“Yeah, the food, the service—it’s all great.” Except for the memories.
Before I can climb out of the car, Asher hurries around, opens the door, and helps me out. The boy blows my mind with his gentleman skills. He holds my hand as we walk across the parking lot. There is a row of motorcycles in front and a bench where people are smoking. The windows of the bar are shielded with flashing neon signs and flyers. At the entrance Asher releases my hand, but only to open the door.
I fan the smoke from my face as the door swings closed. Asher returns his hand to mine. The bar is packed, the music’s loud, and there are no barstools available. Paper-mache spiders and witches hang from the ceiling and each table has a miniature pumpkin.
“Hi y’all. My name is Amy and I’ll be your waitress today.” A perky girl in her early twenties appears in front of us. Her black skirt barely covers her legs and her white shirt is tight enough that the poor girl probably can’t breathe. “We only got booths tonight. Is that okay?”
“What do you think?” Asher asks me. “Is a booth good?”
“A booth’s better,” I answer.
“Okay.” The waitress leads us through the smoke and people with a cheery skip in her walk. We settle in the corner booth, sitting across from each other, and she hands us our menus and sashays toward the bar. Phil’s the bartender tonight. He’s a large man with tattoos casing his arms and neck. His shaved head reflects in the low light and his goatee touches the bottom of his neck. He has a T-shirt on with the sleeves torn off, jeans, and biker boots. He’s pouring a shot when the waitress says something to him. His eyes lift to me and I slump down in the booth, holding the menu in front of my face, ducking for cover.
“Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here,” I chant under my breath.
Asher guides the menu away from my face. “Okay, what’s up?”
I pretend to be very interested in the list of appetizers. “Nothing. I’m just reading the menu.”
He eyes me suspiciously and aims his attention to a person standing next to our table.
“Holy biscuits and gravy, it is you.”
I know that voice. “Hey, Phil.” I plaster a fake smile on my face and look up at him.
He grins and opens his arms, waiting for a hug. Internally cringing, I get to my feet and wrap my arms around him. He smells like cigars and booze. Both will be the cause of his death, something I’ve known for years.
I pull away and drop back down in the booth. “I thought you were going to quit smoking.”
He rubs his neck tensely. “I did for a while, but old habits die hard. But look at you. All grown up. I haven’t seen you since the night your…” he trails off. “Well, anyway. How are you doing? And how’s your mama doing?”
“She’s doing good.” I pick at the peanut shells wedged in the cracks of the tabletop.
“Is she still working down at the diner?” he asks. “Or did she finally get away from that shithole.”
“No, she’s still doing the waitress thing,” I say and his eyes wander to Asher. “Oh, this is Asher. Asher, this is Phil.”
They nod and say their “how do you do’s.”
I grow fidgety and fiddle with the pumpkin, spinning it on the table. Being around Phil brings back the memories of the nights at the bar with my dad. When Phil would drive me and my dad home, he’d tell me things would get better—that eventually my dad would get his life together. It’s not Phil’s fault it never happened, but it reminds me of a time when I was naïve enough to believe it would.
He can tell I’m uncomfortable. “Alright, well if you need anything, let me know.” I nod and he returns to his position behind the counter.
Asher turns the page of the menu. “I thought you said you’d been here once or twice.”
I shrug, not ready to veer down that path. Awkward silence builds and we flip through the menus. By the time the waitress shows up to take our order, I wonder if Asher’s going to tell her we’re leaving.
She poises her pen above the order book. “What can I get y’all?”
Asher taps his fingers on his lips and I catch Amy licking her own as she eyes his. “What exactly are Rocky Mountain oysters?” he asks.
I restrain a laugh as Amy’s face twists in confusion.
“Well… I think they’re a kind of meat. I’m not sure what kind, but I like them.” She presses the end of the pen against her chin.
I shake my head at Asher. “You don’t want those. Trust me.”
Amy shoots me an aggravated look. “They’re not bad. I mean, the meat’s a little tough, but they taste good.” I feel bad for her. Kind of. She leans over the table and her boobs practically pop out of her top. “Look sweetie, get whatever you want, okay?” she says to Asher.
Asher’s gaze connects with mine. “I kind of like to know what I’m eating.”
I lean over the table, cup my hand around Asher’s ear, and whisper what Rocky Mountain oysters are.
His eyes bulge. “Yeah, I’ll have water, cheese fries, and a hamburger with extra mayo.”
“I’ll have the chicken sandwich and a coke.” I shut my menu and Amy snatches it out of my hand. She takes Asher’s menu more delicately and saunters off to the order window.
“Thank you,” he says with a smile.
I rest my elbows on the table. “For what?”
“For not letting me eat that crap.”
We laugh quietly and then silence builds again. A woman in a bright red dress and cowgirl boots is belting out the lyrics to Faith Hill’s “This Kiss” from the stage. The whole scene is super cheesy, but I start to relax, like I’m finally home after being gone for three years.
“My dad and I used to come here,” I finally say over the music.
He gives me his undivided attention. “Really.” He glances at the rough people, the smoky atmosphere, and the bar lined with bikers. “How old were you?”
“I was four the first time he brought me down here, and it kept up until I was thirteen—until he died, basically,” I say. “My dad really liked his Jack Daniels.”
“So did my dad… Well, actually it was Jim Bean.” He pauses and his smile brings soft invisible kisses to my skin. “See, that wasn’t so hard. And we learned we have something in common.”
“I’m not socially impaired,” I retort, dusting some salt off the table. “I just like my space... for personal reasons.”
He crosses his arms on the table. “I know you do and I actually kind of like that about you. You’re not always giggling and trying to run your fingers through my hair.”
I wonder if he’s talking about Raven. “Some guys like that.”
“No they don’t.” He flicks his tongue ring against his teeth. “I want you to give me a shot—I want you to let me in and let me get to know you.”
My chest squeezes with elation, but thankfully my voice holds rhythm. “What do you want to know about me?”
He rolls the pepper shaker between his hands. “How long have you known Raven?”
I shrug. “Since we were born.”
“Does she always act so…” he bites back.
“Slutty?” I finish for him.
He laughs and it’s the most beautiful sound that’s ever touched my ears. “I was going to say guy crazy, but I thought that’d make me sound like a jerk. She’s a little intense, and that whole thing with Garrick. How did she even meet him?”
“At the same party I met him,” I explain. “But I have no idea why she was with him that day at school.”
He zips his lips together and studies the cracks in the table. “When Garrick had a hold of you at school… you looked like you were going to pass out.”
“I just don’t like being close to people like that.” I tousle my hair with my fingers and stare at the karaoke stage area in the corner.
He slides his hand across the table and interlaces our fingers. “But you don’t seem to mind when I touch you. In fact, I have this idea in my head—and please let me know
if I’m overshooting it here—that you like me a little.”
I shrug. “I guess you could say that… You make me feel calm.”
“Calm, huh?” he muses. “And that’s a good thing?”
“Yeah, that’s a good thing.” I smile and his eyes zone in on my lips.
“You have a beautiful smile,” he says sensually. “And beautiful lips. I wonder what they—”
The waitress interrupts us with our food. “Here ya go, honey.” She slides Asher’s food in front of him. Then she drops my plate in front of me and it clanks loudly against the table. “If you need anything, let me know.”
“I think she might have a thing for you,” I say, dipping a fry into the ranch.
Asher looks like he’s about to laugh. “You think?”
“I do.” I pick the onions off my chicken sandwich. “Why’s that so funny?”
He pours ketchup on his burger. “Because you’re probably right, but she doesn’t stand a chance. She’s not really my type.” He glances at the disposed onions on my plate. “You don’t like onions?”
“You said that like I just admitted I hate chocolate. And onions and chocolate are on two very different levels.”
“Yeah, onions are much better.”
“You can eat them if you want.” I motion at my plate. “What’s mine is yours.”
He picks up the onion, tips his head back, and spirals it into his mouth. “I might hold you to that a little bit later.” His eyes darken with hunger.
A tingling sensation coils inside my stomach. I clear my throat and take a bite of my chicken sandwich. “So, you like the band From Autumn to Ashes?”
He glances down at his shirt. “Yeah, I got this shirt at one of their concerts. They’re pretty good. Have you heard them play?”
“Not in person.” I pop a fry into my mouth. “But I have a lot of their songs downloaded.”
He bites into his hamburger and a droplet of ketchup stays on his lip. The urge to lean over and suck it off his lip surfaces again. He licks it off, leisurely, watching me like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
We stare at each other with heat in our eyes and desire throbbing in our bodies. It’s something I don’t quite understand, because I barely know him. But I don’t want the feeling to ever leave.
“So what is there to do around here?” Asher’s voice sounds high and he clears his throat. “Besides hanging out at bars.”
“You’re asking the wrong person,” I tell him. “Honestly, the only thing I do is follow Raven to her parties.”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” He picks a flake of lettuce off his hamburger. “It doesn’t seem like you’re really the partying type. Or the following type?”
“I’m not, but…”
“But Raven is, and she’s the boss,” he finishes for me.
“She’s not the boss… Okay, well maybe she is, but it’s just her personality.”
He chews slowly. “I had this friend back in New York who was a little bit bossy, so finally one day I told him to shove it. You know what, we still stayed friends.”
“I’m sure you didn’t tell him to shove it,” I remark. “You seem way too nice for that.”
A smile plays at his lips as he reaches over and steals another onion off my plate. “Do I?”
I take a sip of my coke. “Are you trying to tell me that you’re secretly mean?”
“I have a mean… side.” He wavers. “I guess. But it doesn’t come out a lot.”
“I think everyone has sides of them that rarely come out.” I stir the straw in my drink.
He nods. “So what’s yours?”
Crazy. “I don’t know…”
“You don’t have to share it with me if you don’t want to.” He takes a sip of his water. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”
It feels like there’s a hidden meaning in his words. “So what made you want to be an artist?”
His jaw clamps tight. “My father was an artist and he passed along his gift to me.”
“You sound upset about that. Did you fight a lot with your dad or something?”
“My dad wasn’t around a lot, but I love painting—it helps me get out what I’m feeling.”
“I know what you mean.” I think of his angel drawing and wonder what he was feeling when he painted it—I wonder if he knows stuff about angels. “It’s why I write poetry.”
“I’d love to read some of your poetry,” he says.
I stare down at my chicken sandwich and my hair falls around my face. “I usually don’t let people read it. Well, except for Raven, but she’s only read what I’ve written on my walls.” And Cameron, but that was by accident.
“You write on your walls?” He sprinkles some salt on his fries. “Now that is something you’ll have to let me see.”
“Sure.” I tuck my hair back. “There’s artwork on the walls, too—Raven’s and my brother’s.”
He wipes his hand on a napkin. “Maybe you’ll be nice enough to let me put something up on it.”
“Like a painting of your sad angel.”
“Would you want that? A drawing of an angel that would always be on your wall?”
“There’s already one on there. Raven put it up when we were like, eight.” I take another bite of my chicken sandwich. “And my brother put the Grim Reaper on it for who knows what reasons, so I have the good version of death and the evil one.” As I say it aloud, I think of the book I read. A battle between good and evil. Between Angels of Death and Grim Reapers. I have the battle on my walls.
Asher’s expression falls. “But which one’s evil and which one’s good?”
It’s an obvious answer, but my lips decline to utter the words, and an image of my imaginary childhood friend pops into my head.
The waitress arrives with the bill. I try to pay for my half, but Asher won’t allow it. While we’re waiting for the waitress to bring the change, two men walk inside the bar that catch my attention. They stand out in their business attire and fancy haircuts. The taller of the two has blonde hair and dark eyes that look really familiar. Then it clicks. Cameron’s dad. I don’t recognize the man who’s with him, but I notice him glance our way.
Asher’s eyes find them and his eyes darken. Cameron’s dad returns the look with equivalent revulsion.
“Do you know them?” I nod my head toward the two men.
Asher’s eyes stay on them as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t,” he says through gritted teeth. He rips his gaze away and his expression is feral.
“Asher, what’s wrong.” I start to turn my head back to the men, but a man with long brown hair and a stocky body stumbles from a barstool, waving his finger at me.
“Ain’t you that girl who killed her father?” he slurs.
“I didn’t kill him.” I cringe uncomfortably. “The cops just thought I did for a while.”
His thigh bumps the table and knocks my coke over, spilling ice all over the table. “But didn’t you run away after you called the cops and reported his murder? Yeah, yeah, and they took you to jail.”
“That’s not how it happened,” I lie, scooping up the ice and dropping it in the cup.
The waitress returns with the change. “Gary, you aren’t causing trouble, are you?”
He bobs his drunken head. “Nah, just chattin’ with my good friends. This is that girl who killed her father.”
“I didn’t kill him!” I raise my voice louder than I meant to.
Now more people than Gary are staring at me. The waitress gives Asher a concerned pat on the shoulder, like she thinks I’m going to kill him.
“If you need anything else at all, just let me know.” She tugs on Gary’s arm. “Come on, Gary. Let’s get you home.”
But he won’t budge. “You know I used to work at the same shop as your dad.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead. “We were pretty good buddies.”
“That’s great.” I put some money down for a tip.
Asher slides the money ba
ck. “No way.”
I push it back in the center of the table. “You paid for dinner and the least I can do is pay for the tip.”
He struggles and then gives in. “Fine, but next time you’re letting me pay for the whole thing.”
“Is there going to be a next time?” I doubt.
“Absolutely.” He smiles.
I begin to stand up, but Gary blocks the end of my booth and Amy hurries back to the counter to get some assistance. “Can you please move so I can get up?” I ask as politely as I can.
Ember (Death Collectors, Book 1) Page 12
