I caught on to one thing he’d said. “You didn’t have a family?” I asked quietly.
Asher paused. “I didn’t. Till I did. I’ve got a huge, motley and loud family. They might not be blood, but the club, that’s stronger than blood,” he told me.
That hit me. Hit me hard. I yearned for that. A place that offered that. But no one could replace what I had. I moved my mind from those thoughts and focused on something else he said.
“How long have you been in the club?” I continued my inquiry.
“Going on seven years,” he replied.
I paused. Seven years. “I assume you had to probate, or whatever it is for a time before that?”
Asher choked out a laugh. “Prospect, babe,” he corrected. “Yeah, for six months. Fuckin’ misery, though I’m glad I didn’t have to prospect when Gage was around, he puts those poor shits through Hell,” he informed me lightly.
I pondered this. Seven and a half years with the Sons, time in the Navy. I assumed you had to be in the Navy for a while to become a SEAL.
“How old are you?” I asked finally. I had him pegged not much older than me, but he’d have to be way older if I factored all that in.
He seemed caught unaware. “Twenty-nine, why? You got an age limit on men you date?” he teased.
“Twenty-nine?” I repeated in disbelief. “But that’s not enough time,” I exclaimed.
“Not enough time for what?” he sounded amused.
“To become not only a bad ass Navy SEAL and then a bad ass biker,” I blurted.
Asher choked out another laugh. “I joined the Navy at seventeen, flower. Trained for a year then served for four. Joined the Sons straight after,” he informed me.
“Seventeen,” I repeated. “That’s so young. You were just a kid,” I murmured. Too young to go down whatever dark road he went down. One I wanted to ask about but felt too shy to. I may have been coming out of my shell with him, but I’d never abandon it.
There was a pause. “Yeah, I was a troubled kid. Fucked up. I came out a man. Still fucked up in a way, differently ‘cause of the shit I saw. The club showed me different kinds of fucked up, but it fixed what could be fixed,” he replied.
I was taken aback. He shared so readily with me. Talked … like really talked. Didn’t grunt or speak in monosyllables. He was telling me about his life. Like he wanted me to know about it. Like he wanted me to be a part of it.
“What could be fixed?” I repeated. “What about what couldn’t?”
“I’m starting to think only one person could fix that, I just have to be patient enough to wait for her,” he murmured softly.
I let out a small gasp at the meaning behind his words at who her meant. I fiddled with the cushion on our sofa uneasily. He couldn’t mean me. He had to know I couldn’t fix him when I was beyond repair myself.
“You think that’s me,” I clarified.
“No,” he said immediately. “I know it’s you.”
My heart sank and soared at the same time. “How do you know? You don’t know everything about me, about what I’m not. Not that girl,” I whispered, staring around our apartment. I was like this very apartment. Desperately covered with things to distract from what was underneath. Instead of crumbling paint, it was a crumbling soul that was poorly hidden.
“I know enough,” he replied firmly.
I took a deep breath, feeling the effort it took to do so. If he was being so candid with me I had to tell him the truth.
“I’m not up for fixing anyone, I can’t even fix myself,” I declared finally.
“You can’t expect to fix yourself, losing your mom, it’s not something you get over quickly. It’s not something you get over full stop. You learn to live with it,” he told me softly. “You can’t expect to fix yourself, ‘cause you’re not broken, flower, just bruised.”
“It’s not just that, Asher,” I choked out. “I’ve been broken since before … that, before she got sick,” I admitted.
There was a loaded silence. “I don’t follow, flower,” Asher’s voice was confused.
I stood and wandered around our apartment, unable to be stationary a moment longer.
“Since before I can remember I’ve been different. Weaker than everyone else. At first, I was just shy….” I paused, “then it turned into something else. A weight on my chest I couldn’t escape. A constant awareness that situations could turn that weight into a vice that made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.”
I didn’t tell him about the condition that actually stole the breath from me. I couldn’t dump all of my weaknesses on him in one go. He’d realize I couldn’t live in his life. He’d leave. I knew it had to happen, but I couldn’t say goodbye to his voice at the other end of the phone just yet.