Page 55 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
She doesn’t like that I sleep on the bed while he sleeps on the floor, but I guarantee she would like it even less if we both sleep on the bed… because I absolutely refuse to sleep on the floor. Hell, I think Asher deserves to sleep on the floor for holding me prisoner here. I certainly don’t feel bad about our sleeping arrangement.
“What are you doing?” Asher asks, approaching Xavier and I.
I take a couple steps back and admire my master piece, mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. I tilt my head to the side, like I’m admiring priceless artwork at the Louvre, and say in a heavy, fake French accent, “Ze black eye is wonderfulzee done, is zeet not?”
I slide a glance at Asher’s face. He’s looking at the picture, his lips twitching. He’s trying to hide his amusement, but it’s there. I know it. I can see it in his blue eyes, which are lighter than usual. Making Asher smile is another way I try to win this fight we’ve got going. As you can see, I’ve really lost it when I think I can win a fight with this man by making him smile.
I need to get out of here.
I have no idea why I’m being held hostage, too. I’m being fed well, and he’s actually treating me better than I expected. Apparently, my teachers know that I haven’t been attending class and have been emailing me my homework assignments and sending me lecture slides and notes, which is odd and definitely not in accordance to university policy, which states that a student must withdrawal from a class after two unexcused absences.
After missing several weeks of class, I have definitely been absent more than two times. I should be kicked out of these classes, but instead I’m getting the VIP treatment. My teachers are even sending me emails with phrases like, “I’m looking forward to seeing you soon!” in them.
Not soon enough.
“Tastefully done,” Asher says.
That’s another surprise I’ve learned.
Asher has a sense of humor.
It’s subtle, but it’s there.
I drop the French accent. “I think I can easily get a six-figure bid for it.”
I cross my arms and walk from one side of the fridge to the other, pretending to look at it from multiple angles. I hear Monica humph in annoyance, which almost makes me lose it, but I’m able to reel my laughter in.
I step back next to Asher. “I’d say it’s worth a quarter of a million dollars. At least.”
Asher taps his chin with his pointer finger, his face mimicking a thoughtful expression. “It’s missing something,” he says. Then, he pulls out a paper from the binder in Monica’s hand and sticks it onto the fridge, covering his photoshopped face in the process.
In Asher’s picture is a rooster, wearing nude Louboutin stilettos. Its feathers are even the exact shade of Monica’s hair. There’s an alarm clock hanging around its neck, set to 5 AM. The background of the picture is pitch black, clearly still night time.
That’s it.
I lose it.
I’m nearly in tears on the floor, laughing my ass off, not even caring that I just lost this stupid game I think I’m playing. When I look back up, Asher’s replacement picture is still there. I laugh again. Asher and Xavier are smiling, but Monica has a constipated expression on her face.
I don’t think she gets that she’s the rooster, waltzing into Asher’s room at five every morning, uninvited and unannounced. She doesn’t get why this is funny, but that’s okay. I think hearing her laughter would break my already delirious brain anyway.
I lift the picture away from the fridge, moving it so it’s beside my master piece. “They should be sold as a set.”
“Ugh, do you have to act like such a child?” Monica says, her voice extra snarky today.
If I’m being honest, I am acting like a child. To be fair, I haven’t left the penthouse in almost a month. I’ve had to skip out on all of my lunch dates with Aimee, who must hate me by now. I haven’t felt the sun on my skin in ages.
I even found myself trying to sunbathe by leaning against the window in a bikini. It wasn’t a good idea. I learned that I’m afraid of heights. Xavier, of course, thought it was hilarious and always asks me when I’m going to do it again.
Because she already thinks I’m being juvenile and it’s actually true, I decide that until I’m allowed to return to civilization, I don’t care.
So, I mimic her pose and voice and mock her words, “Ugh, do you have to be here right now?”
It’s not even a half decent burn, but Monica doesn’t care. I can read Harry Potter to her, and she’ll still be angry. That’s when you know someone’s hatred is irrational. How does one possess a beating heart and not enjoy Harry Potter?! Seriously, there’s a special place in Hell for those Harry Potter one-star reviewers on Amazon and Goodreads.
“Maybe you should go,” Asher tells Monica while I’m busy making up a 10th circle of Hell for Harry Potter haters.
Her eyes widen and irritation flashes through them, but she doesn’t say anything. She walks out the door, slamming it on her way out. I try to chase after her, hoping I can escape with her, but a strong arm slides around my waist and pulls me back. I’m flush against Asher’s powerful chest.
