by Lynda Aicher
He couldn’t finish that sentence. There was so much he was sorry for, and there was no way to make it up to them. They were dead.
And he wasn’t.
He walked back to his car, thoughts tumbling in an uneven cadence until they landed in a pile before him. He wanted a life. He wanted that sense of peace he’d found with Asher. He wanted to feel something besides the hurt that’d encased him for so long.
Living in the pain was slowly killing him, and he finally wanted to live. But could he, and how?
Chapter 27
Ash blinked a few times and sat back, stretching his neck. The data on the computer screen blurred into indiscernible garble. He removed his glasses and rubbed his sore eyes. His brain hurt, the lines of code circling and tightening until he could barely think. His yawn was sudden and stretched so long that his jaw popped.
The shadows had grown while he’d been entranced in his new program, but it wasn’t fully dark yet. He slid his glasses back on, glanced at the time on the computer screen, and groaned. Seven was too early to go to bed—not that he’d sleep anyway. That’d been pretty damn elusive in the month since Sawyer had left.
His heart pinched, and he winced at the stab. Fuck.
He jerked to a stand, crammed his fingers through his hair. He’d expected the hurt to lessen by now, but it hadn’t. Not even a little. If anything, it’d deepened, the loss emphasized by the endless days of routine with no end in sight. Of course, the total silence from Sawyer hadn’t helped. Not a single text, email, or call. But then, he hadn’t reached out either.
Fucking pride. Was it worth it? Was his own stubborn silence gaining him anything?
His stomach growled, a cramp rolling around the emptiness. When had he eaten last? Lunch…right. The ham sandwich had obviously worn off a while ago. He was almost done with this new game app, though. The mosquito-zapping one had netted him a good profit over the summer, and thanks to all the hours he’d put in he now had two different games ready for the holiday season.
“Hey.” Rig shoved his partially closed door open. “I’m taking off.” He pointed over his shoulder. “The garage is shut and locked. We’re the last ones here.”
“Okay.” Ash rolled his head to stretch his neck muscles. “Thanks.” He’d get in a few more hours of work, and maybe he’d be able to sleep tonight.
“Are you leaving?” Rig crossed his arms and braced his shoulder on the doorjamb, his tone lowered just enough to put Ash on edge.
“No.” He frowned. “I have more to do.” He waved at the papers scattered over his usually neat desk. They’d be organized and back in order before he left for the night.
“What do you have to do?” Rig challenged. “You’ve sent me the trip schedules for October and November and you already have the preliminary plans for the winter excursions done. The financial reports can’t be updated until month’s end, and we’re not hiring right now.” He ticked through and dismissed Ash’s responsibilities with a succinct command that came out as condescending to him.
“Fuck you.” He shook his head and tried to swallow his irritation. “I’d like to see you do my job for a day.”
Rig’s brows shot up. “Okay.” He drew the word out, expression shifting to caution. “I wasn’t criticizing the work you do. I was just pointing out that maybe you can—should—head home after…what?” He checked his watch. “Fourteen hours today?”
Ash wanted to argue the point but couldn’t. He’d been at his desk since five that morning. “I’m working on some game apps,” he said, rubbing his nape. He usually worked on non-Kick stuff in his home office. “I didn’t think it mattered to you if I worked on them here.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Good.” He sat down in his chair and started straightening papers, all of them full of random notes. “I’ll get the website updated tomorrow with the international trips.” It’d taken them all summer to nail down the details and obtain the permits to do two new whitewater excursions in South America.
“So no word from Sawyer yet.” Rig’s clipped question, poised in his sergeant tone, didn’t require an answer, so Ash didn’t bother to look up. “Ash.” He drew his name out on a tired sigh. “Will you talk to me?”
“I’m talking to you now.”
Rig let out a low curse heavy with tired frustration. It plucked at Ash’s guilt, but he didn’t give in. “You’re a stubborn bastard.”
“And your point is?”
“Have you contacted him at all?”
Ash’s abrupt laugh was harsh and cutting. “Why? We played together this summer, that’s it.” If only he’d been smart and had kept it that simple. He swallowed, determined to keep his voice even. “Summer’s done and he’s back home. End of story.”
“Then why haven’t you been to Dane’s?”
Because the thought of playing with anyone besides Sawyer left him empty. “I’ve been busy.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, the truth hammering in his chest and mocking his words.
“With what?”
“Work.”
“Liar.” Rig shook his head. “You’ve been hiding in work.”
He snorted his disagreement. He had, but hell if he was going to admit it. “What are you? My watchdog now?”
“I’m your friend.” Rig’s calm statement pointed out the obvious and confirmed his own dickish behavior. He cringed, the guilt stacking up. He had no right to take his pain out on Rig.
He rubbed his eyes and sat back in his chair. “You’re the one who told me to enjoy my time with Sawyer and be realistic about the end,” Ash said, resignation dropping into his voice. “So why are you riding me about him?”
“Because I’m concerned about you.”
“Well, you don’t need to be. I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
No. Yes. Fuck if I know. He squeezed his eyes closed and willed his voice to work around the lump in his throat. Nothing came out, though. Not false assurance or a cutting retort. He couldn’t even manage a sarcastic brush-off. He had nothing, and Rig’s quiet concern reminded him that he wasn’t alone. But Sawyer still was.
“Ash?” Rig waited a beat, but Ash still couldn’t answer him. “You’re coming out with me tonight.”
“No,” he insisted, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and sat up. “I’m fine. Really.” He adjusted his glasses and blew out a long breath. “But thank you.”
Rig’s frown said he didn’t believe him. He flicked the light switch by the door, plunging the office into semidarkness. “You’re leaving here, though. Now.”
That commanding-officer tone usually put Ash’s hackles up, but he was too tired to even flip Rig off. Being obstinate over this would only make him look like a child.
“Fine,” he agreed. He saved the open files on his laptop and packed up his work in his briefcase. He’d do his personal work in his home office from now on. At least the memory of Sawyer wasn’t imprinted in that room.
“I’m going to check in on Finn tomorrow.” Rig said as Ash shoved his chair in. “Do you want to join me?”
The sudden change in the conversation was a relief and not. “So he can grumble and tell us to fuck off?”
“And we can tell him the same.” Rig headed toward the building entrance. “The crabby bastard won’t scare me off.”
“But are we helping him?” Finn’s mood had become increasingly hostile the longer his recovery took.
Rig engaged the security system and held the front door open for Ash. “I don’t know.” The resignation in his tone hinted at how tired he was too. “But I’ll be there anyway.” He tugged on the door to ensure it was latched and locked.
Ash soaked in the scent of dead leaves and approaching winter that tinted the cool evening air. They had about one more month of mostly pleasant weather before the rainy season hit. Would it be the same in Utah?
“What time are you heading over?” Ash asked. Finn had been in the rehabilitation center at Good Sam for almost five months and would probably
get out in the next few weeks, not that he’d be returning to work anytime soon—if ever.
“Around eleven.” Rig paused by the side of his truck. “I was going to take him lunch from that place he likes in Sellwood.”
Ash knew the one. Hell, Finn had dragged all of them there at some point. He’d insisted they had the best subs in the area. “Sure. Get me before you leave.”
He drove home with the window down, the trek across town to the West Hills easier now that the rush hour traffic had dwindled. His mind wandered in idle circles over the events that’d led him to this point in his life. From the choices he’d made to the ones that’d been made for him. Did the distinction matter?
His laugh rolled over the radio when he turned in to his driveway. His mother’s car was parked in front of his garage, her shape silhouetted in the driver’s seat. Here was a clear example of a choice being made for him.
He pulled up alongside her car and slowed to wave as the garage door opened. Her smile gave away nothing about her intent or thoughts, yet his stomach still contracted around the ball of unease settling within it. Or was that more guilt? He’d avoided his family entirely since the day Sawyer had driven away. Just as he’d feared, his determination to reveal himself had died once he no longer had a reason to do so.
He blew out a breath and took his time getting out. Maybe it would be more accurate to say his courage had failed him after Sawyer bolted. Facing his family’s expectations and countering all of them would suck when he had no one standing with him.
“Hey, Mom,” he said as he came around the back of his truck. She was waiting for him by the garage entrance to his home. “What are you doing here?” He forced a smile around his growing worry.
She lifted her chin, eyes narrowing. “If you stopped by sometime, I wouldn’t have to hunt you down.” She went inside without waiting for his excuses, her strides crisp.
Yup, it was definitely guilt rolling around in his stomach. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve been busy.” He shut the door and followed her down the hallway to his kitchen. His mother spent the majority of her life in a kitchen, and it was always the first place she went whenever she visited. It was her comfort zone, and he never tried to stop her puttering. “Have you been waiting long?”
He set his briefcase on the unused breakfast table as she went through the process of pulling items from his pantry and itemizing the contents of his refrigerator. She’d be grabbing the apron from the drawer soon. He always thought of that item as part of her armor. It protected her clothing and her heart from damage. Maybe he should consider wearing one.
He chuckled silently at his private joke and unbuttoned his shirt cuffs, rolling up his sleeves before taking a seat on an island barstool. His pretended casualness didn’t penetrate beneath the surface, though. His mind was racing with questions and possible responses to anything she might ask.
She dug a pan out from under the counter and set it on the stove top. “I had my knitting in the car. I was prepared to wait a while.” She shot him a look before selecting a knife from the drawer.
He hung his head, the little boy in him properly scolded without having been directly chastised. Her digs would continue until her resentment faded. He could usually roll with it, but he was too tired tonight.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, tempted to set his glasses aside. Things would be blurry, but it’d save him from seeing the disappointment in her eyes. Sometimes it felt like that was all he ever saw in them.
“Asher.”
He resettled his glasses and forced a smile when he looked up. “Yes?”
She’d set the knife down and moved around the island, a concerned frown wiping away her earlier irritation. “What is it?” Her touch on his forearm was gentle, the care and love flowing through. “Talk to me.”
His dry laugh slashed over the knot in his throat. He slammed a hand over his mouth to cut it off, head shaking. He’d planned on talking to her with Sawyer at his back. Or was it that he planned to use Sawyer to get himself to talk? Sawyer had been right—that had been a total dick move. A last-ditch effort to show how serious he was, when he should’ve just talked to him.
Should’ve listened instead of pushed.
“I’m fine,” he finally croaked out. He cleared his voice and got up to get a glass of water. “Just working a lot.” He kept his back to her as he selected a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the spout on the refrigerator door.
“You should work less if it does this to you.”
He turned around and hauled her into a spontaneous one-armed hug. “I will if you do.” The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, but her hug was still as comforting as it’d been when their positions had been reversed. He couldn’t risk losing this—and for what? His pride and sense of self? Sawyer had been right about that too. This was too precious to risk.
But then, Sawyer had been just as precious to him, and more than worth the risk.
He still is.
Fuck.
His mother patted his chest and stepped back to study him. He flattened his expression and tried to swallow down the panic cinching away his breath. He still is. The thought drummed louder and louder until his mind accepted what his heart had been trying to tell him for weeks.
Sawyer meant too much to him to let him walk away without a fight. Yet he’d done just that, and his damn pride had kept him from doing anything since.
He loved Sawyer, and he’d let him retreat to Utah to hide in his pain alone.
Was he cutting himself? Laying more burns into his already scarred thighs? The thought of Sawyer—or anyone else—marking his skin had bile rising up Ash’s throat. Which made no sense, when he wanted to give Sawyer the pain he needed. Ash wanted to see him take and absorb the pain and then turn it into something beautiful.
He wanted to love him through it and be there when he came out on the other side.
“Sit with me, Asher.” His mother motioned to the stools before sliding onto the seat he’d vacated.
He jerked up, blinking as he shuffled his thoughts back to the present. She wore her serious face, the one that warned of a pending grilling. He’d perfected his dodging skills in his teens and his avoidance ones in his twenties in order to keep his secrets safe.
Which was all bullshit, since the only thing he was protecting was their love for him.
He propped his hip against the island, too fidgety to sit, and then set his glass on the marble island top when he noticed his hand was trembling. He waited for his mother to start, mind racing with his heart.
Had Sawyer’s brand healed okay? Had it faded away by now?
Was he okay?
“You brought him to me, didn’t you?”
What? His mouth gaped, thoughts freezing. Did she…was she…No.
She tilted her head, brows pulling together. “That guy. He’s the one, right?”
“The one what?” he sputtered, blood roaring in his ears. Sweat broke out on his nape, a clammy hotness sweeping over him. “What are you talking about?”
His dodging habits kicked in without thought. But hadn’t he trusted in his parents’ love before? A mere four weeks ago he’d been ready to put that love to the test—and had ended up testing his own instead.
For Sawyer.
And he’d failed.
His mother grabbed his fist, pried his fingers apart until she could squeeze his hand. “It’s okay, Asher.”
He swallowed, his ability to speak once again stolen. What was his deal? He was always organized, logical, and ready with a response. Talking wasn’t rocket science, but apparently it took more courage than he had at the moment.
“Of all my children,” she went on, “you’re the one I worry about the most.”
That jolted him. “Me?” he rasped, his chuckle coarse with irony. And here he’d spent his entire life trying to be the good son so she wouldn’t have to worry about him. “I thought Lance owned that spot.” The unruly wild child fulfilling the typical irresponsible you
ngest sibling role. “Why would you worry about me?”
A soft smile stole over her face. “You live up here.” She tapped her temple. “You’re always in your head. Analyzing and thinking. Trying to be what you think people want you to be.” Sadness shifted in to tug her smile away. “And I didn’t always help that.” She blinked, looked away, her frown deepening.
“Mom,” he interjected, discomfort with the entire conversation urging him to end it as quickly as possible. But she held up her hand, head shaking before he could go on.
“The whole priest thing. Women. The restaurant.” Her eyes were shiny with rarely seen tears when she studied him again. “I’m sorry, Asher. I should’ve been more aware. I should’ve seen what you needed, not what I wanted.”
He almost laughed at that. If he’d been able to distinguish between the two, maybe he wouldn’t be so far away from Sawyer right now. Sawyer needed space and time, when Ash had wanted here and now. He’d pushed, and Sawyer had run.
“It’s okay.” He squeezed her hand, compassion swarming in. “I’m a grown man. I made my own choices and mistakes. Those aren’t on you.” Or on anyone but him, and he owned every one of them.
“It’s not okay,” she insisted, fierce with her motherly resolve, her free hand smacking the marble countertop. “I’ve hurt you with my blindness, but I’m not blind anymore. I saw what you were trying to tell me. What you’ve been silently saying for years.” She ran a finger under her eye, blinking rapidly. She sniffed, straightened in her seat, chin notching up. “I admit I had to think on it. I prayed, too. And do you know what I figured out?”
He managed to shake his head, heart racing again. He tried to judge her expression, read her eyes, but he didn’t trust his assessment. Yet he couldn’t wait to find out what her judgment was. This was his moment to finally be honest, and he had to take it for himself, regardless of the outcome.
“You’re right,” he said before she could speak, voice strong, heart lifting. He tightened his hold on her hand and trusted. “His name is Sawyer Stevens.” He swallowed, blew out a breath, remembering the promise he’d made to her not long ago. “And he’s the man I love.”