Page 70 of Asher Black (The Five Syndicates)
I falter. “I-I got an invitation through my email. It’s a senior networking event, and I’m a junior. I thought you had something to do with the invitation, that maybe you pulled some strings for me.” I pause, taking in his frown. “If you didn’t, then who did?”
Asher sweeps his gaze over me, taking in my disheveled appearance. His eyes are a frosty navy blue as he says, “I don’t know. That’s what we need to find out.”
It doesn’t shock me to learn that I have trouble sleeping that night. It’s not images of the shooting that are plaguing my mind, though. As soon as I close my eyes, I dream of Steve at the edge of my bed.
I’ve had this dream before. It’s been awhile, but as soon as I’m immersed in the familiar bedroom, I know what will happen. This dream is a replica of what happened in real life, except in my dreams, there are two Steves.
I’m always unable to move as one remains at the foot of the bed, stroking himself, and the other approaches me, his hand reaching out to touch my body. This is the part where I usually wake up and stay super still with my eyes closed, convinced that if I open them, I’ll see both of the Steves there. And they’ll tell me which one of them is real—the one who doesn’t touch me or the one who does. I always hope it’s the former, but I’m too scared to ask. Not knowing has become a torment of its own, no doubt a byproduct of my cowardice.
This time, when I wake up, I keep my eyes closed tightly like I always do. But when I feel the bed dip, they fling open in alarm, relaxing instantly when they lock onto Asher’s concerned face. He hovers nearby before I close the distance, snuggling into the safety of his arms, remember how sheltered I felt when he hugged me after the shooting.
“Nightmare?” he asks.
I nod, but I don’t say anything, letting him assume that it’s from what happened earlier today. I’m not about to tell him about the unanswered questions I have for Steve Who Likes to Watch and Steve Who Likes to Touch.
“If I let you sleep on the bed, can we not talk about it tomorrow? Or ever?”
There’s a rumbling of laughter in his chest before I feel him pull me tighter against him. “Yeah, Lucy. I just want you to sleep well.”
I miss half of my lab the next morning. Sleeping in Asher’s arms was so comfortable, we both slept in later than we normally would. It helps that Monica didn’t come in at 5 A.M. to wake Asher up like she usually does.
Maybe she decided to let him rest after the whole getting shot in the chest thing.
Or maybe she lost her keys.
Or maybe—fingers crossed—she’s finally rethinking her job here.
Who knows what goes through that woman’s mind?
By the time I make it to lab, about an hour has passed, and there’s only two more hours left in the class period. I’m already feeling awkward after missing so many classes without a reprimand, so when I show up, I take my punishment like a champ, not even bothering to ask for a makeup lab. A normal student wouldn’t get one, so it’s only fair if I don’t either.
There are eyes on me as I start extracting DNA from a tomato for PCR. It’ll take almost two hours in the machine before the thermal cycling is complete, and by that time, the class period will be over. I do it anyway, so I can at least get partial participation points.
The write up for this lab, which I can’t do without the data from a completed lab, is worth fifteen percent of my overall grade in the class. At most, I’ll get half credit for it, which means the highest grade I can get in the class is now a 92.5%. And that’s assuming I get a perfect score on everything else I turn in for the rest of the semester.
A 93% is an A-. I need a 3.7 GPA, which is an A- average, to maintain my scholarship. I’ve been gunning for straight As, because getting an A- is a little too close to my GPA cut off for my taste. I already have enough excitement with Asher in my life.
Which basically means that this sucks, and the guaranteed plummet of my GPA is enough to sink my spirits. Between the shooting, the nightmare, and the grade, I’m in a really shitty mood.
It’s almost enough to make me rethink this whole charade.
Once I enter Rogue, I leave Xavier to talk to some of his guard friends about whatever super buff security guards like to talk about. Probably about how many people they’ve killed and how they’ve gotten away with it. Xavier looks like he’s got at least a dozen under his belt.
There’s only one guard in front of the stairwell leading to the VIP floor when I approach the bottom of it. It’s the middle of the day, so it’s not operating hours. The music isn’t on, and the dancers aren’t in their cage-stages, but the security is certainly there in spades. There are even more guards than there usually is, which isn’t surprising given the shooting that happened a few days ago.
When I reach the guard, one of the Romano guys, he smirks and says, “Let me guess. Model? Actress?”
“Fiancée.”
I shove past him, ignoring his widened eyes. I feel him following behind me, so I quicken my pace until I’m practically running up the stairs.
When he sees me, Asher’s eyes widen. “Lucy? Whoa! What happened? Was there another shooti—”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I demand.
His eyes grow wary, and they cut to the guard that followed me up there. I wait impatiently, my right foot tapping a rude rhythm against the floor, as he shakes his head at the guy, who soundlessly retreats back down the stairwell.
When Asher’s eyes come back to me, he says cautiously, “Me? What did I do?”
