AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter Fifty
Asher
The attack at the club is all over the news. They plaster his face everywhere. Serina has checked in on Blair continually, as have Lexi and Allegra and some of the other girls. Luckily, none of them were hurt—hell, Lexi had even gone out back to meet her man, so she didn’t know it had even happened. Lexi was supposed to be on stage but was distracted.
Faye is okay, and she’s still at the clubhouse. It seems he used her as a distraction. He left a bloody pig’s head in her locker with a note saying she was next. It got Prez worried, and he called in everyone far and wide, even from the club. I know he regrets that and has agreed to protect Faye as penance, even though we all know he’s doing it for himself.
Blair is deflated and angry.
So angry.
She barely speaks, nor will she sleep or eat. She just paces and rants, snapping at us to let her go, to let her out, so she can go get him.
We try to keep her busy. Bray makes sure she has pain relief, and we keep an eye on her head. We are all angry we let him get too close, but we are more worried about her. Before, she was scared, but she trusted us to deal with it. Now? She’s feral, angry, so fucking angry that we can’t even reason with her. She’s losing her trust in us, in the world again, and taking the blame and letting it rot her like before.
She is not responsible for another’s actions, no one is.
Blair won’t listen, though, no matter how many times we tell her. No, she memorises the victims’ names. They lived, all of them, but she made a point about the effects. The PTSD, the nightmares, the healing. None of it would be necessary if it wasn’t for him.
Him, not her.
The bastard is laying low somewhere, that’s for sure. We’ve got people keeping an eye out and listening to police radios, but nothing. I don’t get it. The whole city is on lockdown looking for him, and he’s just gone. How?
“Blair,” Cyrus begs, but she ignores his outstretched hand, instead pacing past him, lost in her own head. He looks helpless before he grabs his phone and gets to work, angry at himself.
I’m determined to distract her. She needs to rest and heal, not be obsessively watching TV and coming up with a plan. We have all talked about the fact he will be hiding right now and that the police are patrolling the city, searching for him. There is nothing she can do, and that’s infuriating her. She’s checked on Faye every five minutes and hasn’t sat down for more than a moment.
Turning away from my easel, I get up and walk towards her. Cyrus hasn’t let her out of his sight and is working at the table. Bray watches her like a kicked puppy, bringing her everything, including food and water, trying to get her to relax, but it’s not working.
“Go to your rooms for a minute,” I ask them. Cyrus is about to argue when he looks at her and sighs, nodding at me as he stands.
“Go gentle on her, brother,” Bray pleads before smiling at her and following Cyrus, leaving us alone.
She immediately gets defensive. “What? Are you going to tell me to relax? I can’t, not with—”
“Come with me.” I take her hand, cutting her off mid-rant, and lead her over to the chair near my easel. “I need a muse,” I tell her as I coax her to sit.
“Asher,” she snaps, but she’s caught off-guard. I’m not arguing or telling her how she’s coping isn’t right. Everyone copes differently, but I want to help her, and if distracting her from blaming herself is how we do it, then fine.
I’ll be the best damn distraction she’s ever had.
Picking up the paintbrush again, I dip it in my water cup, keeping my eyes on her the entire time.
“What?” she eventually asks.
“Just looking at the most magnificent view I’ve ever got to paint,” I reply before dipping the bristles in my colour and getting started. She sits there, finally quiet, finally still, as she watches me, and when I glance over, her eyes are lost in what my hands are doing, but I still see her lips pulling down.
Fine, time for plan B.
Fuck painting, I’ll fuck her instead. In fact, I’ll do both.
I’ll make her forget, even for an hour.
“Sit still. Don’t move or you’ll ruin my painting,” I warn with a dark smirk. Wetting two clean brushes—one smaller, one thicker—I stand and head over.
“Ash,” she mutters, “what are you doing?”
“Preparing my canvas and brushes. What does it look like?” I wink as I kneel before her with the wet bristles poised above her bare knee. “Now be a good girl for once.” I slowly drag the smaller brush across her skin. She jerks at the contact, her eyes widening and dropping to my hand to see what I’m doing, but she doesn’t protest—not even when I continue to drag it up her thigh and under the long shirt she’s wearing, almost touching her pussy. Lifting the brush, I turn and do the exact same thing to her other leg. She parts her thighs for me and sighs. Rolling my eyes up to hers, I can’t help but grin at the reddening of her cheeks.
