Asher rotates and flattens himself against the wall next to me. Instinctively, I follow, stepping in front of him. His eyes are shut, and even in the shadows of the dimly lit, deserted street, I can see the pain etched in his face. “Asher, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. I was alone and—”
“Stay away from the fumes,” he orders, his voice a deep rasp, and his eyes are watering to the point that it looks like he’s crying, when he’s not. “They fan outward,” he adds.
“I’m fine,” I say, not sure how he’s worried about me right now.
“You’re not fine.”
I have the mace in my hand and I hastily shove it back into my purse and zip it. “What can I do?” I ask looking left and right, down rows of concrete, old buildings shuttered for the night or just plain vacant, but there is no one in this area this time of night. “There’s no one to help,” I say. “I don’t know what to do. How do I help?”
“You don’t,” he says, huffing out a breath and blinking several times before he gives up opening his eyes. “It—will—pass.”
“How do you know? What if—?”
“I know.” He squats down, pressing his hands on his knees, lowering his chin to his chest. “It’s passing.”
I squat, but I’m already too off-balance as it is, clearly or I wouldn’t have sprayed him, and I just give in and settle on my knees. “Asher—”
“It’s passing,” he breathes out again, but as he sucks air in, it’s with a horrid wheezing sound.
“It’s not passing,” I say urgently. “You can’t breathe.”
“Give me a few minutes,” he says gruffly, lifting his head and actually opening his eyes. “It doesn’t affect me like other people.”
I blanch. “What? How would you know that? Do you make a habit of sneaking up on women and getting maced?” The accusation is out before I can stop it, that part of me just trying to survive going on defense. I regret it instantly, but it’s too late. He reacts before I can retract my words.
“Jesus, Sierra. I was going to walk you the fuck home.” He stands up and leans on the wall, his head resting against the hard surface.
“I’m sorry,” I say, scrambling to my feet, fighting the urge to touch him, when his clothes are contaminated and I shouldn’t be touching him anyway. “I’m jumpy on these streets back here and we just met. But you don’t deserve that and I shouldn’t have said it.”
His phone rings, and somehow he actually reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, but when he looks at the screen, he makes a frustrated sound. He lifts his head and looks at me, the whites of his eyes burned red. “My vision is shit right now,” he says, holding it out to me, the glow of a streetlight illuminating the pain in his handsome face. “Who is it?” he asked.
I glance at the caller ID. “It says… ‘Dickhead’.’”
He apparently likes whoever Dickhead is, or feels obligated to talk to this person, because he answers the call immediately. “Blake,” he bites out. “You’re on speaker.”
“Why do you sound like you have a stick up your ass?” Blake asks. “And why the fuck am I on speaker?”
“Before you say anything else,” Asher warns. “Sierra, from the bar, is with me.”
“Make me understand,” Blake says. “Why am I on speaker with Sierra from the bar?”
“I got maced,” Asher says, his voice gravelly. “I don’t want the residue on my phone.”
“Fuck.” Blake curses dramatically. “What happened? Who the hell maced you?”
“Me,” I say. “But I didn’t know it was him.”
Blake is silent two beats and then barks out laughter. “Holy fuck. Way to be a smooth operator, Ash. Holy fucking hell. How bad is it?”
“Tear gas,” Ash replies as if that answers the question, his voice not as gravely now.
“Ah well, hell, man,” Blake says, “You’re good, right? Luke told me your boys were hit with that shit in training so many times it’s now like drinking a cheap shot of tequila. It burns hard and fast, and then you beg for more.” I can’t help it. I have to ask. “Who is Luke and what training?” I ask, but I’m ignored.
Asher responds with a pained laugh as he lowers his chin to his chest again. “Yeah, man. I’m smelling daisies right now and doing it without a water supply.”
“You gotta find some water to at least rinse your eyes,” Blake says, bypassing my question for admittedly, and obviously, more important matters. “I can’t get a car and clothes to you for at least thirty minutes.”
“I’m not going in a public place with the residue all over me,” Asher says. “Send a pick up. I’ll ride in the back and I’ll wait right here.”
“Where is here?” Blake asks.
“I live in this shithole of a neighborhood,” I interject despite the many reasons I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but I have to help. I did this to Asher.
Asher lifts his chin and looks at me, a chill in his stare that wasn’t there before my accusation despite my spraying him with mace. There is also surprise, and thankfully far less pain than even minutes ago. “I’m two blocks away,” I say, doubling down on my offer, and my apology.
“Problem solved,” Blake says for him. “I need your address, Sierra.”
“I have to buzz you up when you get there,” I say before dictating the street and apartment number.
“Got it,” Blake says. “I’ll make sure you get clothes, Ash. Sierra. He’s more valuable than you know. Try not to kill him before I get there, will ya?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He disconnects.
And I immediately try to make peace. “Asher—”
“You sure you want me in your apartment?” he asks, speaking almost normally now. “I might be a stalker who makes a habit of attacking women on the street.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m very edgy for reasons that have nothing to do with you.”
“I’m standing right here, sweetheart. I’m pretty sure it has at least something to do with me.”
“It really doesn’t,” I say. “But like I said, I’m—”
“Don’t apologize again,” he says firmly. “But when the time is right. Say my name, Sierra, like I just did yours. Now more than ever, I’m going to want to know you really do know it’s me you’re with.”
I cut my gaze, afraid this man who is a stranger will see more than anyone has in years now that I’m honest with myself. Afraid that comment already infers that he does. Afraid of the intimacy he infers, as much as I crave it, when I cannot. It’s wrong. It’s unfair to him. It’s dangerous to him. Because I still have a Prince Charming who I now know is really The Beast.
“Sierra,” he says, a prod in his voice that I can’t seem to resist. I look at him and he adds, “What happened tonight is done, but we aren’t.”
“There is no we.”
“We work together. And in answer to your earlier question about the gas. I’m an ex-Navy SEAL. I’ve done extensive gas training and Luke is Blake’s brother, who I served with in the SEALs.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised and embarrassed. “You were—but—you—you’re—”
“Tatted up and have long hair?” he asks.
“Yes, actually.”
“A blond pretty boy American screams military overseas. It would have been a death wish.”
“I see.”
“I don’t. My eyes are fucked right now. My vision is waning in and out. And for the record, I’m capable of functioning with this stuff in my eyes and on my skin. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.” He pushes off the wall and looks down at me. “Either take me to your place or I have to find a place I won’t contaminate to rinse off.”
“I’m not letting you go someplace else,” I say. “Can you walk?”
“I can walk. I can fight if I have to. Apparently, I can survive armed assassins, but not a five-foot-four brunette named Sierra with mace.” His lips curve. “But that’s okay. Next time it might not be me.”
“I really am sorry.”
“You don’t need to keep saying that. Just take me to water.”
“Right.” I turn and start walking and he’s quickly by my side. The streets are deserted except for a homeless man lying on a step in front of a small church. The wind is non-existent, the night a warm September evening, and I don’t know New York City enough to know when that will change. I just know that I don’t have a coat which is on my list of must-buys with the cash in my purse. We walk the full two blocks and I don’t speak and Asher doesn’t speak, but I am aware of this man in ways I’m not sure I’ve ever felt with anyone, even my Prince Charming once upon a fake fairy tale. But then, I’m different now than when I met him and everything with Asher has been up close and personal from the moment I met him tonight. I’m not sure how I correlate those two things. Actually, I do. He’s overwhelmed me in too many ways to count, mostly good. Obviously, I’ve overwhelmed him now, too. I sprayed the man with mace. I know how to leave a lasting impression.
“We’re here,” I say, halting our progress in front of the ancient concrete building that cost me a small fortune, despite it being a rat trap, quite literally. “And I hate to break the news to you,” I add, “but we have to walk up four flights of stairs.” I punch in the code to the door that buzzes open, and turn to face him. “My place is pretty bad. I just moved here and—”
“I don’t care about your apartment, Sierra,” he promises, and I notice that he’s using my name still, not some generic endearment. “Let’s go inside,” he adds.
I nod and turn to open the door, he catches it and holds it. I walk inside and turn to him again. “The stairs and your eyes—”
“I’ve navigated much worse than stairs in much worse conditions.”
“Because you’re a Navy SEAL,” I say, telling myself that means The Beast can’t hurt him, but that’s a lie I want to believe.
“Ex-SEAL,” he says, a distinction that seems important to him, and it is to me too. He can’t be plucked from a mission and killed by one of the many powerful people in the government that owe The Beast favors. It’s a ridiculous way to comfort myself for obvious reasons. The Beast could still come after him and for nothing more than looking in my direction.
Inhaling on that thought, I turn away from Asher and cross the small foyer to the narrow, steep staircase where I begin the treacherous climb that kills me daily, but I’m not thinking about the pain. I’m thinking about Asher behind me. About how good it feels to be with one of the good guys for once, which is how I read Asher. But then what do I know? I haven’t exactly proven my assessment of character to be stellar, which would be a problem if I still had a future as a clinical psychologist, but I don’t. That career choice, and my internship with a world renowned clinical psychologist, and mentor, crashed and burned nine months ago when I’d been forced to start my city and state hopping to finally land here.
I shove that thought away, as we reach my floor and the tiny hallway I share with only one other tenant. Pausing at my door, Asher joins me, and I unzip my purse and grab my key, quickly sticking it in the lock. Asher steps to the landing with me, so close I can feel the warmth of his body encase mine. “Wait to go inside, Sierra.”
I leave the key in the lock and turn to face him. “Afraid I’ll spray you with mace again once I have you trapped inside?” I ask, using the witty remark to hide the fact that his nearness, and the way he’s towering over me while smelling all deliciously earthy, jolts me.
“You’ve already maced me,” he says. “Find another way to torture me that we can both enjoy. If you need ideas, I’ll offer a free tutorial on another occasion. But right now, my clothes are contaminated and yours most likely are as well. Tear gas has a way of finding places to settle and can become a problem later. You need to take off your clothes, bag them, and shower. Stand in the bathtub when you undress and bag your clothes there. And I mean everything. You can wash your clothes, but trash your purse.”
“It’s my only purse.”
“Replace it,” he says.
That costs money, I think, but I bite my tongue. “Is this really necessary?”
“The way that gas affected me,” he says. “That was about twenty percent of what most people will feel.”
“That was obviously a yes. I need to replace the purse. You need to shower first. You’re the one with burning eyes and skin.”
“Unless you want me walking around in a towel, I have to wait for clothes.”
“Oh.”
His lips curve and I have no idea why I’m so obsessed with this man’s mouth.
“Is that a yes or no?” he asks.
My gaze jerks to his. “What was the question?”
“Me in a towel.”
“I’ll give you my pink robe. You have to shower first, though you sure aren’t acting like you need instant relief.”
“I’m good at hiding pain, sweetheart, and this isn’t as much about me right now as it is ensuring I don’t expose anyone else.”
“Is that a yes on the robe?” I ask.
“As much as I like pink,” he replies, “I’d rather see it on you. And since chemical contamination will really screw up any mood we get going, I’m forced to move on, right when I’d rather not. Do you have plastic bags?”
“Yes. I do. Under the kitchen sink.”
“Good. Go to the sink. Wash your hands and arms thoroughly. You don’t want your fresh clothes to end up contaminated. Then get the bags and pick out new clothes with as little contact with anything else as possible. Whatever we touch, we’ll wipe down.”
“I had no idea this was such a big deal.”
“Most people don’t. We should go inside.”
Right. His eyes. They’re red and I should be rushing him to water. Still, when I turn and grab the knob, I can’t seem to make myself open the door and invite the questions I know will follow. Asher knows, too. He is suddenly a little closer, when he was already close, his hand on the door above me. “Nothing in that apartment matters to me,” he says.
He’s wrong. It will matter. I feel it, but I can’t change what’s to come at this point. I open the door and enter what is quite literally my hole-in-the-wall efficiency where the kitchen and the rest of the place are one room. A bathroom and a closet that is barely a closet are the only attachments. The door shuts behind me, the lock turning into place, both of which tells me that Asher now consumes the small space because he’s that big and it’s that little.
I’m also alone with the only man I’ve been alone with since leaving The Beast nine months ago. I’m alone with the only man I actually might like for far longer and how fitting to my dilemma that we’re covered in toxic chemicals. Because I’m toxic and I’m not going to give Asher a chance to try to play hero and get hurt.