“Hey,” I muttered, scowling. “I never meant to dupe, or deceive, or hurt anyone.”
But Ten wasn’t paying attention to me any longer. A wistful smile had flitted across his face. “You know, my woman went incognito to catch me, too. It was really hot...and a most effective way to win the guy.”
Or lose him, in this case, I said in my head.
“What’d I miss?” Asher said, coming up to us from Ten’s left side as he tapped a beat onto the bar. “What’re we talking about?”
“Remy has something to tell you,” Ten announced before clasping Asher on the shoulder and strolling away.
I scowled after him, wishing I could strangle him. But Asher was already turning to me. “What’s up?”
“I...” I gazed into his green eyes and...totally chickened out. “I really should get going. It’s late.” I actually looked at the time after that and, wow, it was late. Almost closing time.
“Okay.” Asher grinned at me and waved a farewell. “See you tomorrow at practice then. And thanks for organizing that box.”
I slipped off the stool. “You bet.” Then I hurried from the bar so I could cry all the way home. After making it to my lonely apartment—no clue where my supportive roommate was to mope all over—I had a pity party in the shower, obsessing over the fact that nothing I did from this point on was going to have a nice happy ending.
I’d auditioned as a way to find myself, be accepted into a band for who I was, and stick it to my ex. But none of that had happened. I’d had to fake it the entire time, pretending to be something else entirely just to fit in, and Fisher couldn’t even know what I was doing.
Now I had no idea what I was striving for.
Wait, yes I did. Now, my main goal was not to hurt Asher.
Except I had no idea how to avoid that except to keep on keeping the truth from him.
Damn it, I’d fucked up. Big time.
My fingers were pruned and white by the time I shut off the water, telling me how long I’d dawdled and moped. But I just couldn’t help it. Asher was never going to want to see or talk to me again after he found out.
I’d just dressed in some comfy pants and camisole, pulled a pint of ice cream from the refrigerator, and was dipping my spoon straight into the carton when my phone rang.
It was Asher.
Of course. Because my guilty conscience needed to hear his voice so I could feel even worse.
“Hey, I didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked as soon as I answered.
“No. Not at all.” I returned the spoonful to the container and slapped the lid back on as if to hide all evidence of a sulk fest.
“Good.” He blew out a breath. “I was hoping you might still be up, because...I need a ride...if you’re in the area.”
“A ride?”
“Yeah, my bike started and then...died, so I’m stuck here alone in the parking lot, and Ten’s already left. I would’ve called and bothered him, but I just had this horrible mental picture that he wakes Caroline up whenever he gets home from work, and I didn’t want to interrupt, you know, any of that.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Oh, but you knew you wouldn’t be interrupting anything if you called me?”
He was quiet a second before hissing, “Shit. I’m sorry. If you’re busy, I’ll just call—”
“No, no.” I laughed and waved a hand. “I’m just fucking with you. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I hung up on him and leapt into action, taking longer than I wanted to get into my Sticks gear. This shit was definitely not made for speedy dressing. In my hurry, I tore a little bit of the latex on the back of the neck, but hoped my hair would cover it.
Not that it mattered; he knew I wore a mask now. He just thought I was grotesquely disfigured under it. Shit...another lie I’d added to my plate.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the empty parking lot across the street from Forbidden where a lone figure leaned against a badass-looking motorcycle directly under the spray of a streetlamp.
?Por Dios! He rode a motorcycle. Okay, yeah, he’d said bike when he’d talked to me, but it took me until I was actually looking at it to really process the words. Asher Hart drove a motorcycle.
In that second, he got, like, five times hotter.
Trying to cool my jets, I blew out a breath and pulled up next to him, rolling down my window. “Still won’t start?” I asked.
He pushed upright away from the bike and reached for the door handle of my car. “No.” After he slid inside, he slumped low and moodily into the passenger seat. “I discovered the problem. The fuel line was cut.”
I blinked and stared at him. “Cut? You mean, like, cut-cut?”
He arched an eyebrow, letting me know there was no other kind of cut.