Ash to Steele Page 4

  The first few minutes are blessedly silent, but it’s not too long before Breck ruins it by opening his mouth.

  “A preacher’s daughter hanging out in a bar, living in the slums, and walking the streets at night.”

  Unamused, I wait for the punch line, arching my eyebrow and glaring at him.

  “Does your daddy know how far you’ve fallen from grace?” Breck asks, his smile making it hard to differentiate if he’s being serious or only teasing.

  “Does yours?”

  I immediately realize I should’ve kept my mouth shut. His eyes turn hard, cold, but, thankfully, not angry this time.

  “Grace was never mine to begin with,” Breck almost whispers before quickly changing the subject. “You do realize that this isn’t exactly the safest place in Boston to be walking by yourself, especially late at night?”

  Shoving my chin further inside my jacket, I try to keep the bitter air from freezing my tongue when I speak, “It’s not that bad here.”

  “Tell me that after you’ve been mugged, raped, and had the hell beat out of you,” he chastises.

  “Are you always this pleasant?” I smirk.

  “Nah, you’ve just caught me on one of my good days,” he winks, flashing a killer smile.

  Wow, he certainly is capricious. “Thank you for walking me home,” I force myself to say.

  “You’re welcome…I think,” he laughs. “Did that hurt you to say as much as it sounded like it did?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” I smile, his newfound carefree attitude becoming infectious.

  “At the risk of sounding like a schmuck who doesn’t know how to act around women, I have to ask what brought you to Boston?”

  “Schmuck is not the word that comes to mind when I think about you and your way around a multitude of women at any given time,” I blurt out before my filter has the chance to catch the words and shove them back down my throat.

  “You think of me? I detect some ambivalence about that. So, what exactly does come to your mind when I consume your thoughts?” he winks again, flashing another heart melting smile.

  I wish he would stop that! “Consume?” Capricious and pretentious. “Trust me, there has been no consuming of any kind going on.”

  “But what a decadent consumption you would be,” he whispers, stepping in front of me.

  Breathing. That’s another thing Breck seems to have the power to deactivate.

  Opening my mouth, my mind races to come up with something to back-peddle out of the steaming pile of manure I just stepped in. The blessed ringing of my phone becomes my saving grace. Smiling triumphantly, I hold up the cell but my smile quickly vanishes when I see the caller ID.

  “You suck at poker don’t you?” Breck asks, studying me again.

  “What?” I ask distractedly, letting Justin’s call go to voicemail.

  “Everything you are thinking or feeling is written all over your face, which happens to be a very pretty face when you’re not contorting it like that,” he twirls his finger in front of my nose, that blasted smile still plastered on his tempestuous lips. “Boyfriend?”

  It takes me a few seconds to pull myself away from his mouth, “W-what?”

  Wrapping his hand around mine, the warmth of his touch dissipates the cold as his finger taps my phone.

  “Oh, no. Friend. Well, ex, actually,” I babble, still frazzled by the short circuit in my brain that occurs any time he touches me, which angers me to no end.

  “Ex-boyfriend, ex-friend, or both?” he teases, his hand still wrapped securely around mine.

  Forcing myself to regain my self-respect, I pull my thoughts together and my hand away. “Ex-boyfriend, longtime friend.”

  “Must be awkward.”

  You have no idea. “No, not really,” I mumble, shoving my phone back inside my pocket.

  “Okay, I’ll let you slide with that lie.”

  “Really? Thanks for the free pass,” I snap, “it’s not any of your business who it was, anyway.”

  “Jess is always talking about how sweet you are; either she’s lying or I just bring out the worst in you,” Breck laughs, still standing mere inches in front of me.

  “I just don’t like you,” I reply, stepping around him.

  “We already covered that last night,” he states, unfazed. “But, is it that you don’t like me or that you don’t like your body’s reaction to me?”

  “You are completely incorrigible!” Quickening my pace, I rush to leave him behind.

  “Guilty,” he proclaims proudly with that cocky as hell grin as he easily catches up.

  “That’s not a good thing, you know.”

  “I’ve heard no complaints.”

  “Well, then, let me be your first!” As soon as the words leave my mouth, regret slams into me and I pray the ground would just open up and swallow me whole.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of me being your first since my first was way too many memories ago to count.”

  Thoroughly pissed off, I stop abruptly and spin around, not realizing how close Breck is until he crashes into me, his long, firm frame sending me flying backwards. Just before I hit the ground, he grabs me, his hand placed firmly against the small of my back with the heat of his touch radiating up my spine like a strike of sensual lightening. His other hand is tangled in my hair, shielding the back of my head from the hard concrete centimeters below. My heart is pounding as his warm breath seductively blows against my lips and chin.

  Everything spins for a few seconds, and I’m not sure if I’m feeling disoriented from the harsh compact or feeling drunk from the sensations rioting inside. It only takes a minute to grasp that it’s from Breck; I’m intoxicated by his scent, his touch, as he pulls me tightly against his chest. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply, pressing my body against his as he slowly lifts me upright. His knee brushes against the inside of my thigh in the process, sending heated quivers through my body. A burst of liquid heat pulses just above where his knee is currently pressing into my skin, causing me to gasp.

  “Are you hurt?” he asks in a thick, soothing voice, further skewering my toxic senses. His concern does nothing to stop the intimate part of me from combusting into flames.

  When I don’t answer, Breck’s hand cups my cheek while his thumb caresses my skin, sending exquisite tingles from head to toe, “Emma, did I hurt you?”

  Pushing through the fog, my eyes snap open and I push away from him. The feel of his muscles beneath my hand inebriates my senses to the point of leaving me slightly dizzy. Focusing on the ground, I shake it off. “I’m fine.”

  “Another lie,” he tsks, the corners of his mouthing tilting up.

  My cell rings again. I know who it is without having to look.

  “You’re a wanted woman tonight.” Breck brushes his fingers against my cheek, inspecting me, as I try to control my erratic breathing. “What is it that you want, Emma?” his words are so soft, I almost think I imagine them. “Has anyone taken the time to find out what your desires are? Is that why you came here?”

  The way he reads me so accurately unnerves every fiber of my being.

  “No one has ever really understood you, have they?”

  His questioning eyes shine brightly in the light of the moon. Consuming need overwhelms me and tears spring to my eyes at his divination being conjured to life. I hate what he does to me, what I let him do to me. “I have to go,” the words leave my mouth in a breathless rush as I turn, scrambling away from him so fast I’m practically running.

  “Emma!”

  Humiliated by my reaction, I rush faster. It’s better this way. Let him think I’m insane, not worth his trouble, and he’ll leave me alone. I’ll never set foot in the Dark Hole again and the problem will solve itself. Out of sight, out of mind. I’ve got to get him out of my mind before I let him get into other parts of me.

  I don’t stop until I reach my apartment building and burst through the rusted door. My heart is thumping from exertion as I lean against the wa
ll, taking ragged breaths. The burn from the frigid air makes my lungs feel raw. One of my neighbors scurries down the stairs, going to get his nightly fix, and he doesn’t acknowledge my existence, leaving me feeling further confused and excruciatingly lonely.

  Thoughts of Dad play in my mind as tears threaten to spill. Angrily, I wipe them away, refusing to let them fall. Justin unwelcomingly filters through my head, causing me to swear loudly in the dingy hall. I haven’t come all this way to escape from the restraint of one man just to have my heart imprisoned by another, which is what will happen if I give into my body’s new cravings.

  My cell rings again and I shove it inside my jacket, cursing Justin’s impatience. Now that I’m away from him, I see his ulterior motives. Justin always treated me with respect, but he never respected who I am inside. His actions were kind, gentle, and endearing, but they were also suffocating and stifling. Breck is right; when I talked about my dreams, Justin never encouraged me, he just gave an infuriating placating smile before changing the subject.

  Anger surges as I storm up the stairs and throw the phone on the bed. Ignoring the late hour, I grab the paint brush before walking to the windows and throwing the curtains back to allow the moonlight to spill into the room. I love painting by moonlight; the ambiance is magical, awe-inspiring. My heart stops when I see Breck standing on the sidewalk three stories below. His hands are shoved inside his pockets and his shoulders are raised to shield his face from the cold. When his eyes meet mine, he gives one small nod before disappearing around the corner.

  Shame engulfs me as I watch him walk away. I don’t know how long I stand at the window thinking of how Breck had followed me to make sure I made it home safely. That fact leaves me conflicted. He leaves me conflicted. A small warmth sparks inside my heart; one that I’ve never felt before. It’s different than the heat that spills through my veins anytime I’m near him. Shaking my head, I refuse to think anymore tonight, so I get lost in my painting until I exhaustedly fall onto my bed a couple of hours later.

  Moonlight turns into rays of early morning sun spilling across my face, awakening me. Blinking against the brightness, I groan sleepily as I glance at the clock, 5:30 a.m. I have fifteen more minutes before the alarm blares, but I get up anyway; fifteen minutes will do nothing to shake the exhaustion from my bones. Almost an hour and a half later, I’m chugging my coffee, wishing I could inject the caffeine directly into my veins, or that I had at least thought to have brought the entire pot with me.

  “Mr. Harris is chewing nails, ready to spew them at the next person he sees,” Braden warns in hushed tones, smiling as I walk by his desk.

  “What else is new?” I smirk before yawning.

  “Late night?”

  “Yeah, and not nearly enough happy juice.”

  “I figured you’d be dragging yourself in here dog tired again,” Braden winks, handing me a steaming cup of my favorite blend from the coffee shop down the street.

  “Thank you!” I give my superior a grateful smile as I take a long sip. “It’s on me next time we go.”

  “No problem, just thought you might need it.”

  “You thought right. Thanks, again.”

  “Ms. Jones, nice of you to join us this morning,” Mr. Harris glares down at me from his imposing six-five frame.

  Despite being ten minutes early, I keep my mouth shut. It does no good to point out the obvious with my impetuously cranky boss, no matter how nicely I present it.

  “The editor will be in my office in a half hour. I expect you to hand in your work to me ready and presentable for me to show him,” he barks.

  Always am and always is. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Harris walks away without any of the usual pleasantries decent people bestow before leaving.

  “Such an ass,” Braden cracks, bumping my shoulder.

  Mr. Harris is my head superior while Braden is the department superior, and there’s a huge difference between their ways of managing. Tipping my coffee cup at Braden, I make my way to my desk before Mr. Harris’ wrath is thrust my way. My computer comes to life as I pull my drawings from the bag Dad bought mom for her thirtieth birthday when she decided she was going to go back to work after I started first grade. Mom was one of those Super Moms, always gracefully juggling a million things at once. I inherited her chestnut hair, but that’s all of her that was passed down to me. Between working two jobs and painting, I’m barely able to hold myself together, much less a family like she did. Mom only had one job, but being a social worker required long hours, sometimes unpredictable hours. She was always there for Dad and me, never missing one of my plays or school parties.

  I gently rub the leather between my fingers before hanging the bag on the back of my chair and getting to work. Carefully inspecting the drawings, I smile, satisfied with how they turned out and feeling confident the editor will approve of them. Mr. Harris, he’s a different story. He never likes anything I present, but I’ve learned to not take it personally; he doesn’t like anything that anyone presents.

  “You’re up, Emma,” Braden taps the top of the half-wall cubicle. “Maybe your derriere will still be in one piece when you leave. I’m not sure I have anything left to sit on.”

  “Your articles are the most popular piece of the paper. Don’t let him get to you,” I encourage.

  “Always the encouraging one,” he teases. “Want to grab some lunch later?”

  “I brought mine today, but thanks.”

  “You should go out every once in awhile; that’s the only joy of working at Shallonelles, getting to escape for an hour every day,” Braden jokes as I muse how he is unlike any boss I’ve ever had, very relaxed and open.

  Mr. Harris’ gruff voice interrupts the conversation, “Ms. Jones, I’m waiting!”

  “Time is an elusive concept for him isn’t it?” I laugh, shuffling the drawings into the folder before heading into the 7:30 meeting at 7:15.

  The wind whips around the corner of the building at what feels like sub-zero temperatures. Dad was right about me hating cold weather. The beginning of November is kicking my butt; I’m not sure how I’ll survive December. It’s 9:00 p.m., and I’m bone tired as I pack up the last of my art supplies. Trying to distract my heavy thoughts, I dream of a long shower as I make my way to my car. Placing the supplies in the back, I shut the door, then let out a blood curdling scream when I turn and run smack into a large, hard chest.

  “Easy, Emma, it’s just me.” Breck inspects me with concern filled eyes before bursting into a hearty laugh, “Damn, I do love your expressions!”

  “I’m glad you find me so amusing. You about gave me a heart attack,” I chastise. “What are you doing here, anyway? Are you stalking me, now?” I ask, my lips curving into the slightest smile on their own accord.

  “Maybe,” he replies with a mischievous wink.

  His usual effect takes over, stealing my air and sending my heart into a palpitating frenzy as I drink in his dressed down state of athletic wear and a dark gray hoodie mercilessly hanging open over a tight black cotton t-shirt that shows the sinew outline of his muscles.

  Breck leans against my car, his right foot resting casually over the other, “Or, maybe you are stalking me.”

  His skin shines from a sheen of sweat and, strangely, I find that immensely arousing. Wishing I could turn my hormones off, I drag my eyes away from his slick skin and moist shirt that’s clinging mercilessly to his tight torso. “Sorry to burst your egotistical bubble, but I teach art here on Monday nights.”

  “Egotistical? Okay, I’ll agree to that,” Breck laughs. The sound sends delicious shivers spiraling up my spine. “I’ll have to be sure to switch nights with Dylan permanently now.”

  Knowing I shouldn’t engage, I do anyway, “What are you talking about?”

  “We take turns delivering food from the restaurant every night.”

  Impressed, I glance at the run down center that currently houses eighty two children. Last week, there were eighty three, but a gang fi
ght took the life of the vibrant fourteen-year-old who had shown so much progress in his paintings before he stopped skipping classes and then stopped coming altogether. I asked about him every week and, tonight, my heart broke when I was told that he had been killed. Blinking back tears, I look away.

  Strong, gentle fingers lift my chin, “Hey, you okay?”

  Nodding my head, I compose myself, “Yeah. I think it’s great the owner of the restaurant donates food every night.”

  “I wouldn’t have told you if I knew it would make you cry,” Breck teases, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I’m not crying.”

  “Such a beautiful liar.”

  Something about my tears seems to soften him. I see no anger in his eyes like I have the past two times we’ve met, only concern. “One of the kids that used to be in my class was killed last week.”

  “I heard about David,” Breck states, his eyes softening further.

  “You knew him?”

  “He’s one of the kids who played basketball with me on Tuesday nights, when I usually come. If I knew he was getting involved with a gang, I would’ve busted his ass.”

  The pain darkening Breck’s eyes sends a sharp stab slicing through my chest. The way his pain affects me is alarming. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.

  “He made a choice,” Breck mumbles, his voice heavy.

  Wrapping my hand around his wrist, I give it a comforting squeeze.

  His gaze falls to my hand, and several long seconds pass before Breck steps backwards, pulling his wrist away from me like I burned him. His eyes turn hard, cold, as they penetrate my soul, “There’s a consequence for every choice you make, Emma.” With one last soul searing glare, he walks away.

  Staring speechlessly after him, my mind spins at what just transpired as he climbs into the truck sporting the name, “Kylianna,” in beautifully scripted calligraphy. His words followed what happened to David, but, somehow, I feel they were meant specifically for me. I crank the heat up in my car and turn the radio up as loudly as I can stand, fruitlessly trying to drown out my erratic thoughts that bounce between the tragedy of what happened to David and the enigma of Breck on my way home.