “What are you talking about?”
“I wasn’t sure if they were wearing underwear! So, I didn’t look up!”
Asher rubs his forehead roughly and glances up at the ceiling in exasperation. It’s the universal what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you look. And honestly, I ask myself the same question a lot.
He makes a noise between a sigh and a grunt. “When we saw the video footage, you were the only one that was even near the restrooms at the time the cops were called. That part was easy. Identifying you was the hard part. Your face wasn’t on camera, and it looked like you were alone. You didn’t dance with Aimee at all, and while you guys were near each other, you didn’t look like you guys came together.”
I remember. I was lost in my head, imagining Rogue as a strip club. Then, I was focused on Asher when my eyes caught sight of him heading into the VIP area. After that, Aimee danced with some guy, while I danced with strangers.
“Your 9-1-1 call was a dead end. You never identified yourself. Your phone was a dead end. It took forever to trace, and when we finally did, we found out that it was bought in cash.” A dry laugh ripples through him. “I thought someone was after me. You were a fucking ghost. Last week, we got our hands on video footage from someone who filmed my encounter with the cops.”
Memories of people in the crowd that surrounded the two cops and Asher flashed through my head. I had seen people with their cameras out, but I didn’t think to hide my face. I’m so damn stupid.
“Your face wasn’t in it. It was shot from behind, but your hands were on your friend’s back and that guy she was with. I knew it was you. I recognized the dress. After that, it was easier. We pulled the guy’s info from his bar tab. He was just some nobody lawyer you met there. We questioned him, but he knew nothing.”
I’m shocked. They questioned him? Guilt fills my stomach, and I hope he didn’t get hurt because of me. Wait… I remember him exchanging numbers with Aimee. Huh. He didn’t rat us out. I’m giving him mad props, but I don’t even remember his name.
“But your roommate was even easier to find. She posted dozens of pictures from that night on Instagram.” He laughs. “She even geotagged Rogue in them. Imagine my surprise when I saw your face in one of them.”
Our resident advisor took a picture of me and Aimee before we left to Rogue, and Aimee immediately posted it to Instagram—#Rogue #Exclusive #Roomies4Lyfe.
He gives me a sardonic laugh. “All we had to do was look at Rogue’s Instagram feed. We would’ve identified you in minutes. Instead, it took a month. I wasted a damn month and almost a million dollars to find someone who isn’t even a damn threat.”
Hold up. A million dollars?! I can’t even fathom that amount of money.
“You know, I wasn’t even sure whether or not you were a threat when I came here. Your background check came up empty. Not just clean but empty. As in there’s nothing on you past this last month.”
That’s because my last foster dad, Steve, the one that gave me the shirt I’m currently wearing, is a crazy fuck. He had an unhealthy obsession with me. Maybe he still does. He was starting to act on it, sneaking into my room at night and staring at me.
One time, I woke up to go to the bathroom, and he was there, stroking himself at the foot of my bed. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, figuring I was safer asleep than awake. I was relieved when he didn’t touch me that night, but I’ll always wonder if he had in the past and I just never woke up to it.
The next morning, I packed my bags, ditched school and headed straight to my social worker, who got me the Hell out of there. I spent my last month as a minor in some shitty group home, where Steve kept trying to visit me, even though he was warned by the cops not to.
My social worker even got me an emergency protective order against him, but that didn’t stop Steve from trying. It’s why I never bothered with a restraining order. I just left once I got the chance.
Once I turned 18, my social worker agreed to seal my file and help me change my name, which used to be Elena Lucy Reeves. Now, it’s Lucy Ives. I changed it to my middle name and my biological mother’s maiden name. Then, I hightailed it out of the country.
For two years, I was gone. And now, here I am, in danger again and wearing the shirt Steve got me.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
Asher laughs again. It’s a lifeless sound. “You’re a damn ghost, but I don’t think you’re connected to the mafia. I wasn’t sure before, but after meeting you again, I don’t think so.” His eyes peruse my body, causing me to shiver. His full lips curl up in disgust. “I mean look at you. You’re shaking, for fuck’s sake. It’s pathetic.” Those chilling blue eyes narrow on me, and he takes a menacing step closer. “Why’d you call the cops?”
I take a step back and occupy myself by eyeing the floor.
It’s a really interesting floor.
Looks like a floor.
Feels like a floor.
Floor.
Floor.
Floor.
Floor.
Floo—
Asher interrupts my beautiful ode to the floor. “You’re going to have to answer me eventually.”
I keep my eyes trained on my dirty friend, the floor. “I-I… I thought that b-big guy was h-hurting that girl.”
“He was.”
I look up at him, surprised that he would admit it.
He continues, “But that was the point. She knew it. I knew it. He knew it. Everyone that passed them knew it. Everyone but you.”
He takes a step closer, and I try to take one back, but I’m already pressed against the wall. He’s so close now, I can feel his breath on my forehead. I can even smell the mint in it, as cold as the indifference in his eyes.
The look of indifference is replaced by mirth. “Lucy, did you call the cops because you were mad I didn’t finish you off?” His hands trail down my body, resting below my hips. “We can fix that easily.”
When his fingers brush against my jean-clad ass, I shout, “No!” I’m not sure if it’s a reply to his question or a response to his touch.
I can’t believe I ever had the courage to touch this man, though that was before I learned that he’s in the mob. It’s as if the second I found out, my fear extinguished my bravado in its entirety, ensconcing it like a solar eclipse. I can only hope the world will continue to rotate, and one day, the sun will reveal itself—along with my nerve.
The amusement in his face is gone, and he leans down and whispers in my ear, “So, what are we going to do with you?”
Is this where I’m supposed to beg for my life?
I’ll do it if it means I’ll live. I’m building a future for myself at Wilton, and that’s worth begging for. I don’t care if that makes me pathetic or weak. I know my strengths and weaknesses enough to know that I will never get away from this man unless he lets me.
“Don’t kill me.” I look up at him.
Gosh, he’s so close right now.
“Please, don’t kill me,” I beg again, the pleading in my voice so unfamiliar to my own ears.
His smile is patronizing. “I won’t kill you. You’re an innocent. You stepped wrong, but you’re still an innocent.”
“What are you going to do to me?” I wince.
That sounded more suggestive than it was supposed to.
The smirk on his face tells me he heard it, too. He leans even closer, dipping his head so we’re almost eye level with one another. He lifts his finger under my chin and tilts my face up. I let out a shaky breath, and he breathes it in. It’s the most intimate thing I have ever experienced, and I’m not a virgin.
When he speaks, his lips brush lightly against mine. “You’ll owe me a favor.”
My eyes drop to his lips. “A favor?”
Each time we speak, we’re practically kissing, stealing the air from one another but not quite giving it back. I don’t fight it. Frozen in fear and lust and s
tupidity, I can’t, and that’s frustrating.
What am I doing?
This is a man who has killed before. Hell, a couple hours ago, he was about to kill me. Yet, here I am, brushing my lips against his, stealing his breaths like they’re mine to take. But other than going along with this, I can’t see any other options that don’t end with my body floating in the Hudson River.
A part of me sees this for what it is. A fear tactic. A power play. He’s letting me know that he controls me, reminding me how afraid I am of him. And he’s right. I’m too scared to put up a fight, but I value my education at Wilton too much to run.
He backs away. “A favor. I take it you have a new phone?”
When I nod, still dazed, he holds out his hand. I point to my backpack. He grabs my phone from the front pocket and enters something in. A few seconds later, I hear his phone ringing. He returns my phone to my backpack.
“You have my number. I have yours.”
And then he’s gone without a goodbye. Though he left the door to the stairwell propped open for me, I stand there for an hour, pressed against the wall. Shocked.
I owe a favor to a mobster.
How the Hell did that happen?
Chapter Seven
He who is not courageous
enough to take risks will
accomplish nothing in life.
Muhammad Ali
Asher isn’t just a mobster. He’s a fixer, which is “so damn hot.” At least, that’s what Aimee just told me when she confronted me in our dorm room. She had pounced as soon as I opened the door. I just finished telling her what had happened, starting from the night we went to Rogue and ending with me in a top secret lab on campus. Of course, I left out the part about hooking up with Asher.
“So, let me get this straight.” She’s currently lounging on my bed in pajamas, because her half of the room is an absolute pigsty like always. She couldn’t even find a seat on her bed before she gave up and laid down on mine. “He held your hand as he walked you to class? That is soooo cute!”
“No, it’s not.” I cross my arms. “It was to make sure I didn’t escape! What’s cute about holding someone against their will?!”
I purposely ignore all the romance novels I like to read, where it’s more than okay to be kidnapped so long as the kidnapper is rich and handsome. I would be lying if I say I haven’t swooned while reading a book where a rich, hot guy stalks a pretty girl and is a major jerk to her, yet they fall in love anyways.
But that’s all fiction.
Having it happen in reality is completely different.
And scary.
Very scary.
She shakes her head. “No way was it against your will. I don’t believe for a second that you can hold hands with someone that hot and not want to be in that position.” Aimee is clearly someone who suffers from Romance Stalker Syndrome.
“He’s a fixer for the mafia,” I say again.
That has to have been the tenth time I’ve said that. I don’t expect her to magically abandon her vanity and fantasies, but I can’t not bring it up. I’m still having trouble wrapping my brain around my situation.
“That’s even hotter!” She claps her hands vigorously, in Elle Woods meets Bruce Banner fashion, the movement dainty yet causing the twin-sized bed to shake. “He’s like a real life John Wick, except he’s a million times hotter than Keanu Reeves.”
I frown. “Except Keanu Reeves is actually a good person. Like, a really good person. And did you see him in The Replacements?” I fan my face. “Swoon.”
She throws her hands up, like she is the one that has the right to be frustrated with me. “You’re digressing! Asher Black is clearly the hotter one.”
She’s impossible. She’s dead-on (Asher is hotter, after all), but she’s still ridiculous. He threatened me, for goodness’ sake. Doesn’t that lower him on the Richter scale of hotness? And Keanu Reeves would never threaten me…
Plus, most of Asher’s threats were subliminal, which is even worse. It means he’s calculated. Cunning. Asher isn’t a schoolyard bully relying on brute strength, though I have no doubt that he possesses it. His greatest strength, however, is in his subtlety, the way he never reveals his hand unless he wants to. I have a feeling that he never does anything without a purpose.
“You’re digressing.” I take a seat on top of my desk and open a new pack of Starbursts. “The point is that I’m in danger. I owe a favor to the fixer for the most dangerous crime family in the country. My life is over. I might as well change my name, surgically alter my face, and move to Tajikistan… where he’ll probably still be able to track me.” I groan. “What am I going to do, Aims? This is the mafia we’re talking about.”
Aimee’s face becomes serious. When she opens her mouth and says, “Here’s what you’re going to do,” I almost expect her to give me actual advice. She doesn’t, of course. That would be asking for too much.
Instead, she says, “You’re going to dress in your sexiest dress, that LBD I’ve been eyeing for the past month, and you’re going to march up to Rogue and demand to see Asher. Then, you’re going to spread your legs for him, he’ll fuck you till he’s practically living in your V, and you guys will get married out of wedlock. But who cares? No one’s judging. Because, and I repeat, he’s so fucking hot. You’d get to look at that tight ass all day long.”
I throw a Starburst at her forehead. “Yeah, and then, after our wedding, I’ll be shot down by a rival family, but not before the poison that Asher has been slipping into my food daily kicks in. And the worst part is that he’ll get away with it, because the poison is untraceable.” I roll my eyes and huff. “Be serious, Aimee! Gosh, how is this guy not in jail already?”
But I know the answer to that question before I ask it. He’s clever, cleverer than any cop, agent, and criminal on his side and against him. That makes him untouchable. I witnessed this firsthand in the way he carries himself, his intelligent eyes always scanning for threats no matter how exposed we were and even when we weren’t. He was always on alert, ready. For what, I don’t know, and I have a feeling that I don’t want to know.
Asher isn’t just street smart. He’s also a gifted savant with a formal education most people can’t even dream of let alone handle. Coupled with his unparalleled looks, he’s the full package. It makes him lethal.
“I am serious!” Aimee sits up on my bed. A rare frown graces her pretty features. “I’m completely serious, Loosey Goosey.” She rolls her eyes at my scowl. She knows I hate that nickname. “You have an in with one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. You’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.”
“Eligible bachelor?!” I throw another Starburst at her, and when she catches it in her mouth, I throw the whole tube of them her way. I watch as all of the Starbursts fling out of the rip in the tube and land on her face. “I’m pretty sure being a criminal makes him ineligible!”
She gives me a pitiful sigh. “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. When are you going to get it?” She unwraps the Starburst that landed in her mouth and tosses it back inside, chomping on it with the grace of a gorilla.
It’s cherry. My favorite flavor. Fuck her.
“There’s nothing to get. He’s a criminal, I called the cops on him, and he was going to kill me. End of story.”
The End.
Ha! If only.
With her mouth full, Aimee replies, “But he’s a hot criminal. It’s not like he’s a pedophile, domestic abuser, or pimp.”
I groan. I’m embarrassed on behalf of my gender. “There’s no such thing as ‘hot’ crime! Crime is crime!” I make a mental note to discover the cure to Romance Stalker Syndrome.
She snorts. “Not if you look like Asher Black. Seriously, Lucy, I’m so jealous of you right now. You should have seen my face when I heard that Asher Black is dating you.”
“Jealous?! You’re crazy, Aimee. Crazy!” I lay my back on the desk, so I won’t have to look at her. “And we’re definitely not dating.”
“It sure didn’t look like it.”
“Look like it? Seriously? You saw me, and you didn’t come save me? Or at least call the police?! As a best friend, you suck.”
“I wish I was there, so I could get a long peek at his fine ass.” She pauses, and I hear some movement from her direction. “See for yourself.”
Aimee’s giant phone lands on my chest. I flip it over and look at the screen. There’s an open text on it from one of the #TeamAimee girls in our hall. The attachment is a picture of me and Asher, walking across the campus quad to Sproul.
With our hands clenched tightly together, we actually do look like a couple. He looks amazing in his suit, and in my fitted black skinny jeans, risqué top, and heeled booties, I look like somebody worthy of his good looks. I would even go as far as saying we look good together.
Even my normally unruly black locks agree with me today, settling neatly below the narrow curve of my waist. My long lashes are coated with black mascara, bringing out the vibrant greens in my eyes. Though I look exhausted, my clear skin is even naturally flushed at the cheeks. It’s from fear, but looking at the picture, I can’t tell.
We look good together. Really good.
Aimee speaks softly, “Look at that, and tell me honestly that you guys wouldn’t be good together.”
The fight leaves me. I know why Aimee is pressing the issue. After the second week of school, Aimee confronted me, informing me that if I’m a lesbian, she would still want to be friends with me.
When I asked her what she was going on about, she said, “Well, you haven’t even looked at a guy since I met you.”
Clearly, she equates celibacy to lesbianism. I responded by telling her that men will only distract me from my studies, but that isn’t the real reason. Asher is. For the past month, I haven’t been able to focus on anything except my fear of retribution. Aimee dropped it then, but she hasn’t stopped suggesting guys she would love to set me up with.
Asher Black: A Fake Fiance Mafia Romance Novel (The Five Syndicates Book 1) Page 6