ASHER (The Beckett Boys, Book Three)

by Olivia Chase

  “This pie is ridiculous,” Whitney moans as she takes a bite.

  “I told you. Aunt Sylvia has a way with key lime pie,” I declare. I grin at her before taking my own bite. The tangy-sweet taste fills my mouth, and I groan. God, I don’t know how the woman does it, but she makes it taste like I’m in the Florida Keys.

  She shifts in her seat. Takes another bite. I try to not watch her sexy plump lips wrap around the forkful of food. Everything Whitney does is sexy, even if she isn’t aware it is. Especially if she isn’t.

  Aunt Sylvia comes and pats me on the back. “You know I wanna ask you why the hell you’re home, boy.” Her dark brown gaze locks on mine, and I squirm. She’s not one to fuck around with. Aunt Sylvia isn’t really my aunt—she married my grandfather, who died, but she likes to be called Aunt. She’s pretty intense and kind of crazy. She fits right into our family.

  “I know,” I tell her. I grip her hand. “I promise I’ll talk. But not right now, okay?”

  She narrows her gaze. Stares at me for a long moment. “Fine, but I’m not letting you get away without talking to me, you little shit. You’re the worst of the three, you know.”

  I blink. “What? Me? Jax is a total jerk, and Smith—”

  “Your brothers spill their shit as soon as I open my mouth.” She laughs. “You’ve always been quiet and closed off.”

  I pat her hand. “You’re good at making anyone talk. You should work for the CIA.”

  “Eh, screw them. Shitty benefits, I bet.” She smirks. “Eat your pie, you ass. It’s gonna get warm.” With that, she saunters away.

  “She’s an interesting person,” Whitney says with a laugh.

  “Yeah, we were shocked at first when our grandfather married her, but they worked well.”

  We finish our pie, and I try not to look at Whitney.

  She’s as addictive as the best pie Aunt Sylvia ever made, and then some.

  When we’re not having sex, we’re hanging out, talking. Whitney says Marshmallow misses me—she keeps the unicorn in her bedroom. I’ve taken her out to the movies, to dinner, on walks in the park. Anything to have her near. I can’t stop craving her, hungering for her presence. Her laugh. Her smile. Her eyes. Whitney is like a narcotic.

  “Asher!” a deep voice says from behind us. A hand claps me on the shoulder, and I look up to see Dwayne, a guy I graduated with, standing there peering down at me. His eyes are bleary, hazed most likely with the weed he smokes daily. “Holy fuck, is it really you? Haven’t seen you in ages! How are you, man?”

  “I’m fine.” I shift my shoulder away so his hand falls down.

  Dwayne slides in beside me on the booth seat and grins, his gray teeth bold and proud. The guy has smoked dope every fucking day since we were in middle school. “Dude. So what are you doing? How’s college? You being savage on the football field?”

  I stiffen. “I’m not in school anymore—I’m home, working at the bar.”

  “Whoa. Really?” Dwayne draws back, shock in his eyes. “So you gave all that up? That’s fucking crazy.”

  “No it isn’t,” I say, but it doesn’t matter. Dwayne gives a friendly goodbye to us and moves away from our table, already heading toward other people.

  I draw in a steadying breath. Whitney is staring at me, and I can’t read the expression on her face.

  I’m not going to talk about it. Not now, not with her. We’ve spent the last couple of weeks growing close again. Sharing our thoughts. Having amazing sex. I will not fuck that up.

  Whitney clears her throat.

  I give her a warning look. I don’t want to fucking go into this now. I’m tired of people bringing up what a mistake I’ve made. I swear to God, if I hear it one more time, I’m going to fucking snap. I haven’t made a damn mistake moving back home. I’ve done what is right for me.

  She nibbles her lower lip. Eyes me. “Are you okay?” she finally asks.

  I nod. “Fine.”

  “You don’t seem like it. Do you want to talk?”

  “Nothing to talk about.” I drop my fork on my plate and shove it away from me. This shit is getting old.

  Her brow creases. She rests her fork on her plate, too. “I just worry, because we aren’t talking about it at all. It’s like the elephant in the room.”

  “I—”

  Her phone buzzes on the table. I shut up, and she bites her lower lip and picks it up. Her brows knit in concern. “It’s my mom. Hold on please.” She answers. “Hey, what’s up?” A pause. Her face falls. “Oh, no. Is he okay?” Another long moment, then she says, “Okay. Yeah, I’ll be there.” She hangs up and looks at me. “My…my dad lost his job, and he’s upset. I should go home. Can you drop me off?”

  My heart falls, my own issues fading to the background in the light of her clear upset. A deep frown line mars her brow. “God, Whitney. That fucking sucks. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She braves a smile. “I just need to go. I’m sorry.”

  I toss some money on the table and grab her hand.

  Whitney

  Asher pulls up in front of my house and idles the car. We didn’t talk at all the whole ride here. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts, wondering what I’m going to find when I go through the front door. Will Dad be passed out now, in a sullen snit, or will he still be screaming? Mom didn’t say much on the phone, just wanting to warn me for when I come home that he’s in a bad mood.

  “You sure you’re fine?” Asher asks me. “I can come in with you if you need me to.”

  Dad’s a good man, but his temper when he’s drunk can be scary. I don’t want Asher seeing it. Partly because I don’t want him judging our family and partly because I’m embarrassed.

  Besides, Dad might start taking pot shots, and I don’t want Asher in the line of fire. Asher won’t put up with any bullshit, and it could start an argument or escalate the situation even more.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I reach for the handle, and Asher takes my other hand, stopping me in place. He tugs me toward him and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. The sweetness almost makes me want to cry, since I’m already all keyed up about my dad. I nod, giving a weak smile, then exit the car.

  When I open my front door, Mom’s standing in the kitchen, her back to Dad, who’s in the living room sitting on the couch, staring at a sci-fi movie on TV. There’s a stony silence in the house. The tension is almost visible.

  I step over to Mom and give her a hug. “Everything okay?” I ask her quietly.

  She shakes her head, and I see tears sliding down her cheeks. “He got fired for being drunk at work and chewing out a client.” She reaches up and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. “He came home stinking drunk and yelling.”

  Shit. “What are we going to do now?”

  Mom shrugs and begins scrubbing at dishes in the sink. “Who knows? Your father does whatever the hell he wants.” The bitterness in her voice surprises me. I know Mom gets upset when he drinks like this, but she’s never seemed this…cynical, this raw.

  Maybe she’s growing tired of it. Can’t blame her for that.

  “Want me to talk to him?”

  “You should stay out of the way,” she tells me. “He’s liable to explode. You know how he gets.” She grabs a dirty glass and dips it in the soapy water. Scrubs. Her entire focus is on the dishes, like she has to keep busy.

  My heart squeezes in pain for her. I kiss her cheek. Maybe I should try talking to him. Sometimes I can get him to relax and calm down, even laugh. And given the tension in the air, it could help.

  I head into the living room and sit down beside him. “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  He doesn’t take his gaze off the TV. “Peachy. Everything’s splendid, Whitney. Why do you ask? I’m sure your mother already filled you in on the bullshit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I mean, it’s his fault he got fired, but saying that will only make the situation worse. I reach over and squeeze his upper arm. “Maybe some sleep will help.”

&n
bsp; “Maybe not having another woman nagging me will help.” His tone is snippy, and it hits me square in the chest.

  “I’m not trying to nag,” I say, but he continues.

  “You’re just like your mother.” Acid drips from his tone. “It’s a wonder I managed to get through life without having you two telling me what to fucking do.”

  I stand, my chest tight, hot tears welling in the backs of my eyes. He’s just drunk, I tell myself. This isn’t his personality. “You don’t need to talk to me that way,” I say down at the top of his head. He still won’t look at me. “I’m going upstairs.”

  “I don’t care what you do,” he says sullenly. “Just stay the hell out of my face.” He reaches over to the coffee table and grabs his beer can.

  Fury hits me hard, and I snatch it out of his hand. “Stop drinking! You’re making this worse!” The words fly out of me.

  His eyes finally glare up at mine. I can see how livid he is…and how wasted. His eyes are bloodshot and puffy. “Give. That. Back.”

  I stomp into the kitchen to pour it down the sink.

  “Whitney,” Mom says in a warning voice. “You’re poking the bear.”

  “I don’t care.” The liquid glugs as the can drains. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. “He doesn’t need to be drinking anymore.”

  “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!” Dad yells. “This is my fucking house, and these are my fucking rules, and I can drink a beer any time I fucking want!”

  Mom’s face is tight as she spins to face him. “Go to bed. You need to sleep this off. You’ve already been hurtful to both of us.”

  “Aw, poor things. Like either of you give a shit about my feelings. I just got fucking fired,” Dad lashes back.

  My body shakes. I can’t deal with this anymore. I grab my purse and stomp to the door, fingers fumbling for the knob.

  “And where the hell are you going?” Dad asks.

  I don’t answer. I whip it open, slam it closed behind me, then begin walking up the sidewalk away from the house. My head aches, and the tears I fought back start to fall, dissolving my vision. Sobs erupt from me, one after another.

  Why does he act like this? I hug my arms around my torso and walk. When I get to the corner of the block, I sit down on the sidewalk and reach into my purse for my phone. My fingers are so shaky it’s hard to text. But I manage to send Asher a message.

  Come get me plz

  My car keys are in the house, and I can’t go back there. Not right now. Not for a while. The sheer hostility in his voice haunts me. He’s never talked to me that way before. I’ve seen him yell at Mom, though.

  I gulp in breaths and attempt to calm myself down. Wrap my arms around my legs and tuck my face against my knees. I’m not sure how much time passes, but it can’t have been too much when there’s a gentle hand pressing on my back.

  “Whitney,” Asher says from above me. He scoops me up, and I fall against him, letting the sobs out. “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” he nurtures, guiding me to the passenger side of the car. I curl up in the seat, the tears streaming down, my heart hurting badly.

  “He’s so…he’s so drunk, and he was yelling at me and Mom…” I manage to say.

  Asher’s free hand grips mine as he drives away. “It’s okay. I’ll take you to my house.”

  “I can’t go back there.” I don’t want to. The thought of being around my father like this makes my stomach turn.

  “You don’t have to. You’ll stay with me as long as you fucking need to.” His voice is adamant. His hand tightens around my fingers. “What did he do? Did he hit you?”

  I shake my head. “No…he just yelled…” I sniffle and try to draw in slow breaths to calm myself down. I’m away from the house now, and I don’t need to listen to him.

  “Your dad’s got a pretty good temper,” Asher says, his other hand gripping the steering wheel. “I’ve seen it at Outlaws a couple of times. Broke up a fight he got into with someone once.”

  A bitter laugh erupts from me. “I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And I’m tired of it.”

  “Do you want me to take care of it? I can talk to him.” The words are delivered in an easy manner, but I can hear the weight of what he’s saying.

  When Beckett boys “talk” to someone, there are usually more than just words involved. As mad as I am at my dad, him getting into an altercation with Asher isn’t going to help anything. “No, I just want to lay down and forget about this for a while.”

  Asher pulls up to the apartment he shares with Jax. Runs over to my side of the car and opens the door. With gentle hands, he eases me out of the passenger seat. I feel fragile, like I could break apart at any moment, and he seems to sense it, guiding me to the apartment. We walk past Jax and Brooklyn curled up on the couch.

  “Hey, Whitney,” Brooklyn says to me. Her eyes turn sad when she sees my face. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

  I offer her a watery smile and sniffle. “I’m…”

  “We’re headed to my room,” Asher says, cupping my elbow and leading me past them into his bedroom. He closes the door, and I sit on the edge of the bed. My body is heavy and tired, my soul feeling defeated. I hate that my dad’s anger, his drunkenness, have this power over me.

  “Shh,” Asher soothes, drawing me back to lie on the pillow with him, tucking me against his side. “You’re safe here.”

  I shudder and snuggle closer. After a few quiet minutes of him stroking my hair, the sadness in my chest eases, and guilt settles in. “I left my mom there.”

  “I asked my buddy Rob to keep an eye on your house. If he hears anything, he’s going to take care of it. She’ll be okay, I promise.” He kisses my brow and thumbs my tears away, tilting my chin up. His eyes are heavy with concern.

  “Thank you,” I say to him, grateful for the help. Rob’s a good guy and he lives nearby. I exhale and look up at Asher. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t go back in there.”

  “You aren’t going back until you’re ready to,” he vows. “Just try to let that go and relax right now, okay?” His other hand, wrapped around me, is making slow swirls on my back.

  I close my eyes and sink into the touch.

  Asher groans. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He shifts to his side to face me, and I feel his arousal pressing against my belly. But he doesn’t make any sexual advances.

  I need him to, though. I need him to help distract me. To give me something positive to focus on. I tilt my head up a touch more and brush my lips on his. He sighs against my mouth, opens to me for a moment. When he tries to pull away, I dart a hand up to his neck and tug him back.

  “You’re upset,” he says in a guttural tone. He’s trying hard to restrain himself, but his fingers are exploring my curves.

  “Kiss me,” I breathe. “Please, Asher.”

  Thankfully, he doesn’t argue, just does as I ask. Takes my mouth in a sweltering-hot kiss. I breathe him in, his scent, his taste. He groans, swiping his tongue along my teeth, my own tongue, and I gasp and press my body closer to him.

  Our fingers search frantically for flesh beneath clothes, his hands sliding up along my heated skin. He squeezes my right breast over my bra cup, and I groan with pleasure.

  “I need you inside me,” I tell him. “Now, Asher. I need you.”

  “Fuck, kitten,” he murmurs against my mouth, and then his hands take control and he begins to tug my clothes off. My shirt is gone in a flash, then my jeans. He yanks me to my back and leans down to suckle my apex through my panties.

  I’m already wet, my pulse throbbing everywhere, my limbs aching to wrap around him. I arch under his expert touch. He lifts up for a moment and grips my panties on the side, ripping the fabric in two.

  I shudder in shock and arousal at how hot that was.

  Asher opens his bedside drawer and drops the ruined panties in them, then grabs a condom. Strips his clothes off and rolls the condom on. His body is be
autiful, strong, muscled, and he’s so big, so powerful, so in control on top of me.

  I part my legs and take off my bra, tossing it to the ground, and then Asher is pushing inside me, and I gasp and pant and clutch his shoulders.

  “Fuck,” he groans, taking my mouth in a wet kiss. He bites my nipple, and my core flutters in response to the flash of pain. “I want to make you come so hard for me, Whitney.”

  “Yes,” I breathe. I shift my pelvis so he can take me deeper.

  Asher pounds me relentlessly, his cock making my arousal spike and my body soar. The orgasm hits me like a freight train, and I start to scream when he smothers my mouth with his, swallowing my cries. My entire body is on fire, enveloped in this burning passion between us, my nipples aching.

  It doesn’t take long for Asher to follow me, his body stiffening, and then he tosses his head back and thrusts one last, rough time. I can see the corded muscles of his neck freeze while he spurts in me. Then he gasps and drops down on top of me, his skin damp with sweat, his chest heaving.

  “Fuck, Whitney, you’re so damn sexy,” he pants against my brow.

  I’m nothing more than a pile of orgasmic bliss right now. I close my eyes and let myself sink into the relaxation. “Thank you for that,” I whisper.

  “Anything for you.”

  The words, softly delivered, strike me right in the heart, and I feel them warm me with a different kind of glow. God, I’m starting to fall for Asher all over again, against my better judgment. I guess really that I never stopped wanting him, loving him. I just told myself I did. Tried to will myself into having no romantic feelings.

  That’s the last thought on my mind as I’m tugged into deep sleep.

  The next week passes in a surprisingly steady manner. The morning after I fled from my parents’ house, my dad left a voicemail on my cell phone. I deleted it without listening. If he called to chew me out for how shit went down, I didn’t want to hear it, didn’t deserve it. And I wasn’t ready for any apologies, either.