by Jo Raven
I shake my head. “I guess.”
“But I would,” Zane whispers.
I’m not sure I heard him right. “What?”
“You wanna know the missing pieces in Ash’s life story? Have you seen the scars on his back? Do you know how long his dad, that piece of shit, has been hurting him? Fucking with Ash’s head, making him believe everything, every blow, is his fault. If Jake Devlin was in front of me right now, I’d kill him myself.”
Chapter Eighteen
Asher
I wake up to pounding on the door. It matches the pounding in my head. Where am I?
Slitting one eye—my only good eye—open, I take stock of the situation. I lie face-down on a hard mattress, drooling on a stained pillow. As I shift, various aches, some sharper and some duller, come to life all over my body. My jaw throbs, which explains the headache from hell, and the whole left side of my body burns with pain.
What the fuck happened? I can’t think straight.
The pounding on the door resumes and I groan, dropping my head back on the pillow. “What?”
“It’s midday. You need to vacate the room.”
“Really.” I sit up, grimacing as abused muscles stretch. “Shit.”
“You need to clear out—”
“Yeah, heard you the first time. Give me five minutes.” I swing my legs off the bed and stare at them. I’m still wearing my combat boots. I slept fully dressed. “I thought check-out at midday was a hotel kinda thing.”
The room is a dank, cold hole with mold stains on walls that used to be white. The carpet has cigarette burns and brown spots that look suspiciously like blood. Is it mine?
The left side of my face feels oddly heavy. I touch my fingers to it and find it covered in dried blood.
Ugh. I stand up, swaying crazily, and look around for the bathroom. Right. There isn’t one. There’s a sink, though, and I stumble to it. A mirror hangs on the wall above and I take a look at myself.
I wince. The Band-Aid above my eye is soaked through, and dark streaks of dried blood run down my face and neck into my gray T-shirt. The same side of my face, in fact, that’s bruised blue-black and swollen.
Lifting my bloody T-shirt, I trace the deep bruising. Then I bend awkwardly to check my throbbing leg and find more bruises there. Fuck.
I clean the blood from my face best I can. Then, hobbling like an old man, I grab my duffel and leave the room.
Midday, huh. Nobody’s there as I make my slow way down the stairs. Whatever was in those pills Johnny gave me, it has to be good stuff to knock me out like that.
My stomach growls like a caged tiger, so I walk around the neighborhood, looking for a cheap place to eat. Snow clouds are hanging low. The day is drab and gray. It matches my mood.
I find a mom-and-pop diner where I slide into a dark booth and eat a greasy burger and fries. The hot coffee warms me up, clears my head some.
I lost the third fight last night. Johnny said something about me fighting too clean. I should work on that. I need to win, need more money. The little cash I have won’t take me far; it’s not enough to rent a place, which would be cheaper in the long term. Safer.
Normal.
If I fight for a few weeks, save money to start anew, I can do this. But god, I ache all over.
‘Don’t be a pussy,’ my dad’s voice rings inside my head. ‘You can take a little pain.’
I hunch over. I’ll do this. And afterward maybe, I’ll tell Audrey about the fighting—when it’s all over and I’m not doing it anymore, when I’m not involved in illegal stuff. When I have a place of my own and a steady job.
Problem is, I miss her already.
I look down into my mug of coffee and clench my jaw. My mind misses her, my body craves her. What we did yesterday... Fuck, is it only yesterday? Her warmth, her gentleness... It’s all I can do not to get up and go to her right now.
Suddenly cold fear grips my chest. Will she let me back inside? Why would she wait for me? I haven’t explained anything to her. Like an idiot, I keep telling myself I’ll fix my life first, be someone worthy of her—but what if she moves on, meanwhile?
I have to talk to her, let her know I haven’t just disappeared. That I’m still alive, and just need some time to get out of the hell pit I’ve fallen into.
Fucking hell, my life is such a mess.
But first I have to go see Johnny at the club. A vague memory from last night tells me he wants to kick me out and that I yelled at him—and then he said I should go see him this next afternoon.
Oh fuck, he wouldn’t throw me out, would he? I need this money. It’s all I have.
I chuck back the rest of my coffee, use the bathroom. Then I pay and leave the diner, bracing myself for the cold. I pull my jacket closed, my muscles stiffening. It does great things for my bruised ribs.
People throw me funny looks as I cross the street and hobble in the direction of The Bulldog. I give them the stink-eye. So what if I look like a zombie from The Walking Dead? Don’t they have anything better to do?
It sinks in, then, that I’m now officially on the wrong side of the tracks—a criminal, a lowlife, a piece of trash. At any rate, I look the part.
Pressing my lips together, I walk faster, hefting my duffel on my shoulder. Already in my head I’m arguing with Johnny, convincing him of my need to stay at the club. I’ll tell him all about my dad, whether he likes it or not, impress on him the importance the fight club has for me.
The entrance of the club looms dark; the door’s closed. I go down the steps and ring the bell. I don’t have to wait long. The latch lifts and the door swings inward.
What I don’t expect is one of the club’s bodyguards blocking my way inside. “No going in, buddy.”
“What? Why the hell not?” I sidestep him but he blocks my way again.
“Carl says you can’t come in.”
“There must be a mix-up somewhere.” I swallow hard. “Johnny said we’d discuss, said I should come—”
The door opens wider. Carl’s standing there, his face dark with anger. “What did you do, boy? Johnny was trying to look out for you, set you back on the right path, but it’s already too late for you, isn’t it?”
I can’t make sense of what he’s saying. “He told me—”
“You brought the goddamn cops down on us. You’d daddy’s dead. Jake Devlin is dead and you killed him. Didn’t you, you little shit?”
I step back, the words a blow to my gut. I can’t breathe. “My dad? The hell you’re talking about.”
“You’re a coward,” he says, “a murderer and a snitch.” Carl jabs a thick finger at me. “And as if that wasn’t enough, you told the cops to come find you here. You thought this was kindergarten? You thought we just fuck around here? You’re dead, asshole.”
“What...?” I can’t process any of this. Dad’s dead? Bigger than life Dad, with the pain and fear and the good memories of my early childhood and... All gone. Erased. When? How did that happen?
Three forms rise from the dark bowels of the club, run up the steps and grab me. They haul me away. I don’t even hear my duffel hit the ground.
***
I’m dragged into a back alley, kicking and snarling. I’m like a wild animal, all instinct and blind anger, fueled by panic. I manage to strike one of the guys in the stomach and he lets go of me, but another steps in and grabs my hair, pulling my head back.
My balance isn’t good with one of my eyes swollen shut and with my head drawn back like that. The only thing keeping me upright is the third man’s hold on my arm.
“You exposed us,” the guy behind me hisses. “You’ll pay for it.”
A fist to my kidneys startles a cry from me. The pain takes my breath away, a spear of fire shooting up my spine.
My hair is released and I fall to my knees, grunting in agony. Blows start falling on my head and back, splintering my thoughts.
I have to fight back; it’s all there is. Fight back until I can’t any more. But there’r
e three of them and I’m still numb with shock and pain.
Dad is dead.
Fuck.
I block the next blow and I manage to kick at the man nearest to me, so I can rise to my feet. I shove one of them away, and turn to face the others.
Then I see the glint of a blade, and I know this is it: run or die. I punch one of them in the face and turn to deal with the fucker holding the knife. I knock it out of his hand, twisting, and pain lances across my lower back to my left hip—the burning kiss of metal. Another knife. Bastard sliced me from behind.
Can’t be too bad. I’m still standing. Though that doesn’t mean much.
Broken thoughts. Nothing makes sense.
I twist and bring my fist down on the man’s arm, shake off a hand that grabs my shoulder, and run.
Adrenaline gives me speed and blots out the pain. I race down the alley, turn onto a broad street and bolt down another. I can hear footsteps pounding behind me, and I force my legs to move faster. I sprint down another street, my heart booming. A dull roar fills my ears.
Have to hide. Find a dark hole to sink into and lick my wounds.
I duck into alleys, desperately looking for a suitable place, feeling the goons closing in, breathing down my neck.
Pain starts to pierce my adrenaline haze and blood courses down my lower back and leg in a hot trail. As much as I fight it, I’m slowing down. I have to hide until they pass me by.
Stumbling into yet another alley, I notice an open door. The kitchen of a restaurant, judging from the smell of fried fish. I duck inside, slipping between metal counters heaped with bowls and chopped vegetables. An Asian woman with a cook’s white hat and apron turns around and opens her mouth to speak or yell, but I lift my hands, trying to look harmless.
“Just passing through,” I whisper. “I mean no trouble.”
She doesn’t scream, so I take that as permission and slink to the back of the kitchen and into the restaurant. A few tables are occupied, so I do my best to slip by unnoticed.
A shout lets me know I’ve failed. Not hard when I’m leaving a bloody trail behind. I make for the door and stagger outside.
Where can I go?
The street swims in my eyes. I’m lightheaded from blood loss and I can’t think. So I let my feet take me wherever they want, letting my mind go empty as I set off running once more.
Chapter Nineteen
Audrey
Evening is falling. I pace the length of Zane’s living room. Tessa and Zane are sitting on the sofa where I lay down with Ash just yesterday.
No word from the police since midday. No word from Ash. Zane called the homeless shelters, and when that brought no results, he went out to look for him on the streets. He came back empty-handed, and we’ve been sitting here, drinking coffee and going over what we know again and again.
“I couldn’t find him,” Zane says for the millionth time. He’s pale and he’s chewed on his lip so much he broke the skin. “Checked every place he’s frequented before, on State Street and the back alleys. Nobody has seen him.”
Tessa reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “You did all you could.”
“It’s cold out there. If he’s on the street, he’ll die.”
My chest aches. I rub my breastbone, stopping to catch my breath. I’m so damn scared for Ash.
I pace back to the window, looking out into the gray afternoon. Dylan dropped by earlier, asking how he could help, but he looked horrible, pale as if sick, and we sent him away. Tessa won’t tell me what’s going on with him, but from the few things he said, it has to do with his little brother.
I can’t summon enough concern, not when I’m so worried about Ash.
“Ash wouldn’t kill his old man,” Zane is saying. “This is bullshit.”
“He didn’t do it,” Tessa says. “I know he didn’t.”
But it looks like Ash is a person of interest because he was the last person seen leaving the house just a few days ago. The only reason we know this much is because Zane has a buddy in the force and pressed him for info.
I didn’t known Ash went back home. A neighbor saw him slip inside through the window, and then leave a while later through the main door.
Suspect behavior.
But that cinches it for me. It’s one thing imagining Ash killing his father in self-defense; quite another believing he went back in secret to commit murder.
I can’t believe it. Not for a second.
And now I know why he was fighting—he needs money to live because he’s homeless and without support—it has all fallen into place. Ash isn’t violent. He isn’t a trouble-maker. He’s a good person. Someone worth standing up for.
“He must have gone back to get his cell,” Zane says and waves the phone. “He didn’t have it before I left for the Christmas holidays. His cell and his wallet, some clothes. Erin said he had a duffel bag. That’s why he went back. Not to kill anyone.”
“You should tell the police that,” I say.
“I did.”
Tessa rubs her face. “Who found his dad’s body?”
“His cleaning was calling for days and he wouldn’t pick up, so she went to check on him and called the cops.” Zane scowls. “I wonder if she knew what sort of scumbag he was.”
My cell rings then and I dive to grab it from the coffee table. “Hello?”
“Ms. Morrison? This is Officer Nielsen, calling to see if you have heard from Asher Devlin.”
“You haven’t found him yet?” Fear crushes me.
“No. We were hoping you could give us a lead as to where he might have gone.”
“I wish I knew.”
A pause. “Please tell him to get in contact with us if you hear from him.” And the line disconnects.
I shake the cell, struggling not to throw it at the wall. “No sign of him.”
“Why hasn’t he called me?” Zane hunches over, running his hands over the shaved sides of his head. “I told him to call me whenever he needed something.”
“He doesn’t have his cell,” Tessa says.
“There are phones everywhere. Last time this happened...” Zane lets out a long breath. “It’s gonna get real cold tonight. We have to go look for him.”
“Where?” My lips tremble. “You couldn’t find him. Where else could we look?”
“If he’s hurt,” Zane says, “then he’d go someplace where he feels safe.”
“And where is that?” I sink on the couch next to him. “I can’t think of any place Ash feels safe right now.”
“He felt safe here,” Tessa says.
“So why hasn’t he come back?” I glare at Zane as if this is his fault.
“He’s a proud guy, that fucker. He thinks he can handle everything by himself. His old man taught him that if he can’t, then he’s a pussy.”
I sigh. Maybe so, but I don’t need a bad dream to tell me something’s seriously wrong. I feel it in my bones.
“He must’ve holed up somewhere,” Zane says.
“If he’s hurt, he may not be thinking straight,” Tessa mutters. “He’d head to a familiar place.”
Jesus. Talk of Ash being hurt makes me want to throw up.
“We have to look,” Zane says, shooting to his feet. “Let’s go back where I found him last time. Maybe I missed him somehow and together we can find him.”
I grab my bag and coat. Seems as good a plan as any and I’d rather be searching than sitting idle. “Let’s go.”
“We’ll take my car,” Tessa says, getting up and hurrying toward the door. “We’ll find him.”
***
But Ash isn’t on State Street—at least not that we can see. We walk the pedestrian zone up and down, checking in every nook and corner. Despite the cold wind and the light snowfall, smartly-dressed people weave in and out of the brightly lit restaurants and bars, talking and laughing.
I can’t see any homeless people, where they usually fill the benches during the warmer months of the year. They have to be at the shelters.
Rubbing my hands up and down my arms, I turn in a circle, disappointment weighing on my shoulders.
An old woman with a nest of curly white hair stares at me, then past me, at Zane. I turn.
“I know you,” he says, approaching. “You were standing nearby last time I found Ash. Have you seen him?”
She takes a step back, shaking her head. The bulging plastic bags hanging over her shoulders swing. “Ash?”
“Young guy, about my height, dark hair, blue eyes?”
She shakes her head again, looking bewildered. I wonder if she understands what Zane says, or if she doesn’t know who he’s talking about.
Zane groans and tips his head up, letting the snow fall on his face. “Useless. It’s all useless. He vanished into thin air. Goddammit!”
He stomps away, heading toward the Historical Museum, Tessa following at his heels. I cast the old woman one last look as I turn to go with them.
She’s watching me with watery blue eyes. Her mouth pulls in an uncertain smile. “Ash,” she whispers.
Stopping in my tracks, I nod. “Yes, Ash. You do know who we were talking about, don’t you?”
“Ash, yes.” She shifts the straps of the bags on her bony shoulders. “He wanted to go to the lake.”
I frown. “The lake?”
“The park.” She sighs and stepped away from me, muttering to herself.
Ash loves gazing at the water. It makes him feel calm, at least that’s what he used to say. What if that’s the safe place his mind came up with? The closest park is James Madison Park.
“Zane! Tess!” I run after them. “Wait for me. I may know where Ash is.”
***
James Madison Park. Snow swirls on the air. A few people are strolling down the path toward us. We hurry past the Gates of Heaven synagogue and walk the paved, tree-lined path by the basketball court toward the lake shore.
“Why here?” Tessa shoves her hands into the pockets of her long coat.
