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In a show of silent support, I move over to him, wrap my arms around him and place a soft, wet kiss on his chest. He dishes up the pasta he cooked and it looks as good as it smells.
We sit and I try some of the pasta. And it’s really good. Smiling over at him, I say, “You never said you could cook. ”
Picking up his fork, he smirks. “Never asked, pretty girl. ”
His newest phone vibrates on the counter and I lift it without permission.
Grace calling.
I pull the phone closer to me and lower it. It vibrates every other second through our awkward silence. Ash looks at the phone through empty eyes. I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s causing shit for my man and making him angry-sad.
I’ll cut a bitch!
The phone stops vibrating and I push it back to the middle of the table. “Didn’t want you breaking another one,” I mutter, avoiding his gaze.
He resumes eating and says quietly, “Thanks. ”
No longer hungry, I pick at my food for a while longer before standing to take my dish to the sink.
Just ask him. Ask him who Grace is.
Asher comes to stand behind me and wraps his arms around me. Lowering his mouth to the side of my neck, he asks, “TV or bed?”
Ask him.
When I answer, “Bed,” I feel his smile at my neck and I repeat my earlier admission, “I still don’t think you’re getting lucky tonight, buddy. ”
Chickenshit.
I squeak when he lifts me up and over his shoulder. Smacking my ass so hard it tingles, he says, “I told you, girl. I am lucky. ”
He throws me down onto the bed and I giggle.
Freeze. Hold the hell up.
I gasp and Ash chuckles. I whisper, “Did I- I think that was- I can’t believe I just-”
“I think you just giggled,” he smirks, thoroughly amused.
Shaking my head, I lie, “No, it wasn’t. I don’t giggle. It was gas. ”
Ash throws his head back and laughs hard. I can’t help but laugh with him. He runs a hand through his hair. “Only you would think that giggling is worse than farting. ” Shaking his head, he mutters, “Too damn cute. ”
He pulls me down next to him and wraps me tight. I peck kisses onto his chest, neck and chin. Feeling brave, I ask quietly, “You think you’ll ever be up to telling me what happened to you?”
Rather than answering the question, he pulls me tighter to him and sighs. “When I was eight, my dad lost his job. And it was a good job. He was high up in some lending company, sort of like a bank. We always had money. Mom and Dad both came from money, so it was expected we’d stay that way. Well, shit happens. People lose their jobs every day, but my dad started drinking. A lot. There’s not a memory I have that doesn’t include him drunk as fuck or lying somewhere in his own vomit. He’d been drinking all day. It was my birthday and I was working on my bike in the garage. Dad comes down and…”
He stiffens and I know something’s happening.
I raise my head to look up at him. His brows are furrowed and his eyes vacant.
My heart races. I’m suddenly scared.
Putting my hand to his forehead, I ask quietly, “Baby, talk to me. What’s happening here?”
“He was a bad man,” he whispers almost childlike.
And my heart breaks.
