“And they’re also left wondering when you’re going to retaliate.”
Psychological warfare. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Asad has never been impulsive. He’s not the snake, quick to strike; he’s the spider, waiting, stalking, playing with their food before slowly sucking it dry for maximum pain.
“Do you think they’re behind Marcus’s death?” I quietly ask.
He studies me for several seconds. “Do you care?”
The question isn’t confrontational or accusatory. And because of that, I take my time and consider my answer.
“Yes, as in I’d like to know. Not only would not having the mystery solved annoy the hell out of me but it would be bad for business. Rumors about the manner of Marcus’s death are already circulating. To think we can squash them is unrealistic and impossible. And once the fact that he was murdered is confirmed, if people discover Cross hasn’t identified and handled the person responsible, it makes the organization—and the head of the organization—appear weak. And that affects business and the bottom line. Forthatreason, I care.”
He stares at me for a very long moment, and I almost think he isn’t going to reply. And something about the glint in his eyes… I begin to regret saying anything. Those intense, piercing eyes—it’s like being visually stalked and hunted down.
“That sounds cold as fuck, ma.”
I pause, glance to the side, and catch my reflection in the heavily tinted, one-way window where I can view the heavy traffic of downtown LA. Instead of seeing myself, I glimpse theimage of the woman I believe my mother must’ve looked like at my age. A little over average height, same body type, the same facial structure. Sam often tells me that I’m her twin, and since I’ve dyed my hair honey blond, the similarities are uncanny.
“My mother’s been gone longer in my life than the time I actually had her,” I murmur, still staring out the window. Even as the words are spilling out of me, there’s a voice in my head screaming to shut up, to not give Asad ammo to use against me at a later date. But it’s as if some circuit breaker flipped between my brain and mouth, because they’re not connecting. And I can’t stop talking. “Yet there are times I miss her as if she died last week, instead of thirteen years ago. That’s why I changed my hair color.” I lift my fingers to touch the long coils. “To feel closer to the mother that I can only see, talk to, smell, and hold in my dreams.” I pause, then softly snort. “At least, that’s one of the reasons. The one I’ll readily admit.”
I finally turn away from the window, and as if he were just waiting on me to look his way, Asad’s gray eyes capture mine, and for a panicky moment, my throat squeezes closed, and I struggle against the sensation of drowning. My fingers flutter to the base of my neck, and his gaze drops to the movement. I drop my arm, forcing it to hang by my side. I’m already revealing too much with my word vomit, but this… this gesture suddenly and inexplicably feels too… vulnerable.
“Don’t stop now, Ember.” Asad takes a step toward me, his hands still tucked into his pockets, an urgency in his words, in the tight lift of his shoulders. “Get that shit out. What’s the other reason?”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. Self-preservation shows her ass, and since that’s my girl, I should listen.Should.But I don’t know if it’s some kind of magical dick left over from last night fogging my God-given good sense… or if these thoughts have been locked up deep inside me for so long that all it took was a question about my father and a thought about my mother to unlock that rusty door to free them.
I swallow, wetting my throat and tongue, attempting to wipe away the dusty layers of the past.
“I was about fourteen when I noticed Marcus never looked me directly in the eye; he’d look over my head or shoulder but not in my face. It didn’t take therapy or an accelerated degree to eventually figure out it was because of my resemblance to my mother and his late wife. So a few years ago, I decided to make it even harder for him to ignore me by changing my appearance to look even more like the woman he so easily replaced in my mother’s house and bed with an evil, crazy-ass bitch.” If he expects me to apologize for calling Michelle out her name, well, people are disappointed every day. Shit, I could’ve called her a raging, STD-ridden cunt, so he needs to be grateful. “Marcus made neglecting me an Olympic sport, and that muthafucka won gold year after year. You explain to me how I miss a parent who’s been gone for over a decade more than one who hasn’t even been dead for a couple of weeks.”
“So your other reason was to punish Marcus.”
“Over and over,” I admit without shame and with a perverse, delicious glee that I probably do a shit job of hiding. “What you call cold as fuck, I call my truth. I care about finding out who killed Marcus as much as Sherlock deducing who was behind the hound of the Baskervilles. Leaving mysteries unsolved is irritating.”
Silence settles between us as we both fall into our own thoughts. I don’t know what his are, but mine switch from my gone-on-to-glory father to another track that crowds into my head like the Beyhive at a Beyoncé concert. And while reason demands I let it go, I can’t. The not knowing would eat at me until it would slowly drive me insane. More so than who dispatched Marcus.
“Why do you care about my impression?” I ask.No one ever has before. Especially you.“Why aren’t you asking your second and Sam? That’s why they’re there. Since when did my opinion become important?”
He stares at me for so long that my questions seem to ricochet off the walls, growing louder and louder. Or maybe that’s just how the regret and embarrassment churning in my gut make it appear. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Never should’ve given him a glimpse into how his answer… matters. But it does. The not knowing will eat me alive. I need to pinpoint, to examine to death the moment I became important to Asad Prince.
Shit.
“I’m not Marcus, ma.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
I scoff. “Yes.”
“Then act like it.”
See? This is why we can’t have nice things. Talking to Asad without feeling homicidal is like Yogi Bear waltzing through Jellystone Park and not committing a little larceny of picnic baskets. The shit’s just not happening.
I hop off the table and head for the door. But before I can take a third step, a big hand cuffs the back of my neck, halting me dead in my tracks like a misbehaving puppy. The comparison sends anger spiking inside me, and I whip around—or I attempt to whip around. That grip tightens, and I’m jerked backward, almost off my feet, slamming into Asad’s hard, wide chest.
Holy shit. Did this muthafucka just365 Daysme?
“I’m beginning to think you like this toxic shit, ’cause you stay trying me, ma.” That low, dark growl rumbles in my ear, his lips grazing the top curve.
