Asher (17 page)

“Yesterday. Yesterday morning.”

“How did he seem to you?”

God.
“Normal. I guess.”

The other policeman frowns and rakes a hand through his short, grey hair. “Do you know if Asher and his father were on good terms? Do you know if Asher ever threatened him?”

Is he suggesting what I think he is? “No, Ash would never...” I struggle to pull myself together. “Asher is a good guy.”

But his dad beat him. What if Ash fought back? Could anyone blame him?

And yet the idea makes me sick.

“Isn’t it true Jake and Asher Devlin often fought?” the scowling policeman asks. “That Jake Devlin beat his son?”

I swallow hard. What if saying yes incriminates Ash? “I don’t know.”

“Fine. May I see some ID, please?”

With trembling fingers I draw it out of my purse and show it to him. He examines it and jots down my name and ID number.

“Well, Ms. Morrison, if you happen to see or talk to Asher Devlin, please let us know.” The less intimidating officer passes me a card with his name and number. Then the two of them turn and head back to the police car.

Leaving me alone and still in shock.

God, Ash...
No matter what, it was his dad, the only parent he has left, and to be accused of his murder...

Just then my cell rings. Hoping it’s Ash, I pull it out of my purse.

It’s Zane. “Audrey, have you heard from Ash?”

Jesus.
“No, I hoped you had.”

“The fucker left, forgot his cell, and now the cops are calling on it, asking for him. Any idea why? They won’t say.”

“His dad is dead,” I say, the words painful.

“What the fuck? Since when?”

“No idea. I just went to his house and the police were there. They were asking me where Ash is. Told them I don’t know.”

“Fuck.” Zane sighs. “Tessa said you were spending more time with Ash. You really don’t know where to find him? No clue?”

“He’s been getting into fights. He talked about having to take care of something. It sounded iffy.”

“Fighting?” Zane sounds as shocked as Tessa has. “Ash? He hasn’t started a single fight since the accident.”

“He’s all bruised and stuff. You’re wrong, Zane.”

“Damn. Did he mention any place where he’s been hanging out? Anything at all?”

I try to think. “He mentioned a club. The Bulldog. Do you know it?”

“No, but the police will know. I’ll let you know what they say.”

“Sure.”

He disconnects and I’m left staring at the blank screen of my cell. I’ve reached the bus stop. Snowflakes swirl on the air.

God, I hope Ash is okay.

***

“The Bulldog,” Zane says, his voice strained, “is an illegal fight club. The cops are heading there now.”

“Illegal fight club.” I’m numb. I sit down on my sofa, the phone heavy in my hands.

“They think Ash might be fighting for money. He doesn’t fit the profile of people going there to lay bets.”

“For money. And you don’t sound too surprised.”

He huffs. “I wish he and I had talked more before I left for Christmas. I wish I’d made it clear he didn’t have to leave when Erin came back.”

“Zane... I’m missing something, right? Pieces of Ash’s life. Why would he do this—work at a fight club?”

“Because he can’t go back home. His dad almost killed him last time. I figure he thought it’s the only way to make enough to live on his own.”

A lump forms in my throat. “God, if I’d known... I’d have invited him to stay here.”

“You really care for him, don’t you?” Zane’s voice is soft.

“Yes.” The word comes out strangled. “Zane... The cops, they talked as if they think Ash might have killed his dad.”

“They’re fucking with you. Ash would never kill his dad. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.”

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’re 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.