Asher (Inked Brotherhood 1)

I sleep badly, nightmares waking me up at the crack of dawn. I spend the morning thinking, turning my situation over and over again in my mind. It doesn’t change. I’ll either join the fight club or find myself on the streets.

Why can’t I see another choice?

Zane can’t help me. Can Audrey help me, as she said? Maybe she has an idea of where I can stay until I get a legal job?

Hope sparks inside me, making me restless. I’m expected tonight at The Bulldog where I’ll have to convince the owners to let me fight. Should I not go? Should I trust Audrey to help?

How can she? She lives in an entirely different world. Sheltered. Protected.

But maybe that’s the whole idea. She knows people, good people—unlike me. Perhaps she knows someone else who might help me.

Fucking hope. It burns inside me, twisting my stomach and tensing me up.

Somewhere around the time I shower and pull on a shirt, I’ve decided two things:

I want to talk to Audrey before I go through with my decision. She deserves to know more about me, and maybe she does have an idea on how to help me out of this impasse.

And second, I’m going to kiss her, and touch her, and taste her and bury myself in her until she can’t walk straight.

Fuck me, the thought makes me so hard I could come in my pants any second now.

A search of Zane’s apartment reveals his electric hair trimmers and I spend some time in front of the bathroom mirror, cutting my hair until it’s but a millimeter long at the sides and longer on top. Then I filch some of Zane’s gels—he has an impressive collection of them, necessary for his gravity-defying Mohawk—and spike the top.

Fight club or not, I want this day to be a turning point. Besides, the notion of talking to Audrey, laying out my problems and asking for her help has my gut in twists just as bad as the idea of fighting.

But a decision has to be made. Zane and Erin will be back in a day or two, and I’ll have to go. I’ll be back on the streets if I don’t find a solution.

I pull on my jeans, a black sweater, boots, and my jacket. Dressed in clean clothes—my clothes, for a change—with my cell and wallet in my pocket, I feel as close to normal as I have in weeks. I feel human.

I’m out the door before I change my mind, and I find myself standing outside Audrey’s apartment a little after midday.

I shift from foot to foot; wipe my hands down my jeans. Release a long breath. Try my best to look relaxed and cool as I ring the bell.

The door doesn’t open immediately. In fact, for a long while I hear nothing and I frown, wondering if I misunderstood what Audrey said—or if she changed her mind.

Dammit. My fault. I touched her, kissed her, and then drove her away. Serves me right. I should’ve opened up to her from the start, and instead I shouted at her, made her feel bad, and let her go.

I knock on the door. “Auds?”

Turning to go, I berate myself. I practically shoved her away—and for what? To get my head straight. Right. Was it worth it? I don’t feel any less confused than I was last night.

The door behind me opens with a whine. “Ash!”

I turn back, smiling in spite of myself. “Auds.” She’s there, looking cute with her long red hair falling messily around her face. I reach for her, but she takes a step back.

Not good.

“I like your new haircut.” Her lips pull in a faint smile, mirroring mine, but there’s a tension about her shoulders. “Come in.”

Struggling to ignore the unease, I step into the apartment. “Are you sure? I can go.”

“No.” She grabs my hand and draws me into the living room. “Don’t be stupid. Sit down.”

“Okay.” I do as instructed, sitting on the sofa and she takes a seat beside me.

Something’s off. The back of my neck prickles. I lean forward, letting my hands hang between my legs, and stare at her, trying to put my finger on the source of my unease.

A fucking mistake. She’s gorgeous, more than ever, in her drawstring pants and long sweater, her pretty feet bare. My brain blanks out and I gape, my jaw hanging loose. She isn’t wearing a bra, I’m sure of it. I can see the outline of her nipples through the fabric, and I’m getting hard. Fuck.