Ember X (Death Collectors)

chapter 10

I first met the mysterious cloaked creature when I went to live with my dad. I named him the Grim Reaper, but only because he looked like the Keeper of Death. When I was little, I thought he was my imaginary friend because no one could see him but me. After he vanished from my life, he reappeared once, right before my dad disappeared. He told me my dad was going to die within minutes and I panicked and called the cops, telling them Patrick Edwards was about to die. It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life and put me under high suspicion.

I watch the trees blur by, trying to convince myself that I didn’t see the Grim Reaper, that he was just a figment of my imagination. The sky is masked with darkness and the fields and yards are shadows.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Asher drives down the main road toward the outskirts of town. “You seem a little distracted tonight.”

“What?” I turn away from the window.

Sighing, he reaches over and takes my hand. “You’re probably wondering where I’ve been for the last few days and why I ran off after that thing with that man who had the X on his eye.”

“You mean Garrick,” I clarify. “And I wasn’t wondering… you don’t owe me an explanation Asher. I’m not your girlfriend or anything.”

He entwines our fingers and tranquility swathes my over-active mind. Suddenly, my Grim Reaper and my Death problem are insignificant.

Asher asks, “Do you know Garrick?”

“Yeah, I met him at the party,” I explain, trying not to shiver as he traces the folds of my fingers. “The one that I met you at.”

“Did you meet him before or after I talked to you that night?”

“After. It was right before I left to chase down Raven… He told me someone was messing around with my car.”

“And then your car’s brakes went out.” He cracks his knuckles on the steering wheel as he cogitates. “I wonder if…”

“If what?” I press. “Asher, do you know this guy? And did he mess with my brakes that night? Because he told me someone else was messing with my car, and I’m starting to wonder if it was him and maybe he was also the tailgater.”

He slips his hand from mine and places it on the shifter and it feels like a glove slipped off my fingers. “Ember, have you ever heard of the Anamotti?” he asks and I shake my head. “Well, it’s this term that got thrown around a lot in the neighborhood I lived in New York… It’s kind of like this hush-hush secret society thing.”

“What kind of a neighborhood did you live in?” I wonder.

He hesitates, holding my gaze. “The Upper East Side.”

“So it’s a secret society for rich people.”

“Kind of.”

“I’m confused,” I confess. “What does this have to do with Garrick? Is he part of it?”

He fiddles anxiously with the air freshener on the rearview mirror, twisting it around. “Yeah, he was… He is part of it.”

“So Garrick’s from New York too?” I ask. “I don’t mean to sound rude, but I’m not sure I believe that you, Cameron, and Garrick all moved here at the same time and from New York.”

“Garrick didn’t move here from New York,” Asher discloses in a subdued voice. “I said the term got thrown around a lot in my neighborhood, but it doesn’t mean every member from the Anamotti lives there.”

“But then, how do you know Garrick is part of the Anamotti?” I wonder, peeling away at the black nail polish on my thumb, a bad habit of mine.

“That X tattoo he has,” Asher makes an X motion over his eye with his finger, “is the symbol of the Anamotti.”

“So what are they?” I recollect about what I read on the internet about X symbols. “What is their secret society all about? And why do they have X’s?”

He restlessly drums his fingers on the shifter, and then his chest rises as he exhales out a shaky breath and laces his fingers with mine again. “I’m afraid it might scare you, especially because Garrick is interested in you.” He brings my hand to his mouth and grazes his soft lips across my knuckles.

“No, he seems interested in Raven.” Unable to help myself, I caress his palm with my thumb. “I think he was with her that night when Laden disappeared.”

“Maybe,” he says sadly. “But I think he’s using Raven to get to you.”

“For what?” I begin to pull my hand away. “And how do you know all this… Are you part of this Anamotti?”

“I can’t tell you that right now.” His hand tightens on mine, his eyes pleading. “Trust me, I want to. Desperately. But not yet, okay? I need to… we need to spend some time together first. ” Honesty blazes in his gaze like smoke combined with fire. “Please, just trust me, Ember.”

It’s a strange answer, but not accepting it would be like the pot calling the kettle black. “Okay, I can wait, I guess.”

Letting go of my hand, he reaches for my face and runs his fingers through my hair, gently tugging at the roots and sending a shock of pleasure through my body. Dear God Almighty.

“Thank you for trusting me,” his voice perpetuates my body with heat as his fingers slide from my hair to my cheekbone.

We leave the sunnier part of town behind and enter the rougher side, leaving the old-fashioned shops and restaurants in exchange for old and dilapidated houses and warehouses. Rusted cars clutter yards and bars and smoke shops fill up the business sections. It’s frightening how much this side of town feels like home.

My concentration centers on Asher. “So where’s this mysterious place you’re taking me?”

He returns his hand to mine and then downshifts. “That’s kind of a surprise, but I thought we could get something to eat first. I mean, if that’s okay with you?”

I crack the window and let in a cool breeze. “Yeah, that’s fine with me.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing bothering you?” he asks. “You seem a little… sad. Or sadder than usual.”

The wind gusts through my hair and I shut my eyes, breathing in the cool air. “I’m fine. I promise.” I erase my sadness as much as possible, and open my eyes, summoning up a small smile. “I’m actually just really hungry.”

“Good.” He grins and turns the car into the crowded parking lot of Phil’s Shenanigans and Fun. “Hmm…” Asher observes the sign. “I wonder what kind of fun it’s referring to.”

“No, you don’t,” I say. It’s the bar where my dad hung out and I know way too well the fights that go on inside.

“You’ve been here?” Asher shuts off the engine and takes out the keys.

“Once or twice.” I omit some of the truth. “And I think they card here.”

“I heard they don’t.” He points a finger at the front door where a young couple are walking inside with their arms wrapped around each other. “And I think we go to school with them.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I sigh heavily. “I think they do let in minors.”

My dad came here a lot and brought me with him. I’d sit in the corner booth, coloring, while he drank himself into a stupor, ranting about his philosophical ideas on life and death until he’d piss off someone enough that they’d take a swing at him. Then, Phil, the owner—who was like a second father to me—would load us up in his Chevy and drive us home.

“Do you know if the food’s good here?” Asher opens the car door and steps out.

“Yeah, the food, the service—it’s all great.” Except for the memories.

Before I can climb out of the car, Asher hurries and opens the door from me, then helps me out. The boy blows my mind with his gentleman skills and if I didn’t know better, I’d guess he came from an earlier era. He holds my hand as we walk across the parking lot, smiling at me like I’m the best thing in the world. There’s a row of motorcycles in front and a bench where people are smoking. The windows of the bar are shielded with flashing neon signs and flyers.

At the entrance, Asher releases my hand, but only to open the door. I fan the smoke from my face as the door swings closed and then Asher returns his hand to mine. The bar is packed, the music’s loud, and there are no barstools available. Paper-mache spiders and witches hang from the ceiling and each table has a miniature pumpkin.

“Hi, y’all. My name is Amy and I’ll be your waitress today.” A perky girl in her early twenties appears in front of us. Her black skirt barely covers her legs and her white shirt is tight enough that it shows she’s not wearing a bra “We only got booths tonight. Is that okay?”

“What do you think?” Asher asks, looking at me. “Is a booth good?”

“A booth’s better,” I answer.

“Okay.” The waitress leads us through the smoke and people with a cheery skip in her walk. We settle in the corner booth, sitting across from each other, and she hands us our menus and sashays toward the bar. Phil’s the bartender tonight. He’s a large man with tattoos casing his arms and neck and his shaved head reflects in the low light and his goatee touches the bottom of his neck. He has a T-shirt on with the sleeves torn off, jeans, and biker boot and he’s pouring a shot as the waitress says something to him. His eyes lift to me as I slump down in the booth, holding the menu in front of my face, ducking for cover.

“Please, don’t come over here. Please, don’t come over here,” I chant under my breath.

Asher guides the menu away from my face. “Okay, what’s up?”

I pretend to be very interested in the list of appetizers. “Nothing. I’m just reading the menu.”

He eyes me suspiciously and aims his attention to a person standing next to our table.

“Holy biscuits and gravy, it is you.”

I take a deep breath. “Hey, Phil.” I plaster a fake smile on my face and look up at him.

He grins and opens his arms, waiting for a hug. Internally cringing, I get to my feet and wrap my arms around him. He smells like cigars and booze, both of which will be the cause of his death, something I’ve known for years.

I pull away and drop back down in the booth. “I thought you were going to quit smoking.”

He tensely rubs his neck. “I did for a while, but old habits die hard. But look at you. All grown up. I haven’t seen you since the night your…” he trails off. “Well, anyway. How are you doing? And how’s your mama doing?”

“She’s doing good.” I pick at the peanut shells wedged in the cracks of the tabletop.

“Is she still working down at the diner?” he asks. “Or did she finally get away from that shithole.”

“No, she’s still doing the waitress thing,” I say and his eyes drift to Asher. “Oh, this is Asher. Asher, this is Phil.”

They nod and say their “how do you do’s.”

I grow fidgety and fiddle with the pumpkin, spinning it on the table. Being around Phil brings back the memories of the nights at the bar with my dad. When Phil would drive me and my dad home, he’d tell me things would get better—that eventually my dad would get his life together. It’s not Phil’s fault it never happened, but it reminds me of a time when I was naïve enough to believe it would.

He can tell I’m uncomfortable. “Alright, well if you need anything, let me know.” I nod and he returns to his position behind the counter.

Asher turns the page of the menu. “I thought you said you’d been here once or twice.”

I shrug, not ready to veer down that path. Awkward silence builds and we flip through the menus. By the time the waitress shows up to take our order, I wonder if Asher’s going to tell her we’re leaving.

She poises her pen above the order book. “What can I get y’all?”

Asher taps his fingers on his lips and I catch Amy licking her own as she eyes his mouth. “What exactly are Rocky Mountain oysters?” he asks her.

I restrain a laugh as Amy’s face twists in confusion.

“Well… I think they’re a kind of meat. I’m not sure what kind, but I like them.” She presses the end of the pen against her chin.

I shake my head at Asher. “You don’t want those. Trust me.”

Amy shoots me an aggravated look. “They’re not bad. I mean, the meat’s a little tough, but they taste good.” I feel bad for her. Kind of. She leans over the table and her boobs practically pop out of her top. “Look, sweetie, get whatever you want, okay?” she says to Asher.

Asher’s gaze connects with mine. “I kind of like to know what I’m eating.”

Grinning, I lean over the table, cup my hand around his ear, and whisper what Rocky Mountain oysters are.

His eyes bulge as I sit back in my booth. “Yeah, I’ll have water, cheese fries, and a hamburger with extra mayo.”

“I’ll have the chicken sandwich and a coke.” I shut my menu and Amy snatches it out of my hand. She takes Asher’s menu more delicately and saunters off to the order window.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile.

I rest my elbows on the table. “For what?”

“For not letting me eat that shit.”

We laugh and then silence builds again. A woman in a bright red dress and cowgirl boots is belting out the lyrics to Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” from the stage as she writhes her hips against the microphone stand. The whole scene is super cheesy, but I start to relax, like I’m finally home after being gone for three years.

“My dad and I used to come here,” I finally say over the music.

He gives me his undivided attention, overlapping his fingers in front of him. “Really.” He glances at the rough people, the smoky atmosphere, and the bar lined with bikers. “How old were you?”

“I was four the first time he brought me down here, and it kept up until I was sixteen—until he died, basically,” I say. “My dad really liked his Jack Daniels.”

“So did my dad… Well, actually it was Jim Bean.” He pauses and his smile brings soft invisible kisses to my skin. “See, that wasn’t so hard and we learned we have something in common.”

“I’m not socially impaired,” I retort, dusting some salt off the table. “I just like my space... for personal reasons.”

“Except for when we’re in the art room,” he teases.

“Yeah, I blame it on the paint fumes,” I retort, playfully. “They f*cked with my head.”

The corners of his lips tug upward as he crosses his arms on the table and leans in. “I know you like your personal space and I actually kind of like that about you. You’re not always giggling and trying to run your fingers through my hair.”

I wonder if he’s talking about Raven. “Some guys like that.”

“No, they don’t.” He flicks his tongue ring against his teeth and I bite down on my lip to repress a moan. “I want you to give me a shot. I want you to let me in and let me get to know you.”

My chest squeezes with elation, but thankfully my voice holds a steady rhythm. “What do you want to know about me?”

He rolls the peppershaker between his hands. “How long have you known Raven?”

I shrug. “Since we were born.”

“Does she always act so…” he trails off.

“Slutty?” I finish for him.

He laughs and it’s the most amazing sound that’s ever graced my ears. “I was going to say guy crazy, but I thought that’d make me sound like a jerk. She’s a little intense, and that whole thing with Garrick. How did she even meet him?”

“At the same party I met him,” I explain. “But I have no idea why she was with him that day at school.”

He presses his lips together and studies the cracks in the table. “When Garrick had a hold of you at school… you looked like you were going to pass out.”

“I just don’t like being close to people like that.” I tousle my hair with my fingers and stare at the karaoke stage area in the corner.

He slides his hand across the table and interlaces our fingers. “But you don’t seem to mind when I touch you. In fact, I have this idea in my head—and please let me know if I’m overshooting it here—that you like me a little.”

I shrug. “I guess you could say that… You make me feel calm and sometimes heated depending on what we’re doing.”

“Calm and heated, huh?” he muses. “And that’s a good thing, right?”

“A very good thing.” I smile and his eyes zero in on my lips.

“You have a beautiful smile,” he says, wetting his lips with his tongue. “And beautiful lips. They taste really good too.”

My heart knocks inside my chest. “You’re really good.”

“I’m being serious.” He reaches over with his free hand and caresses my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “These lips are so f*cking soft… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them since I kissed you.”

I’m not sure if he’s a player or just genuinely sweet. “Thanks, I guess.”

He laughs, amused, and then pulls away as the waitress interrupts us with our food. “Here ya go, honey.” She slides Asher’s food in front of him, and then drops my plate in front of me and it clanks loudly against the table. “If you need anything, let me know.”

“I think she might have a thing for you,” I say, dipping a fry into the ranch.

Asher looks like he’s about to laugh. “You think?”

“I do.” I pick the onions off my chicken sandwich. “Why’s that so funny?”

He pours ketchup on his burger. “Because you’re probably right, but she doesn’t stand a chance. She’s not really my type.” He glances at the disposed onions on my plate. “You don’t like onions?”

“You said that like I just admitted I hate chocolate, and onions and chocolate are on two very different levels.”

“Yeah, onions are much better.”

“You can eat them if you want.” I motion at my plate. “What’s mine is yours.”

He picks up the onion, tips his head back, and spirals it into his mouth. “I’m going to hold you to that a little bit later.” His eyes darken with desire.

A tingling sensation coils inside, between my thighs, and I clear my throat before taking a bite of my chicken sandwich to distract myself. “So, you like the band From Autumn to Ashes?”

He glances down at his shirt. “Yeah, I got this shirt at one of their concerts. They’re pretty good. Have you heard them play?”

“Not in person.” I pop a fry into my mouth. “But I have a lot of their songs downloaded.”

He bites into his hamburger and a droplet of ketchup stays on his lip. The urge to lean over and suck it off his lip surfaces again as he deliberately licks it off, watching me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

We stare at each other with sweltering heat in our eyes and desire pulsating in our bodies. It’s something I don’t quite understand, because I barely know him, yet I don’t want the feeling to ever leave.

“So what is there to do around here?” Asher’s voice sounds high and he clears his throat. “Besides hanging out at bars.”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” I tell him. “Honestly, the only thing I do is follow Raven to her parties.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?” He picks a flake of lettuce off his hamburger. “It doesn’t seem like you’re really the partying type. Or the following type?”

“I’m not, but—”

“But Raven is, and she’s the boss,” he finishes for me.

“She’s not the boss… Okay, well maybe she is, but it’s just her personality.”

He chews slowly and I’m fascinated by the way his mouth moves. “I had this friend back in New York who was a little bit bossy, so finally one day I told him to shove it. You know what, we still stayed friends.”

“I’m sure you didn’t tell him to shove it,” I remark. “You seem way too nice for that.”

A smile plays at his lips as he reaches over and steals another onion off my plate. “Do I?”

I take a sip of my coke. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re secretly mean?”

“I have a mean… side.” He wavers. “I guess. But it doesn’t come out a lot.”

“I think everyone has sides of them that rarely come out.” I stir the straw in my drink.

He nods. “So what’s yours?”

Crazy. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to share it with me if you don’t want to.” He takes a sip of his water. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

It feels like there’s a hidden meaning in his words. “So what made you want to be an artist?”

His jaw clamps tight. “My father was an artist and he passed along his gift to me.”

“You sound upset about that. Did you fight a lot with your dad or something?”

“My dad wasn’t around a lot, but I love painting—it helps me get out what I’m feeling.”

“I know what you mean.” I think of his Angel drawing and wonder what he was feeling when he painted it—I wonder if he knows stuff about Angels. “It’s why I write poetry.”

“I’d love to read some of your poetry,” he says.

I stare down at my chicken sandwich and my hair falls around my face. “I usually don’t let people read it. Well, except for Raven, but she’s only read what I’ve written on my walls.” And Cameron, but that was by accident.

“You write on your walls?” He sprinkles some salt on his fries and returns the shaker back to the tray at the side of the table. “Now that is something you’ll have to let me see.”

“Sure.” I tuck my hair back behind my ear. “There’s artwork on the walls, too—Raven’s and my brother’s.”

He wipes his hand on a napkin. “Maybe you’ll be nice enough to let me put something up on it.”

“Like a painting of your sad Angel.”

“Would you want that? A drawing of an Angel that would always be on your wall?”

“There’s already one on there. Raven put it up when we were like eight.” I take another bite of my chicken sandwich. “And my brother put the Grim Reaper on it for who knows what reasons, so I have the good version of death and the evil one.” As I say it aloud, I think of the book I read; a battle between good and evil—between Angels of Death and Grim Reapers. I have the battle on my walls.

Asher’s expression falls. “But which one’s evil and which one’s good?”

It’s an obvious answer, but my lips decline to utter the words, and an image of my imaginary childhood friend pops into my head.

The waitress arrives with the bill. I try to pay for my half, but Asher won’t allow it. While we’re waiting for the waitress to bring the change, two men walk inside the bar that catch my attention. They stand out in their business attire and fancy haircuts. The taller of the two has blonde hair and dark eyes that look really familiar. The longer I stare at him the more I realize that he looks like an older version of Cameron.

Asher’s eyes find them and his eyes darken. The man returns the look with equivalent revulsion.

“Do you know them?” I nod my head toward the two men.

Asher’s eyes stay on them as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t,” he says through gritted teeth. He rips his gaze away and his expression is feral.

“Asher, what’s wrong.” I start to turn my head back to the men, but a man with long brown hair and a stocky body stumbles from a barstool, waving his finger at me.

“Ain’t you that girl who killed her father?” he slurs, tripping over his shoelaces.

“I didn’t kill him.” I cringe uncomfortably, retreating back. “The cops just thought I did for a while.”

His thigh bumps the table and knocks my coke over, spilling ice all over the table. “But didn’t you run away after you called the cops and reported his murder? Yeah, yeah, and they took you to jail.”

“That’s not how it happened,” I lie, scooping up the ice and dropping it in the cup.

The waitress returns with the change. “Gary, you aren’t causing trouble, are you?”

He bobs his drunken head. “Nah, just chattin’ with my good friends. This is that girl who killed her father.”

“I didn’t kill him!” I raise my voice louder than I meant to.

Now more people than Gary are staring at me. The waitress gives Asher a concerned pat on the shoulder, like she thinks I’m going to kill him.

“If you need anything else at all, just let me know.” She tugs on Gary’s arm. “Come on, Gary. Let’s get you home.”

But he won’t budge. “You know I used to work at the same shop as your dad.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “We were pretty good buddies.”

“That’s great.” I put some money down on the table for a tip.

Asher slides the money back at me. “No way.”

I push it back in the center of the table. “You paid for dinner and the least I can do is pay for the tip.”

He struggles, his jaw set tight, and then gives in. “Fine, but next time, you’re letting me pay for the whole thing.”

“Is there going to be a next time?” I ask.

He smiles. “Absolutely.”

I begin to stand up, but Gary blocks the end of my booth and Amy hurries back to the counter to get some assistance. “Can you please move so I can get up?” I ask as politely as I can.

His feet stay planted. “You know he used to talk about you when we’d go out drinking after work.” He leans down in my face, his breath reeking of booze as he whispers in my ear. “He told me your little secret—how you could cause death.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I start to stand again, but he shoves me down by the chest and my elbow cracks against the table as the faint scent of his death pollutes my lungs: electricity, chair, people watch, grateful he’s dying. It’s vile and knocks the breath out of me.

The next thing I know Gary is on the floor clutching his jaw and Asher is standing over him.

“If you ever touch her again, I’ll f*cking kill you.” He extends his hand to me and I gladly take it.

Calmness rushes through me as we swiftly weave around the tables, heading for the exit. A group of men push up from the barstools and follow us. Trouble lingers in the air, like a warning before a storm. Some of them are as weak looking as Gary, but some are large, beefy, and have scars all over their arms and faces, probably old wounds from bar fights.

People eating dinner at the tables watch us nervously—they smell what’s coming. And so do I.

Asher and I speed up as we near the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” one of the larger men calls out.

Asher shoves at the door, but pauses, deliberating something intensely, and then he gradually turns around. “We are leaving. Do you have a problem with that?”

A bulky man, sporting leather pants and matching vest crosses his arms. “Yeah. You can’t just knock out one of my friends and then walk away without paying the consequences.” He waves his finger at me. “And that one… well, she’s just a downright filthy murderer who gets to walk off easy.”

“You didn’t even know my dad,” I say. “So shut the hell up.”

“I’m not talking about your dad,” he growls. “I’m talking about my nephew, Laden Miller.”

“I had nothing to do with that.” My legs tremble, but I refuse to cower back. “I barely knew him.”

“So you say.” His eyes blaze with loathing and it’s so powerful, I want to run and hide. “But you did know your daddy and you probably killed him just like you killed my nephew. I bet you even had somethin’ to do with that girl he was always hangin’ out with. That Farrah girl. Yeah, I bet you killed her too.”

Asher drops my hand and his muscles are tense as if he’s trying to channel all his anger to stay in his body. He steps toward the man and spreads his arms open. “The next word that comes out of your mouth better be an apology.”

The man cracks his knuckles and neck. “Or what?”

I eye the men, who are twice Asher’s size, and then tug on Asher’s sleeve, trying to lure him back. “Asher, I think we should go.”

Laden’s uncle laughs and the rest of the men join in. “Ooo, little murder girl said it’s time to go. You better listen.” Without warning, he draws his arm back and clocks Asher in the face with his fist.

Asher crumples to the ground, landing on his knees. “Well, that was a cheap shot,” he mutters, grasping his cheek.

“Oh my God.” I lean over Asher. “Are you okay?”

His grey eyes darken as he tilts his head up and starts to stand up. “Stand back,” he warns, moving me back with his arm.

“Are you being serious?” I ask. “They’ll kill you.”

“Ember, please stand back,” he says, not looking at me, but at Laden’s uncle. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I don’t move. From the corner of the bar, I see the guy who looks like Cameron watching Asher with fascination as he sips out of a martini glass. Asher pops his knuckles and cracks his neck, then with one swing, he bends his arm and knocks Laden’s uncle out.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, staring down at the unconscious man, his legs and arms sprawled across the floor, and there is a little bit of drool pooling at his lips.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The rest of the men charge at him at full speed and Asher dodges to the side and nudges me out of the way with his elbow. A few men bump into tables, sending people springing from their chairs, and plates flying through the air. The whole bar scatters for safety, screaming, and dashing for the front door. The music switches to a heavy metal song and the small fight becomes a full-on brawl. I’m not surprised. I’ve seen it happen many times. Men take swings at each other and even a few buffer females get in on the action. Bottles are being smashed over heads and chairs are getting clobbered.

A tall, lanky man comes strutting up to me with a smirk on his face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? You scared?” He steps closer and exhales beer breath in my face. When his hand touches my waist, I knee him between the legs. Death flashes through me, but it is worth it.

He collapses to the floor, groaning and clutching his manly parts. “You f*cking bitch.”

“Do I look like someone who’d be frightened by a little bar fight?” Shaking my head, I step over him, searching for Asher. I spot Phil hurrying out of the back room with a baseball bat and his cell phone. “Shit.” I duck through the flying bottles and fists. “Asher!” I trip over an unconscious man and glass slices my palms as I fall to the floor. Keeping my head low, I dash across the room, leaping over chairs and weaving around broken tables.

Asher is near the back door, exchanging punches with a bald guy with a snake tattoo coiling his upper arm. Asher’s lip is split open and his cheekbone is swollen. He throws jab after jab and his movements are almost inhuman, swifter and stronger. I’m impressed and terrified at the same times.

A lofty guy with a thick neck sneaks up behind Asher, holding a broken beer bottle in his hand and I pick a glass cup off the floor and throw it at the guy’s head. It slams him in the forehead, and he drops the beer bottle, and then falls to the floor like a bag of bricks.

Asher slams his opponent in the face and blood spurts from his mouth. He repeats the movement over and over again, until the guy passes out.

Asher breathes violently as he clutches his hands. “I’m sorry, Ember… I just.”

I grab his hand and lead him toward the backdoor. “Phil’s about to call the cops… I can’t get caught in this mess. I’m already on probation.”

I shove open the door and we breathe in fresh air as we burst outside. The door slams shut and the noise from the bar fight is suffocated. The back parking lot is secluded from the highway, the sky is black, and the lights from the neon signs flash across our faces, making us look ghostly.

Asher turns and faces me, panting heavily, his eyes untamed as his chest rises and falls. “I’m sorry, Ember. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand.”

My heart knocks inside my chest. I feel alive, high on adrenaline, like I could conquer the world. “It’s okay. Trust me when I say I’m used to bar fights.” I touch the tip of my finger to his bottom. “You cut your lip open.” I wipe the blood away and I start to pull my hand back, but he covers it with his and presses it against his lips. He kisses my palm, his eyes penetrating me, making me feel exposed as he sucks on my skin and rolls his tongue along it. Our breaths quicken, in sync and matching each other’s desire.

“Please f*cking tell me that I kiss you right now?” he whispers with a silent plea in his eyes. “God, please… I need to…”

I nod my head once and his lips crash into mine, but his touch is gentle. My skin ignites as I wrap my hands around his waist and pull myself against him, aligning our bodies. My lips part and his tongue slides in deeply, so that he can caress the roof of my mouth with his tongue ring and I let out a faltering moan.

He slightly withdraws, looking me in the eyes, and then he growls, enfolds his fingers around my thighs, and picks me up. I enclose my legs around his waist as he continues to taste every inch of my mouth and backs us against the wall, beneath the shadows and florescent lights. There’s no space remaining between our bodies and I can feel his hardness pressed up against me. I’m spinning, sweating, panting as he kisses me and brings a feeling of ecstasy from my head to my toes. His hands are tangled in my hair, then trail down my neck, finally settling on my hips. Then he slips a hand up the back of my shirt and the contact sends a jolt of electricity down my spine as he holds onto me like I’m his lifeline, as if letting me go will kill him.

“I want to kiss you forever.” He groans against my lips and steals my breath away.

It’s like we’ve unleashed a hungry animal in each of us. I crave more of him. Now. I’ve been waiting too long to be able to get this close to someone and I need to be closer right this second.

“Asher,” I whisper against his lip. “Touch me, please.”

He doesn’t argue, his hand moving from my back to my stomach and I tighten my legs to keep from falling down. He presses me against the brick wall while his lips move against mine and his hand slides up to my bra. Slipping his hand underneath it, he traces his thumb across my nipple, which instantly hardens

I mutter his name, my eyes shutting as my head falls back.

He gently pinches my nipple as his other hand travels down my back to my ass and my legs tighten even more as a shockwave of heat coils deep inside my body. I cry out as his hand leaves my breast and heads to my stomach, then he dips it down below the waistband of my jeans. My legs fall from his waist and hit the ground. But we don’t break the connection of our lips and body, his hand continues down and seconds later he slips a finger inside me.

“F*ck…” he groans as he begins to move his finger. His lips move from mine and travel downward. My neck curves to the side as he kisses my collarbone. I can’t believe this is happening… this feeling is so much better than even the silence of death.

“Asher…” I begin to pant as he jerks the bottom of my shirt up, along with my bra, and starts sucking on my breast, finally pushing me over the edge.

I clutch onto his shoulders, crying out his name, and one of his arms slips around my back to keep me from collapsing to the ground. I’m panting, stunned as I come back down, my skin damp and my chest heaving.

Asher slips his finger out from me, but keeps his face near my breast. I can feel his breath hitting my skin as he breathes ravenously. He doesn’t say anything and I’m about to ask him what’s wrong, but the sound of the sirens makes us both jump. His eyes are as black as coals and his lips are swollen as he pulls back.

“We should get out of here,” he growls, looking like he might kiss me again.

I nod and tug my shirt and bra back over my chest. Holding hands, we hurry around the side of the building and quickly hop into his car. Red and blue lights flash through the dark parking lot and cops hop out of squad cars, shouting at the swarm of people barreling from the front door.

From the corner of my eye, I watch Asher and he meets my eyes. My desire mirrors his expression.

“Now where are we going?” I ask, buckling my seat belt.

He runs his tongue ring across his swollen lips. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

I lean back in the seat and watch the trees blur by, feeling alive and carefree for the first time in my life. I wish I had a pen so I could write about this moment and preserve it forever. Then I could remember what it felt like when death consumes me again.