Page 37 of For Better or Hearse
“How big do you think he’d make my breasts?”
He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’d prefer to leave your breasts out of this.”
She smirks.
Head lowered, he can’t help but take in the hem of Ash’s short shorts. Her pale thigh covered with bright, blooming tattoos. What would it feel like to trace the petals of a rose up her thigh to her—
Fuck.
Self-loathing fills him.
Her pretty face. Her high cheekbones, the slash of red lipstick, her wild mane of hair, those sharp nails. Every little thing about her screams untouchable. Mean. Feral.
He’s too close to her. She smells like grapefruit and spice. Nutmeg. He should stop huffing her scent, but he can’t. It’s all so strange. She’s not even his type.
The van ride goes on. Tirelessly. Uncomfortably.
“So, Ash…”
His mother picks at her nail. Searching for a topic to break the silence. Nathaniel knows the feeling. It’s been so long since he’s been with his family, he doesn’t know how to act. Maybe he is a robot. The thought of Ash being right irritates him even more.
“How long have you been doing”—his mother waves a hand helplessly—“this?”
“I got my certification two years ago at the Sacred Crossings Institute in Los Angeles.” Her words are bright, proud.
His father examines Ash over his phone. “Isn’t that like some touchy-feely school?” The look of disdain he gives her is one normally reserved for his own family.
Her smile slips. She looks to the ground, her eyes suddenly glassy. “Something like that.”
Her feelings are hurt.
Fuck his father.
A swell of protectiveness rises up in him. The urge to defend her takes over before he can stop it. “It’s a good school,” he says. “I’ve read about it in the journal.”
He didn’t. He knows nothing about the school. What he does know is that he’d do anything to get rid of that sad look in her eyes.
Don grunts.
Ash remains silent, shoulders tense, her face now turned to the window.
Her defeat bothers him. More than he’d like to admit.
Beside him, Ash, voice low and husky, says, “I appreciate the lie.” Her eyes are still on the passing scenery.
Nathaniel swallows hard. He wants to tell her he’s sorry. Sorry that his father’s an asshole and that being combative, competitive, is the fucked-up way his family bonds. But he keeps his mouth shut.
As the drive continues, Tate bitches and moans. If Delaney doesn’t have to be here, then why does he? Like he’s a five-year-old all over again instead of a twenty-six-year-old with a pornstache.
His mother sits, unmoving, with those same glassy, bored eyes from his childhood.
Christ. His family is so fucked up.
They just can’t pull it all the fuck together for his grandfather, can they?
Finally, thankfully, the van pulls into the parking lot.
Without missing a beat, Ash whistles, long, loud and sharp.