Asher (Ashes & Embers 6)

Her mouth falls open, her bottom lip trembles, and big tears fall onto her cheeks. The devastation in her eyes is killing me as I reach for the doorknob.

Grabbing on to my arm at the last minute, she begs, “Asher, please, don’t leave…talk to me. Please.”

I wrench my arm from her grip so hard, she stumbles into the foyer table, knocking a ceramic vase onto the floor. More tears stream down her cheeks as she rights herself and pulls the thin robe around herself—which does absolutely nothing to cover her body. I fight off the urge to comfort her, ask her if she’s okay, apologize to her.

I can’t touch her. I can’t look at her. I can’t even be near her.

“Stay away from me,” I say through clenched teeth, looking down at the floor. “Don’t follow me. Don’t call me.” I pull the door open. “Just…just let me go.”

Her gasping sobs follow me as I walk toward the elevator. It takes all my strength to ignore her cries as I press the down arrow, relieved when the doors open right away so I can escape.

Another second more, and I think I would’ve crumbled right there in the hall. I’m shaking with fury, gutted with devastation, overcome with grief.

As the elevator descends, I feel like I’m plunging into a new hell. My heart being split down the middle, my mind hijacked by a stranger masquerading with my wife’s voice.

She took Ember away from me.

I’ll never get her back. I’ll never see her sweet face again. I’ve lost her forever.

What she did can’t be undone. It can never be fixed.

Chapter Forty-Eight

As soon as I get out of the apartment building, I head directly to the nearest convenience store and buy a pack of Marlboro Reds. I light one up with a match the second I get outside—then stand, staring blankly up the street, with no idea what to do with myself. My stuff is at the Airbnb, and I’m sure the tour bus has left by now.

A gust of cold air whips around me, slightly snapping me out of the stupor I’m in. Two hours ago, I was standing on a stage with screaming fans—on top of the world. Now I’m standing alone on a dark street corner, taking up bad habits, unsure of where to go or where I’ll be sleeping tonight.

I could call an Uber and go home, or I could get a hotel nearby and crash. Not that I’ll be able to rest with all this crazy shit running circles through my head.

What kind of person runs off and gets plastic surgery to change their face without talking to her husband first? It’s not like she just redecorated the house—she completely redecorated herself.

I wish she’d talked to me first. Or let me be part of her decision if I couldn’t talk her out of it. Which I definitely would have fought like hell to do. Just thinking about her having anesthesia and going through surgery on her face just months after coming out of a coma is scaring the hell out of me.

How—why—did she do this?

I can’t wrap my head around any of it.

Taking a long drag off my cigarette, I’m struck with a wave of fear that her behavior might be the result of long-lasting brain damage. Or maybe she’s having a mental breakdown.

Maybe we both are.

I wander down an alley to get away from the street traffic, and lean against the cold brick to check my cell phone, which has been going off nonstop since I left the Airbnb.

Six missed calls from Ember.

Two missed calls from Tor.

One missed call from Kenzi.

And a slew of text messages from all of them—none of which I read.

Ember must’ve called Kenzi after I left.

Fucking great.

I can’t talk to my daughter until I process all the feelings battling inside my head, and there’s no way I can talk to Ember without going off on her again—which I don’t want to do. Enough damage has been done already. I need to calm down.

I tap Tor’s number.

“Dude, I’ve been calling you,” he says when he picks up. “Where you at?”

“I’m sitting in an alley smoking a pack of cigarettes.”

He sighs. “We’ll turn around and come get you.”

Just what I need—a busload of people witnessing my meltdown. “No. Don’t do that.”

“You okay?”

I laugh into the phone. I don’t even know what okay means anymore.

“Not really,” I admit. “My wife rearranged her face. And hid it from me for weeks. My brain is totally fucked. I don’t even know what to say, man. My life’s turned into a Twilight Zone episode.”

“Ember called Kenzi after you left, and then Kenzi called me. She’s really upset.”

“Who’s upset?”

“Both of them, but mostly Ember. Kenzi said she was hysterical on the phone.”

My heart clenches, despite the anger still simmering in me. I could never bear to see Ember cry—and now I’ve become the ultimate cause of it.