Page 12 of For Better or Hearse

To her credit, she’s already a pain in his ass. It takes a lot tosnap that thread of patience. Full moons and emergency room patients have nothing on this girl.

An hour in the car together, and his nerves are fried. The crunchy wrinkle of the granola bar. The tap-tap-tapping on her cell phone with those long black nails. Her ability to joke warmly with Augustus while simultaneously ignoring Nathaniel.

It pisses him off.

But now that he’s here, he can’t leave. All he can do is wait it out.

“We’re all checked in,” Nathaniel tells his grandfather as the driver pulls up to the curb of the hotel. “Delaney can’t get off set until Tuesday, so she’ll be here then.”

With a chuckle, Augustus pushes out of the back seat. “Delaney will be Delaney.”

Nathaniel climbs out quickly and grips his grandfather’s hand. His stomach pulls tight as the older man shuffles forward, gait unsteady. This isn’t the outcome he wanted. When Augustus was first diagnosed with cancer, Nathaniel flew to LA every weekend he could. Threw himself into finding him the best doctor, experimental treatments. He hoped for a miracle, because he’s not ready for his grandfather to go.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Nathaniel cranes his neck and homes in on Ash, who’s mutteringfucklike it’s the lord’s prayer. As she leans forward to scoot out of the back seat, crumbs scatter from her lap. Still cursing, she flails, trying to capture the granola bar wrapper that’s being manhandled in the breeze. Her wild mass of black hair swirls like a cloud of doom. She looks up, catching him watching her, then scowls. Scowls some more.

“Shit.” She waves a hand in the air. The move causes her to drop her purse on the curb, where its contents scatter. Phone. Packets of lavender tea. A baggie of little peanut butter Ritz crackers. A pair of 3D glasses. “Go in. I’ll catch up.”

He sighs. She’s a fucking mess.

On their way inside the open-air lobby of the Rosalea Montage resort, Nathaniel takes in the familiar sight. He’s been to nearly all his grandfather’s hotels. As a child, he, along with the rest of his family, stayed for weeks during the summers. All Fox Hotels have the same immaculate vibes, décor, hospitality. The Rosalea Montage resort, perched at the edge of a seaside cliff, is no different. Decorated in colors of muted turquoise and cream, the fifteen-acre beachfront property screams luxury and elegance. Attracts a pampered and peaceful clientele from all over the world.

Beside Nathaniel, his grandfather stands taller than he has in a long time, his expression proud.

“Just like you remember?” he asks, a smile tugging at his mouth as he hands his grandfather his key card.

Augustus chuckles. “I remember you right there. You ate too much shave ice and puked in that planter.”

A warm fondness blooms in Nathaniel’s chest. “It wasn’t my finest moment.”

Augustus gives him a wry side-eye. “You sure you don’t want it?” he asks good-naturedly.

Nathaniel slings an arm around his shoulder. “Not at all, Grandpops.”

Unlike Nathaniel’s father, Augustus leaves it at that. No pushing for corporate takeover.

Nathaniel is content on the ocean.

Away from his family. Keeping a free life. He’ll never trap himself again.

For a second, he loses himself in the tranquility of his grandfather’s hotel. The crash of the ocean outside. The warm sun casting shadows through the eaves.

And then he hears it.

The sound of great, gigantic boot stomps.

Instantly, the peace of the hotel is shattered. The concierge frowns. The people in line at the check-in rubberneck their way.

Nathaniel bristles, instantly annoyed. Christ, that noise. Nomatter how many times he’s tried to acid wash his brain, he can’t get the sound of Ash storming through the church like some vengeful wraith out of his head.

Scowling, he turns. Across the glossy marble tile, her boot laces dance and dart.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

She’s oblivious. And she looks ridiculous. Like some gothic black cat of a girl. Oversized combat boots. Short black skirt, long-sleeved black bodysuit. Despite the absurd outfit, he can’t help tracing over the specks of color on her pale frame. Colorful tattoos cover her thighs. Flowers of all varieties. Higher up, a pop of a neon pink bra strap accentuates her fair skin. The kohl cat eye slashed atop her lids gives her a feral look. All that, combined with her violently blood-red lips and her doomsday cloud of jet-black hair, makes her look like she’s a dark harbinger of doom.

Again, what kind of name is Ash?