That took the wind out of her sails. “Oh,” she said, much calmer. “Sorry. I thought I was being clear that I was leaving.”
Asher huffed indignantly. “No, I’m sorry! Your vague hand signals were anything but clear, a friggin’ mime would be more obvious! I thought I’d have a heart attack when you didn’t come back! I spent an hour trying to find you at the club until I finally gave up and came home. And lo and behold, there she was! Sleeping like Goldilocks—”
“Wait, I wasn’t in your bed. What are you talking about?”
There was a short silence. “I used the spare key you gave me to get into your apartment. I just needed to check and see if you were home. And yes, you were—snoring in blissful ignorance, I might add—so I didn’t have to take that extra Xanax—”
“Asher!” Ember stomped her foot, and immediately felt so ridiculous she was grateful there was no one there to see it. “You can’t just sneak in to my bedroom and watch me sleep! This isn’t Twilight, for God’s sake! Do we need to have a talk about boundaries?”
“I wasn’t watching you sleep, I was just checking on you! I just peeked in and then left! Sorry for caring!”
Uh-oh. She knew Seriously Cranky Asher when she heard him. This was a precursor to Arctic Cold Shoulder Asher, who could last an indefinite period of time, in which case she’d only have Dante, her stepmother, and the customers at the store to talk to. Keeping to yourself really had its drawbacks sometimes.
Reining in her temper, she blew out an exasperated breath. “Ash,” she said, in a soft, cajoling voice.
“No,” he said firmly, but she still detected the pout.
“C’mon, don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry I scared you. And I’m glad you care. You know you’re my only friend. Who else will put up with my crap? You said it yourself, you’re my fairy godmother, so you can’t stay pissed. I might need you to turn a pumpkin into a coach one of these days.”
There was a low, disgruntled, hmmpf, but nothing more.
“I’ll make it up to you. How about…” Inspiration hit. “How about if we watch Reservoir Dogs together tonight?” His favorite movies always involved a lot of macho gun-slinging, bromancing, and blood, so he adored anything involving Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson, or Quentin Tarantino.
His response to her movie invitation was silence.
“And I can order tapas from that place you like down the block.”
More silence. He still wasn’t taking the bait. Ember knew she had to get serious, or risk a pout-fest that could last well into next month. “And…I’ll tell you all about what happened with Christian last night after I left you at the club.”
There was a loud, high-pitched inhalation on the other end of the phone that sounded very much like the noise a vacuum cleaner makes when turned on. She thought her brain might get sucked out through her ear and disappear through the line.
“Christian! Not the Christian?”
At her sound of affirmation, Asher said, “I’m on my way,” and hung up.
It couldn’t have been fifteen seconds before he knocked on the front door. Ember opened it to find him in a peacock blue kimono and bare feet, his face slathered in a thick layer of pale green cream.
“Is that moisturizer?” she asked, stepping back to let him in.
He breezed past trailing the scent of cucumbers and lavender. “Pore-reducing mask. It’s wonderful for the skin tone. You should try it.”
“Is that your way of telling me I have a problem with my pores?”
He swung around and his kimono billowed in a bell around his ankles. Arms akimbo, he looked her up and down. “Honey, your pores are the least of your problems. When are you going to let me take you shopping?”
“Hmm.” She looked at the ceiling, pretending to decide. “How about the Tuesday after never?”
“You are no fun. Seriously, what’s a fairy godmother good for if she can’t buy you a dress for the ball?”
“Ball? There will be no balls, thank you very much. The only thing worse than wearing a dress is hearing the howls of laughter as I do my version of dancing, which looks uncannily like a reanimated corpse during an epileptic fit. So not going to happen.”
“So that’s why you never dance when we go out! Well you just need the right teacher, honey! I can teach anyone to dance! Here, follow me.”
Before Ember could protest, Asher had gathered her up in his arms and begun trilling “I Could Have Danced All Night” from My Fair Lady, swinging her around like laundry on a clothesline. It didn’t last long because Ember trod on his bare feet so many times he finally released her and limped away, gasping in pain.
“Christ, you weren’t kidding!” He hobbled to the couch and threw himself on it, collapsing with a theatrical sigh to rub his bruised toes. “Were those feet of yours donated from the morgue?”
“I tried to warn you.” Ember flopped down on the couch beside him. “You should have seen the carnage when my mother tried to put me in ballet when I was fourteen. Those poor, poor boys.”
Asher sighed. “Ballet boys. In tights. God was good when She thought of that one.” He turned to her with twinkling eyes. “And speaking of ballet boys…spill it, sister. Spill it all. And don’t leave a single dirty detail out. You need to make up for damaging my arches.”
Ember blew out a breath, trying to decide where to begin, and then started with when she first saw Christian at the store and ended with the delivery of roses.
When she finished, Asher was sitting with his shoulders hunched up around his ears, clutching the neck of his blue silk kimono, gaping at her through his pore-reducing mask.
“Oh. My. God. I knew he was hot, but lavender roses? ‘You want to see me as much as I want to see you?’ ” He fanned himself with one hand. “Scorching, honey. Seriously scorching. I need to go take a cold shower with my George Clooney blow up doll.”
Ember said, “You are a very, very disturbed person.”
He shrugged. “Of course I am. All the best people are. What, you want to hang out with normal people?” He shuddered and drew his robe tighter around his neck.
“No, I suppose not. Normal people aren’t nearly as interesting as you.”
They shared a grin. “So what are you going to do?”
Ember’s smile faded. She looked down at her hands, inspected her nails—in dire need of a manicure—and sighed. “Nothing, obviously. It’s your classic Beauty and the Beast tale, except he’s Beauty and I’m the Beast. Honestly, I’m sure he’s just in-between lingerie models or something. I can’t figure out why he’s giving someone like me the time of day.”
Asher reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair off Ember’s shoulder. He rested his hand there for a moment, then softly said, “You don’t always have to do that, you know.”
She glanced at him, confused. “Do what?”
He was looking at her carefully, his brows drawn together, his mouth—surrounded by green cream—downturned. “Put yourself down.”
“Look at me, Ash. I’m the poster girl for ‘Average.’ There’s nothing about me that would tempt a man like him.”
“Except there is. You. You’re a lot cuter than you give yourself credit for, even if you are hiding it behind all those baggy clothes and unplucked eyebrows and scowls. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you’re not full of bubblegum and bullshit like a lingerie model. Trust me, I’ve known a few. Plus, you’ve got a tight little figure and a very perky set of headlights,” he added, glancing down at her T-shirt clad chest. “If I were into that kind of thing, I would totally do you.”
Ember pulled a face, a combination of gee, thanks, and gross, stop.
“Granted, that attitude of yours is a little beastly, but if he can see past that, he might be a keeper.”
“Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Ash. I’ve known him a few days. He could be a serial killer, for all I know. Or—worse—an accountant.”
Her mother had once told her never to marry an accountant because even while he was making l
ove to her, he’d be counting all the ways he could be saving money instead. It might have been unfair, but it was an unattractive image that had stuck.
Asher scoffed and rolled his eyes. “If that man is an accountant, I’m the King of Spain. Seriously, honey, Christian is one thing and one thing only.”
Ember lifted her brows.
“Hot, hard Alpha male.”
Ember’s nose wrinkled. “You make him sound like a horny wolf or something. Alpha male?”
“There are only three types of men, honey. Alphas, Betas and Assholes. The last two come in varying degrees, but an Alpha…well, they only come in one size. A smart woman’s job is to find out what kind of male she’s dealing with, before she falls in love with him. Because once your heart gets involved, you’re toast.”
Smiling, Ember settled back against the cushions of the couch and tucked her feet up under her legs. “This should be educational.”
“Okay, we’ll start at the bottom. Assholes, well that speaks for itself. The tricky thing with an Asshole, though, is that they can manage to convince you—sometimes well enough so you’ll marry them—that they’re not really an Asshole. They’re generally charming, intelligent, and magnetic, and it’s easy to mistake that magnetism for maturity, for authentic masculinity. They’re fun and dynamic, they’re exciting. But their true nature eventually reveals itself. These are the guys who walk slightly ahead of you, just a little bit faster so you have to hurry to keep up. They always forget how you take your coffee, they flirt with other women right in front of you, they drive like madmen and tell you—not very nicely—to lighten up when you remark that you’d rather not die in the passenger seat of their car.
“They commit all kinds of minor, seemingly forgivable trespasses against your self-esteem, they make you feel slightly off-kilter and convince you it’s your problem, not theirs. They are masters of manipulation, utterly narcissistic, and very, very seductive. At first. You will never feel so desired as when an Asshole has you in his sights. But as soon as the conquest is made, he’s off to greener pastures and you’re left feeling like a baby duckling who’s had a nuclear bomb dropped on her head.”
Ember laughed. “Duly noted. No Assholes. What about Betas? Isn’t that a fish?”
He chuckled, nodding. “Close. Betas are much more sensitive and nurturing and seem like ideal husband material compared to the Asshole. Again, at first. They won’t stray, they won’t lie, they’re usually solid as a rock. And twice as dull. They’re the mama’s boys, the wimps, the conformists who don’t have the spine to stand up for themselves, let alone anyone else. Ultimately, they bring out the worst in a woman because of their failure to take charge in the relationship, the way a man secure in himself and what he has to offer would take charge. Betas let you have your way in everything and you end up feeling overworked and underappreciated. You end up feeling like their mommy because they’re too scared to make the hard decisions for themselves. If the words, ‘Yes, dear,’ ever leave a man’s mouth, you know you’re dealing with a Beta. There are a lot of women who’ve had enough of Assholes and settle down with a stable, passive Beta, only to regret it for the rest of their lives.”
Okay, that was a lot to take in from a man with a face covered in green beauty cream.
“And the Alphas?”
Asher sighed. “Ah, the elusive Alpha. The cream of the crop, so to speak. He is masculine in the purest form of the word; confident, capable, fiercely protective of those he cares about, a good father to his children, and a good lover to his woman. He won’t always go along with what you want because he’s got his own ideas of how things should be done, but when it really matters, he’ll listen to your opinion. And your feelings. Though he doesn’t often talk about them, he’s not afraid of feelings—yours or his own—and he’s not afraid of commitment like an Asshole is.
“The flip side of that coin is that he’s not afraid of confrontation, either. He’ll call you out on your bullshit. He’ll stand his ground when you fight but forgive you as soon as the fight is over. He says what he means, he means what he says, and he’s someone you can lean on when times are tough. He’s assertive, self-determined, and everything a real man should be. You might not always agree with him, but you will always admire him, and feel cherished by him. That’s how you know you’re dealing with an Alpha male.”
There was a long silence after this speech, in which the two friends stared at one another and the only sound was the clock ticking on the wall.
“Forget about writing about sports, you should write a romance novel! How do you know so much about men and women’s relationships anyway? I mean, seeing as how you only date men?”
Asher cocked his head and smiled at her, slightly sad, and very knowing. “I’ve been around a long time, honey, and I’ve seen a lot of things. I was thirty years old before I came out of the closet, and I dated my share of women before then, let me tell you. Being gay wasn’t accepted back in the day the way it is now, especially in the States. There was a time a man could be arrested just for dancing with another man in public, and I lived through that. I lived in the Village when the police raided Stonewall and sparked the riots. I grew up in a time before Gay Pride, activism, and tolerance, back when the FBI kept records of openly out gays and the Post Office kept track of addresses where materials they labeled ‘homosexual’ were sent. I served in the Marines for eight years and every single day of that time I was scared shitless someone would find out I was gay and deem me unfit to serve my country.”
Ember looked at Asher’s full head of dark hair, the smooth, unlined skin around his eyes, his baby soft hands and muscular limbs. “Ash, I know you once bit my head off for asking this question, but exactly how old are you? I thought you were like, I don’t know, fifteen years older than me?”
He beamed. “Oh, honey, that is so sweet! I’m telling you, if you take care of your skin you can look young forever. Sunscreen is your friend. And…I may have had a little maintenance nip and tuck here and there.”
When she raised her brows, Asher said defensively, “If the roof of your house collapses you don’t just leave it there and say it’s aging gracefully, right? No, you fix that sucker up! Also, remember these two very important words: Bo. Tox.”
He waved a hand, indicating this part of the conversation was over. “Anyway, after thirty years of living a lie, do you know who the first person I told the truth to was?”
Ember shook her head.
“My mother. God bless her, she acted as if I’d just told her I passed the Bar. She said, ‘Finally!’ gave me a hug and a kiss, and that was that. And then I called all the girls I’d dated in college and afterward and told them, too. Every single one of them—except Mary Catherine Campbell, she was always an uptight little priss—told me they were happy for me and wished me well. There were a few tears, a few mutters of ‘I thought something was odd,’ but on the whole they were amazing. So I have experience in relationships on both sides of the aisle, but women have always been my best friends. Just like gay men, they understand what it’s like to be marginalized. They know what it’s like to have to keep their mouths shut and their heads down and their true hearts locked up tight. They know how it feels to smile so hard their cheeks hurt while inside they’re dying.”
He closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh. “Or maybe it’s just because they dress so much better than most men.” He glanced over Ember’s outfit of sweats and a T-shirt and sent her an affectionate smile. “Present company excluded, of course.”
Ember felt a sudden, warm tenderness for him, this comrade-in-arms who’d learned all about pain and shame and loss. It pierced her heart like a spear and she had to make a joke in order to lighten the mood and hold back the tears. “I don’t know, Ash, that outfit of yours isn’t going to win any fashion awards.”
He pretended outrage. “This kimono is Gaultier, honey!”
She smiled. “I should’ve guessed.”
“And don’t think I’ve forgotten yo
ur promise of movies and tapas, baby girl. Get on it.” He shooed her off the couch and lay down with his bare feet up on the arm at one end while Ember went to the kitchen and dug around in the junk drawer for the takeout menu.
Just as she was about to dial the number to the restaurant, the phone in her hand rang. She looked down at it, saw who was calling, and the folded paper menu slipped between her fingers and drifted unnoticed to the floor.
“Hello?”
Her voice was low and a little breathy, as if she’d run across the room to pick up the phone.
“Did you get the flowers?” Christian said, smiling. He’d wanted a bigger display, but the flower shop only had a vase large enough to hold one hundred of the beautiful lavender roses, and he thought sending another vase of a hundred might have been overkill. Especially since she seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length. He was determined to keep it that way, too, but still—a few flowers couldn’t hurt.
“I did.” Ember cleared her throat. “They’re beautiful, thank you. That wasn’t necessary.”
She sounded lukewarm about the roses, a little businesslike, and it made his smile turn to a frown. Did she think he had some ulterior motive for sending them, perhaps to get a better price on the copy of Casino Royale? That was a disturbing thought, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. He’d simply been driving down Las Ramblas, spotted the little floral boutique, and given in to the strong impulse to buy her something that might put that spectacular smile back on her face.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask you what your favorite flower was, so I sent mine.”
There was a loaded pause. “Oh. Lavender roses are your favorite.”
Now she sounded disappointed for some reason. His frown grew deeper.
“Actually, I love all colors of roses. My mother was an incredible gardener; we had what seemed like acres of roses covering the grounds of our property when I was growing up.”
There was another pause, this one longer. Christian imagined her thinking on the other end of the line, worrying her bottom lip like she did when preoccupied. He wished he could see her face, be near her so he could judge her reactions. He wished he could press his fingers to her throat again and feel that swift, hot throbbing against his skin.
Edge of Darkness (A Night Prowler Novel) Page 8