Darksoul (28 page)

“Yeah, well. We all know how well that went last time.”

There was a moment before he spoke. “Can I ask you a question?”

“No.”

His voice was quiet. “What don’t you like about Hunter?”

I froze.

Suddenly, there was this—tangible silence in the car, heavy and beating. Ash stared straight ahead as he put the cigarette back in his mouth. My tongue dried up and turned to dust. Did I have to say it? Did I have to make it clear that the problem wasn’t that I didn’t like Hunter, but that—
Fuck. Turning toward
the window, I tried to look past the reflection of the girl who stared back at me, her lipstick gone, her hair in a wild disarray around her. I hated it when it was like that, which was why I always kept it in a ponytail. Mom felt the same way. There wasn’t a day when the two of us didn’t wear our hair up.

“Number six
,” I said quietly.

“What?”

I nodded my head at the radio, out of which spewed a familiar melody. “Bach’s cello suite No. 6.” Keeping my eyes downcast, I twisted back toward the window and ran my thumb across the ledge. “In D major. It’s one of my favorites.”

After a long silence, he said, “I know.”

His voice was soft, and when I looked at him, surprised, I saw that a barely-there smile had spread across his lips.

“I…” I blinked
. “How?”

“I know everything.”

But there was something in the way he was smiling. Something in the way he tapped his fingertips on the steering wheel. Right on time with the tempo.

“You like it,” I realized.

His fingers settled. “What? No.”

The corners of my mouth curled
up without my permission. “You like it. You like the cello.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. I put it on because of you.”

Ha.
“That’s right, folks. Ash the drummer, the Milky Way eater, the national player of poor unsuspecting girls and the secret mathematical genius who owns a thousand inappropriate magazines. He likes cello music. Just like a sexy lady with killer boobs.”
Me
, I mouthed, in case that wasn’t clear.

“Actually
, I own a thousand and twelve.”

Laughing, I
reached over to turn up the radio. He’d been about to do the same thing, and our fingertips accidentally touched.

“Zing,” I said.

The pierced side of his lips twitched. “What is it?”

“Wasn’t
that the part in which”—I batted my eyes at him—“a tingly shock passes between us?”

“
I can think of several ways I could give you a tingly shock.”

Okay. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and keep your mouth shut and drive.”

It was his turn to laugh.

When I saw where he was taking me,
I couldn’t help but stare. We’d gone way out of town, and we were driving down an unmarked street.

But then I notice
d. Lush landscaped grasses lined the white sidewalks. Then there were the trees, bare and pretty and woven with Christmas lights—just a decoration, nothing that had to do with the actual holiday. He turned into an entrance with a waterfall-like setup. Sleek silver letters rose out of the shallow pool, lined by warm floodlights.

Springwoods
, it read. And under that:
Luxury Apartments.

“Oh, no,” I said
.

It got worse from there.
More nice, planted trees. More lights. The road was paved and dark and smooth; even that looked fancy. It was a short way until we reached the gate, where Ash took out a key card and leaned out the window to swipe it against the access-sensor thing.

I choked. “
You’re
the one who lives here?”

He drove through
. “I suppose.”

“But—you—your house?” I said helplessly.
Trying not to cringe, I chanced a glance out the windshield. Three buildings loomed over us. Balconies jutted out of their glass sides. They were at least eight or nine floors tall; not high-rise, but damn close. Manicured bushes surrounded them, lit by honey-hued lights. “The one you’ve lived in since, like, sixth grade?”

“That house was a lie. To seem as normal as possible.”

“To who?”

He spared me a sidelong glance
. Then he looked straight ahead, following the circular driveway around the marble fountain. A statue of a half-naked woman stood at the center, her basin pouring water.

“To school,” he said at last.

After a pause, I said, “Oh.”

Ash parked in
a closed garage and then we made our way inside. There was no one at the front desk, and the lobby was deserted. But the marble floors shone, and the chandeliers cast a bright, welcoming glow on the beige and mahogany accents of the room. So pretty, I almost drooled. Should’ve brought my damn camera. This could’ve been my second Magdalena.

“Close your mouth,” said Ash as we entered the elevator. “Or I might be tempted to eat.”

I snapped out of it and blinked up at him. “Eat what?”

“Something very delicious. It’s pink and war
m and…” A sidelong smile.

I grew wary. He could be talking about several things.
A tongue? A vagina? See, with Ash you never know.

“I just said some
thing innocent, I swear.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Something pink and warm,” he said. “Strawberry cake.”

“Yeah, sure. Tell that to a three-year-old who’ll believe you.”

The door slid open and we stepped out. And then I stopped.

“What floor is this?” I asked.

“The third.”

I turned toward the elevator. The number above it read
9.

“You live,” I said in a low voice, turning to face him, “in the penthouse?”

“More or less.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You’re rich, Asher Evans. You’re literally rich.”

“Well, are we going to sit here pondering my richness or are we going inside to see more of my richness? I only like one of those two options, so…”

“Fine,” I said, sweeping my snow-dusted hair
over my shoulder. “Take me to your humble abode.”

And so he did.

Ash didn’t like furniture.
That much was clear.

The living room was empty except for a low
L-shaped sofa, a glass table, and a shelf that was fully stocked with more CD’s and vinyl records than I could count. And the obligatory TV. On the table there were a couple of beer bottles, along with two identical ashtrays that were filled to the brim. Huh. When I’d seen the same thing in Hunter’s artsy room, I thought he’d been responsible for both trays. But now, looking at this, I realized what it was: one for him and one for Ash.

The wood floor was polished and smooth, and very bare. Ash also liked things dim
, I could tell. Two or three lamps. No more. I followed as he led me around the couch, pointing things out to me. The closed glass doors that led to the balcony. The short hallway that led to the other rooms. But I was too busy looking at the floor-to-ceiling windows to really listen. They made up the entirety of the wall, smooth and clear and dark.

The kitchen was a work of art. Since it was an open apartment, it was off
to the side, wonderfully decorated and absurdly clean. A pristine island stood in the middle of it. Gleaming white countertops, gray steel appliances—a colder look than Hunter’s creamier one, but still picture-worthy.

“So why didn’t you overload this place with, like, super expensive
shit?” I dragged my finger across the spotless stove, sparing him an upward glance. “I’d expected at least a million-dollar vase.”

He leaned against the counter
. “Vases aren’t my style.”

“Apparently they’re Hunter’s.” If
the mansion was any indication.

“They’re not. The Queen—” Ash stopped himself bef
ore he continued that sentence. He pressed his lips into a stiff, straight line. His expression closed off. Turned unreadable, cold. Panther sensed the disquiet in him and nuzzled his jaw.

“The Queen,” I echoed, bored. “The Queen can suck the hole in my ass.”

“I’ll make sure to bring you her head when I rip her heart out.”

“Sounds like a deal. And is that a…” Something near his feet caught my at
tention, and I blinked. “Are those—roses?”

They were inside the steel trashcan, fresh and pretty and
still tucked in the crinkly wrapping, their stems tied with a pink ribbon.

He
nudged the canister behind him with his foot. “It’s nothing.”

I stared at the hint of red behind his leg, and then up at him. “Those are flowers.”

Faint amusement. “Genius observation.”

“They’re really—they’re pretty, Ash, why are they in the trash?”

“I had a moment of weakness before I went to my gig. Don’t worry about it.”

Mo
ment of weakness? “So…you bought those?”

“Couldn’t help myself.”

“And you didn’t give them to anyone?”

“After I came home I realized it wouldn’t be possible.
That it would never be possible.”

“So you threw them away.”

He regarded me through hooded eyes. “Are we just stating the obvious right now, or…?”

“I want them,” I said, crossing my arms.

A barely-there smile tugged up the side of his lips. “Oh?”

“Move aside, asshole.”
I stepped forward and kneeled by his feet. “God, you treated them so badly. Look at them, they’re almost ruined.”

But when I reached over to pull them out, Ash lifted his boot and sla
mmed it on the rim of the trashcan. Some of the flower buds had been resting there, and they crumpled under his sole, turning to mush when he ground it in. When I looked up at him, wide-eyed, I saw that he was already staring down at me, lashes half-lowered.

“Forget about them, Hazel,” he said. His voice was quiet and even.

“Did you just—” Incensed, I rose to my feet. “You just ruined those perfectly good roses!”

“They’re meaningless. I don’t see why you would want them.”

“But I could’ve given them to my mom! To Sumi! What the hell—”

“I bought them. So
I decide what happens to them.” He arched his pierced eyebrow. “Or are you going to tell me it wasn’t my money that went into the trash?”

The fight whooshed out of me. “I just…I wanted them.”

“Yeah, well.” Before I could respond, he bent down to get the flowers
and, whistling a cheery tune, snapped the stems in half. He ground the buds into the bottom of the can. Then he closed the plastic bag and tied it tightly.

“There,” he said. “They’re safe and sound now.”

“They were pretty, you ass,” I muttered.

As he straightened, he reached out and patted my head. His eyes softened with amusement. “There, there.”

“Get your hands off me.”

Last thing I wanted
was to hang out with him after that, but twenty minutes later, I grudgingly found myself leaning against the sofa, heels off and knees tucked against my chest. The room was dark and the floor under me was welcoming and warm. I had no idea what movie Ash had put on, but it didn’t look too bad. He’d gone to the kitchen, and when he came back, he was holding two dessert plates with a pair of triangular slices on each.

“What is this?” I
asked, taking it.

“Caramel flan.”

I paused. “Your obsession with that shit is unhealthy. You do realize that, right?”

“We’ll talk after I don’t get diabetes.”

After he
doesn’t
get diabetes. Right. But as I slipped a spoonful into my mouth, I froze, letting the sweetness melt on my tongue. Oh, Jesus. I almost moaned. No wonder he liked it so much.

“Good?”
said Ash, and I thought I heard him smile.

I couldn’t even
speak. I nodded, and then managed, “Where did you buy it?”

“I made it.”

I choked on thin air. “What?”

The side
of his lips curled up.

“You couldn’t have made this,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Cooking, baking—that’s just—”
Taking a deep breath, I tried to get myself together. “It’s not your thing. It can’t be.”

“B
ut it is. If you must know, I made lasagna earlier.”

I stared at him. “Was that a joke?”

He slung his arm around my shoulders and let his fingertips dance across my skin, drawing them in lazy, soothing circles. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was slow and mellow. “Is it?”

“Because I’m not laughing.” I shook off his touch. “And stop that, you goof. It tickles.”

Holding back a smile, he lifted his hand and rested it on the couch behind me.

The movie was good, and
I leaned forward, enraptured as I licked my spoon clean. Ash eventually brought out two more slices of the heavenly dessert, and I took them without so much as a pause.

When the flick was nearing its end, I turned toward him, blinking when I saw tha
t he was already gazing at me. His hazel orbs were barely visible under the canopy of his lashes.

“Were you even watching the…” I trailed off
. Felt my voice catch.

“Your facial expressions are a movie all on their own.”

“Well, I’m hot, so yes.” That didn’t even make sense. “Anyway, are you…going to take me home after this? Mom must be freaking out by now—”

“Don’t worry about your mom.”

Eh? “Well, you
will
take me home. Right?”

“Maybe.” A slow
half-smile. “Maybe not.”

“You can’t be serious.”

As if on cue, Panther unwound herself from his neck and curled her tail around my waist, bringing me closer. I tried not to topple into him. He grabbed my hand, brushed his thumb over the black gem on my ring finger, and then—much to my surprise—brought it to his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss against the back of my knuckles, piercing cool and soft. I felt as if I were trapped inside my body, helpless, breathless, alarmed. What was he doing?

“Stay with me tonight,” he said softly.

I couldn’t breathe. “Stay with…you?”

“Don’t fret about your mom.
I’ll make sure she doesn’t notice you’re gone.”

“Ash, I…” I was nervous. That’s what I was. For a moment, I was a stupid girl with the raging hormones of an army of teenage boys, about to stay alone with a guy who
bought condoms for fun. And with those available, I didn’t know what the hell I would do.

“Please.”
His eyes flicked up to mine, molten and hazel in the flickering light. “It gets lonely sometimes, Zel.”

And that was my undoing.

The tip of the blade pressed against Ash’s bare chest. It was four in the morning, and after three movies and way too many sweets, we were finally going to sleep. I’d just changed into the spare shirt he’d given me and pulled my hair into a messy bun. I was so ready for this. If only he’d stay a mile away from me. Those damn sweatpants hung too low on his hips. His damn stomach was too chiseled and perfect. Just like Hunter’s. And Hunter was a fucking model.

“I want this much space between us,” I said. “Understand?”

Ash tried not to smile. “Personal space. Not my thing.”

“You don’t think I know that by now?”
Lowering the sword, I took a step back. “Let me warn you right now. I’ll be sleeping with this baby”—I ran a fingertip down the blade—“beside me. I dare you to touch me during sleep. I’ll cut your testicles off.”

“Making advances during sleep—not my style. I like to have my victims nice and awake when I pleasure them.”

Ugh. “Are you done being gross? Because I’m cold and I need blankets. Like now.”

He didn
’t give them to me right away. As we walked down the hallway that led off the main room, he reminded me where the bathroom was, blah blah, not to touch anything in the kitchen, blah blah, to wake up any time tomorrow, blah.

I pointed to one of the closed doors
. “What’s in that room?”

“Porn, BDSM stuff, the usual.”

I instantly recoiled. “Oh. Ew.”

A sidelong smile
. “Wait here,” he said, making his way to the other door. “I’ll be right out.”

“What? I can’t see your room?”

“There’s nothing to see.”

“I think I’ll decide that for myself, thanks.”

But he was, disappointingly, right.

I followed behind hi
m and pursed my lips at the sight. His bed was unmade. White sheets, white comforter, a pair of rumpled jeans. Beige walls. No dresser. Surprisingly spacious, and not too messy. It was simple in a sophisticated way. Curtains covered the far wall, and when I went over and nudged them aside, I was met with the dizzying sight of the nine-floor drop. I liked heights, but these floor-to-ceiling windows would be the death of me.

Crossing my arms
, I glanced at the bed again. It looked very slept in. Almost sinfully so. How many girls had he brought back here? A hundred and seventy?

“Two,” he said.

I blinked and turned to look at him. “What?”

Ash
walked into his closet, gait easy and relaxed. “One of them didn’t make it past the lobby before she chickened out. And the other just held a sword to my chest.”

It couldn’t be.
“But you have sex for a
living
. You play chicks for a
living
. Don’t tell me you don’t bring them back here.”

He
sounded amused. “No. I go over to their houses instead.”

Fantastic.

By the time I joined him inside the roomy walk-in closet, he was getting blankets from a mahogany shelf. A dark shape stood against the wall, right beside his shoes, and I immediately recognized it for what it was.

M
y eyebrows shot to my hairline. “You play the violin?”

He tugged too hard on the corner of a comforter, and the whole thing toppled over him. Laughing, I reached
up to get it off. “So are you going to play for me? A drummer, a violinist—can’t say this isn’t a pleasant surprise, Evans.”