Page 25 of For Better or Hearse
“I’m sorry.”
Surprised, he blinks, unsure he’s heard her correctly. “For what?”
She wrinkles her nose. “For inadvertently taking Lucifer’s side tonight.” Her soft eyes sweep over his face, drop to his lips. “Your father.”
She splays her hand on the bar top. Long fingers. Long black nails. What would those nails feel like scraping down his back?
Fuck.
It takes all the willpower he has to fight the heat creeping through him and force his mind back to the conversation. “My father’s a world-class asshole, but I’m used to it by now.”
“We all have to excel at something.” Ash props an elbow on the bar and evaluates him. “As much as I loved listening to the sound of your family silently sawing through their meat, is it always like this?”
“What? A complete disaster? Pretty much,” Nathaniel admits, frowning at his drink. “I don’t want my grandfather to be disappointed. If this doesn’t turn into what he wants.”
There’s no way his family will recognize this for what it is. One long goodbye. One last chance to bond.
“What do you mean?” Ash asks.
“We don’t relax,” he warns. “We don’t lounge. Every hour of every day is scheduled, planned. Because we are nothing if we don’t strive for excellence.”
Ash’s eyes flash, but her lip curls up like she’s amused. “No sightseeing? No poolside lounging? No gluttonous buffets?”
“Only vigorous activities that detract from building a bond or actually having conversation.” In his family, vacation is a duty to get through.
She chews her lip, considering. “On a scale of one to my-soundtrack-is-the-Rocky-theme-song, what are your holidays like?”
“Turkey trot,” he says grimly. “On Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
“I fucking knew it,” she whispers. She looks panicked and defeated, and even though it should make him smile, it doesn’t.
A few silent minutes pass, and finally, curiosity gets the best of him. “A death doula. What exactly does that entail? Communing with the dead?”
He’s asking not because he’s curious about this weird, feral girl, but because of his grandfather. It’s his duty as the oldest grandchild to do his due diligence. At least that’s what he tells himself.
Ash tucks a hunk of black hair behind her ear. “I am but a mere carrier in your grandfather’s astral plane of life.”
He rolls his eyes. “English.”
“Fine. I’m his death bouncer, so don’t fuck with him.” She inclines her head, eyes swimming with challenge. “I don’t do medicalstuff. I’m there for him. If your grandfather wants to discuss his childhood or just tell fart jokes for an hour, I’ll be there. I’ll listen.” She brushes a puddle of water off the bar. “It’s another way to navigate grief.”
He regards her for a long moment. “And what makes you the expert in grief?”
“Everyone’s an expert in grief.” The gray flecks in her green eyes catch the soft overhead lighting. “We just don’t know it until it fucking hits us.” Ash plucks the olive out of her glass, pops it into her mouth. “You’re a doctor,” she says, chewing. “You try to stop death.”
Nathaniel has to tear his eyes away from those blood-red lips. “Postpone it.”
“I love Augustus,” she says, her voice thick. “Your grandfather’s a firecracker. He’s stubborn and strong, and I think he’ll be around for a long time.”
It takes effort to swallow past the rock in his throat. “What I don’t get is how one goes from love to death.”
She averts her eyes. Says nothing. Though a flush creeps up her chest and neck.
He swigs the last of his scotch, twists into her. Ready to get one thing out of the way first. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking. Maybe it’s because the question has bothered him for the last three years. Either way, he can’t stop himself from asking.
“Who hired you?”
Her kohl-lined eyes widen, and her breath catches. “Excuse me?”