by Nola Sarina
The door chimed as it opened and I turned, expecting to greet my cousin, one of my few clients. A light sweat had already broken out over my shoulders and chest, dampening my hair. But through the door strolled Gypsy, with Jim and John just on the other side, lingering with menacing nonchalance. My sister wore a stunning black pinstriped suit with sleek slacks underneath and a look of determination on her face. I frowned and approached her. She spared not a second for greetings.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“What? Samuel will be here any minute.”
Gypsy flipped her wrist in dismissal. “Glenda rescheduled him for two-thirty. But speaking of Glenda . . . would you mind telling me why you dropped five thousand dollars at Chiffon today?”
I bit my lip and wondered if I should lie, but I knew Gypsy would see straight through any lie I conjured. “I took Aria shopping.”
“You took Aria shopping,” she repeated, unsurprised and sarcastic. “You took her to my personal shopping assistant at my preferred store and dropped five thousand dollars on her.”
I grabbed a towel from the rack beside the workout area entrance. “Gyp, it’s not unusual for a wealthy man to spend a chunk of green on a lady he’s trying to woo.” I slung the towel over my shoulders.
Gypsy planted her hands on her slender hips. “No, it’s not.” She sighed. “But Asher, you can’t get attached to this one. You can’t get attached to any of them. You know this. Why are you being so stupid? Your indiscretion alone could cost me a hell of a lot, and if you suffer in the aftermath too because you got attached . . . what am I supposed to do about that?”
Her words halted me. She was right. She was always right. I was being a complete fucking moron, and she put words to that before I even confessed how attached I already . . . oh, no. Shit, no.
“I’ll be fine, Gyp,” I tried to cover my sudden panic. “I don’t know why it’s different this time. I just want her to have some happiness first. You know?”
My sister stepped toward me and looked up into my eyes. “Asher, do you remember your first?”
I flinched as though she’d slapped me across the face. Did I remember my first victim? The girlfriend I loved for a year before I killed her? Jesus, Gypsy!
Do I remember her eyes, clouded with wanting, as we took the stairs when most of the party guests left for the evening? Do I remember the thrill of being in my bedroom with a forbidden girl beneath my sheets? How her skin felt under my fingers, how her lips felt on mine, how tight she was, surrendering her virginity to me for my own? Do I remember fucking her, finishing and delighting in the feeling of being a man, the first joy I’d felt since Mom and Dad died? Do I remember pulling out of her, questioning the glow of her aura, and jiggling her shoulders, shakily slapping her face, wondering why, why wasn’t she moving? I wasn’t violent about the sex. Everybody had sex. Why was it different for me? Her eyes were so dead, so vacant, like the eyes of a doll, nothing more than glass or plastic and some paint, eyelashes stuck on with glue. I kissed her cheek and asked her to wake up. Then I kissed her again and ordered her to wake up. Then I kissed her once more and screamed with agony.
Do I remember feeling the swell of the incubus, the birth of the monster? Do I remember realizing that I killed a woman—a girl, a teenager like me—with sex?
Do I remember stumbling against the wall and losing my breath, realizing she was dead? A corpse in my bed, my hands stained with her murder like the bloodied sheets beneath her hips . . . nothing left because of me. Do I remember realizing, in that horrid moment of black silence in the room, that I needed more?
Do I remember the humiliation of screaming for you, of begging you to help me and pleading for you not to hate me for what I’d done? I didn’t mean to, after all . . . I gnawed on my knuckles in the corner of my bedroom, tasting blood in the dark for three weeks after, only leaving my room to kill some more. I remember trying to kill myself and you stopping me. I remember the panic and fear as you covered up my murder.
Do I remember my first time? Do I fucking remember it?
“Yeah, Gypsy,” I whispered of the memories that tormented me in waking and sleep, the screaming of my conscience behind closed doors. “I remember.”
Her eyes intensified as she peered into mine. And then, much to my surprise, she reached up and ran her palm along my chin, soft skin against stubble; affectionate contact. “I remember it. I remember how scared I was. I thought I would lose you like I lost them.”
I swallowed. Gypsy, scared? The two barely registered as compatible in my mind.
“Asher,” my twin warned, her thumb stroking across my cheek. “You’ve endured so much. I understand a man can only take so much. But don’t do this. Don’t get attached. If you must have Aria, get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. You’re dragging out your own torture, and God, Asher, I can’t clean up the pieces again if you collapse beneath it all. I can clean up bodies. That, I’m good at. But you?” She shook her head. “I might be a little odd, but I’m not soulless. I hate to watch my brother suffer. And the longer you postpone the inevitable, the more let down you will be when this doesn’t pan out any better than the others. You’ll be crushed, and I’ll be helpless, as I always am with matters of the heart.”
I realized I was holding my breath and let it out, averting my eyes. Gypsy dropped her hand and stepped back.
“Make it soon. It’s not like I can arrange for grief counseling for something like this. You don’t spend money on women, nor do you let them sleep in your apartment, so this is abnormal for you and troublesome. Get it over with, Asher.”
I nodded, staring at the floor, my hand gripping the dangling edges of the towel around my neck. She watched me for a moment and then turned on her high heels and left, the clacking of her pointed shoes the only sound in the room as she stepped off the gym mats and strode out the lobby doors.
I sank to the floor and balanced myself in a crouch by my fingertips. Gypsy was right on all levels. Sure, I wanted to try charging from Aria during her orgasm and fueling my deadly needs little by little . . . but it was only a matter of time before I needed more and demanded it with fervency beyond my control. Was it foolish to drag this out? Would I feel worse about the kill if it was accidental instead of premeditated?
Yes, I would. Much worse. But the thought of Aria beneath me in all of her naked, tattooed beauty, dead and cold was horrid. I couldn’t imagine her cheeks refusing to flush when I cursed in public and embarrassed her. I couldn’t imagine her eyes stuck open with death, her lashes unable to bat past that lacy blue. I couldn’t imagine kissing her cheek and pleading my sorrow, begging for forgiveness that would never come as I withdrew from the girl I barely knew, cared for with all of my being and fucked to death.
I could imagine, vividly, the enthusiastic trust in her eyes when I told her I was ready to give myself to her. I could imagine the joy of mutual orgasm and the honesty in her irises as I connected with her fully. And then I would kill her whether I wanted to or not.
None of it was fair, to any of us, but especially not to her. And I couldn’t let it happen. But what to do about it? Dump her—break her heart—and forget I ever knew her? Forget I saw even a glimmer of hope that there was another way in this life for me?
Or man up and keep my libido under control, and protect her life like the man I should have been, had my incubus side not destroyed my life forty-three times already?
I rose to my feet and resumed a slow jog around the room. After two laps, I arced suddenly and met the free-standing punching bag, driving my full weight with my fists against it. My triceps burned and my knuckles cracked, staining the black leather with dark red, like wet ink on dry as I pounded it over and over. My urge to penetrate Aria’s perfect body battled with the sorrow in my heart as I fought the bag, wrestling my decision, combating my nature. I hit the bag again and again, my heart pounding as I panted. A growl built between my lips as I punished my fists, and my pace peaked. I slammed my knuckles into the bag, both
at once, and snarled as I propelled my weight off of it. I spun away, furious and frustrated, and paced in a small circle around the center of the room, my veins bulging with ire and restraint, my muscles quivering.
I stopped and rested against my knees, bent over, the blood of my knuckles dripping onto the floor. I closed my eyes and worked to slow my breathing.
I can do this, I chanted to myself. I have to. I couldn’t let Aria slip from my grasp without trying. She was my only chance at a life without killing, if I could absorb her aura through her pleasure. I had to try.
And if I failed, and the urge grew too strong, I’d take myself out of the picture before breaking her heart, and let Gypsy explain once I was gone so Aria would be safe. My death would crush my sister. But both of them deserved better than I could give them, if I wasn’t man enough to keep myself under control for Aria’s sake.
I had to try. If you’re watching me, Dad, don’t let me fail them.
I straightened and hated every inch of my being as I took the towel from my shoulders, grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and began cleaning up the blood. For the first time in my adult life, I wished I had Gypsy’s job instead of my own.
Chapter 12 – Aria
I waited outside the door to Asher’s gym. My back was pressed against the wall so he couldn’t see me through the glass as I psyched myself up for this—personal training with the man who was quickly leeching away my self-control with every moment we spent together.
I took a deep breath, tossed the bangs from my face and strode through the door.
He stood in the middle of the pristine, open space—he must really like his floor plans without walls—curling his arms up one at a time with a giant dumbbell in each hand. I set my water bottle down just outside the workout mats and stepped in, timid.
“Hi,” he said, his motions fluid.
God, his voice was sexy. Beads of sweat trickled down his chest as he continued to curl his arms in an even rhythm, the bulge of his bicep swelling with each lift. Just the shirtless sight of him ignited my desire, and with his magnetic radiance filling the room, my courage was easy to find. I wanted to be with him as often as I could, watching him in all his elements. In the gym, Asher looked cool, at ease, and confident.
“Hi yourself,” I said, striding over to the dumbbell rack and grabbing a ten-pounder in each hand. I spent a lot of time working out in my room at home before I abandoned my crazy-ass mother, since it kept my frustration with the horrid circumstances at bay and distracted me from thinking about boys. I couldn’t afford gyms or personal training, nor could I keep exercise equipment in the house with my mother’s tendency to destroy things at random, so I resorted to pushups, crunches and running most often.
But I wanted to impress Asher with my strength, since it was the only thing I had to compare to him in any way: my physical fitness. I carried the ten-pound dumbbells to the center of the room, planted my feet shoulder-width apart facing him and started to mirror his curls.
His eyebrows shot up, impressed. Relief and pride surged through me as the burn in my arms started, and the exertion helped soothe some of the fiery need in my core as his presence turned me on with crushing force.
We pumped iron like that for a while, his eyes wandering down my cleavage, to the bottom of my sports bra and exposed abdomen as I started to sweat. He checked me out slowly, as if taking in every detail, and I did the same: admiring the cuts of his abs, and the lines of lean muscle that rippled in his shoulders with each motion. Even his legs were solid muscle like the most impossible body-builders, but on Asher’s frame the muscle fit naturally. He wasn’t too ripped, but he was ripped. Not too huge for his body, but huge enough to dwarf my figure. And working out with him, the taste of his energy in the air, burned off some of the irresistible need to pounce him and beg him to take me.
I didn’t want to be desperate. I wanted to be sexy for him. And I wanted to be relaxed with him, like we were on his couch. Hell, I just wanted to be with him in any way I could. My whole world was flipping upside down, my goals switching direction at a rate so fast I could hardly keep up, and everything pointed to Asher.
He finally hummed, satisfied, and returned his dumbbells to their place on the rack. I took the opportunity to slide in front of him and put mine away first, brushing my ass against him and delighting in the cool sweat of his abs along the back of my arm. He stopped as I did, his breath catching, and he reached around me to put one of his dumbbells away. He let his hands fall to rest on my hips.
I sighed with pleasure, and it was over too soon as he straightened and motioned with his finger in a circle around the room. “Cardio. Let’s go.”
His bossy tone was playful, and I broke into a sprint so fast he had to catch up with me, and soon we were jogging beside each other at the same pace. I shamelessly checked him out every few seconds as we ran, and he did the same. I smirked at him when our gazes met, and his eyes were serious, dark, and eager. Yes.
When we were both sweating from head to toe, he led me to the punching bag and jabbed it once, hard, to demonstrate. “Hit it,” he said.
I grabbed his hand on the retrieval of the punch. “What happened?” I demanded, running my fingertips over the bloodied white tape around his knuckles.
He let me hold his hand and clasped my fingers as I did, wincing. “I’m a kickboxer. I punch things. Sometimes, I bleed.”
I shook my head with disapproval that he’d hurt himself in any way, marring his perfection, and kissed each of his knuckles through the tape. “You sure have a violent side, Asher.”
“I prefer the term ‘aggressive.’”
His cocky attitude pressed away my worry, refueling my desire. “Aggressive is hot.”
“And you’re supposed to be hitting a bag right now.”
No way. It was the perfect opportunity to pick his brain for all these juicy details—the way he viewed himself, how he ended up personal training when he had the money to spend every day in a new country, if he wanted. “Do you fight in a ring?”
“No, I just train and body-build. Muay Thai and Capoeira are my favorite martial arts, but I pump iron and cross-train with a few sports here and there, too.” He chuckled. “They asked me to coach the U of M Duluth campus football once, but I’m not much for instructing teams, so I suited up and knocked the players down a bunch of times to toughen them up instead.”
Asher the juggernaut. I giggled. “Do you take steroids?”
He stammered with surprise at the boldness of my question. Filter, Aria!
“Do I—no, I don’t take steroids, but I’m flattered that you would think so. This guy,” he thumbed himself, “is 100% superior Chain genetics.”
I grinned at his feigned arrogance and grabbed his forearm, running my thumb up and down the ripples of muscle there. “What’s this muscle called?”
“Brachioradialis,” he said without missing a beat. He made a fist and the flesh hardened under my grip, and it was all I could do to hide a sigh of delight. “That’s a mouthful,” I said, pressing and releasing one of his prominent veins as he flexed.
“The most useful muscles always are.”
I laughed. “Your biceps are ridiculous, Asher. You really don’t take steroids?”
“No, none. I eat a lot of red meat and potatoes and exercise for hours every day.”
“I suppose you have time to do that, with all the money.”
He shrugged and glanced away. Oh, no. I shouldn’t have said it. I remembered how isolated he must feel by the wealth and shook my head.
“To get to this size by your age, I just can’t imagine it. You must work out really hard.” I wrapped both my hands around his bicep as he flexed into my grip once more. Damn. I wanted to touch more of him, and as a grin pulled on the corners of his lips, I decided to keep admiring him and get that playful mood of his back into high-gear. I couldn’t touch my fingertips to each other with my hands around his arm; there were easily five inches of space between them. Holy hell!
/> Asher watched me stare in awe. “I suppose I have gotten bigger, lately. Gypsy noticed a dramatic increase in my size when I hit seventeen. I guess I’m just a testosterone machine.”
I drew a deep breath at the mention of testosterone, and squeezed him tighter. “I’d like to bite this sometime.”
He lifted an eyebrow with excitement. “So bite it.”
“No, not here. I’d like to bite it while you’re braced on your elbows above me, in your bed.”
He groaned and closed his eyes, and I delighted inside at the way I could make him picture it. I ran my hands up to his neck and stroked the muscle on either side above his collarbones. The bulges filled my palms.
“Trapezius,” he said, his voice low as I moved my thumbs in circles, massaging.
I knew what it was, but I loved the way he said it, told me the parts of himself I couldn’t help but touch. “I’d like to see how pumped this gets when you’re fucking.” Did I say that? I mentally high-fived myself for my fearless advances. This one-eighty I’d made with my courage blew even me away, and I wondered what Asher might be thinking as I gave in to impulse and abandoned my restraint.
He swallowed hard, his heart pounding between us. I trailed my hands down his pectorals and pressed my cheek to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, his sweat cool on my heated face.
Asher wrapped his arms around me and imprisoned me there against his heart, and the moment felt icy and sweet, somehow forbidden yet impossible to resist. He rested his chin on top of my head and inhaled deeply, and I felt him harden as I pressed closer. I turned my face and kissed his chest, letting my tongue slip out to taste him.
He let me go, then, and stepped away. “You’re supposed to be hitting a bag right now.”
