Page 37 of Vile Bastards
“Did you agree to meet with me simply to insult me or do you have something I can use?” she asks, getting all journalist-y as she leans in toward me with her Bambi eyes sparkling. Emma’s all tricked out in more of that nineties-esque fashion with pink shorts, white kicks, and an oversized baggy sweater. Told ya she wasn’t cool. “Also, care to explain what you were really doing in an ice-cold river in November? And don’t tell me it was on a dare because we both know that’s not true.”
I tap my nails on the surface of the table, as if I’m considering answering her.
I mean, I’m definitely fucking not, but I’ll pretend. I know exactly what I’m going to say and do today. Scarlett Force always has a plan.
“Six-nine-nine Camp Creek Road,” I say as Emma scrambles to get her phone out, jotting that address down like it’s made of gold. “You don’t know where that is?”
“No, but I’ll find out if you don’t tell me.” She sits back up, picking at what appears to be a red velvet cupcake on her plate. As proof that there’s something wrong with this girl, she eats the frosting off the top and leaves the cake part. That’s serial killer shit right there. Who does that?
“That’s the house that Aspen Kelly bought for Lucy Hall.” Just saying her name chokes me up, but other than an obtuse amount of sweat on my lower back and between my tits, I don’t let on that I’m having problems to Emma Jean Thompson.
“Aspen Kelly never bought any house. If he did then trust me, I’d know about it.”
I’m already shaking my head, pausing as the bro-rista approaches with our coffee and pastries. He goes to set it all on Bohnes’ table, and my boyfriend growls at him. That’s the guy I’m with, a guy who growls when he talks.
“Did I stutter? Put this on my girlfriend’s table.”
The poor employee scrambles to obey, and I offer him a patronizing smile in return before he scurries off, and I pause at the sound of the shop’s door opening. It shouldn’t surprise me; there’s a steady stream of customers in and out of the place. But for some reason, I’m compelled to turn around and look.
In walks Ash-pen Kelly, slick and sexy in dark slacks, an unbuttoned suit jacket, and a bright red dress shirt. He’s lifting off his shades as he spots me, pausing with them halfway up his forehead, his full mouth parted in surprise.
My heart goes buck wild, pounding in a manner quite similar to the panic attacks.
We’re in Salem right now, the state capitol of Oregon, and just over an hour’s drive from Prescott. What the fuck is Ash doing here?
I slide out of the booth as he purses his lips, his ebony gaze slicing through the crowd, dissecting them, casting them side. He looks back over at me and makes his way across the polished floors, his Oxfords a quiet shush against the concrete.
“You’re early,” Emma says with a slight cringe as she, too, slides out of the booth. She pauses beside me, gesturing between me and Aspen. “This is probably a bit awkward for both of you. I didn’t mean for you guys to run into each other.”
“Why would we mind running into each other?” I ask, but Ash says nothing, turning to look at Emma Jean.
“I’ll grab a coffee and wait for you in the back.” He turns away and takes off, and I swear to God, I have to pick my jaw up off the floor. I start to move after him when Bohnes’ hand reaches out and snags the hem of my red and white gingham dress. It has skulls all over it, too, which is a heavy bonus.
“Don’t go too far,” he warns me as I meet Widow’s eyes, and he offers up a slow, disapproving blink. I move away regardless and pause beside Ash as he gets in line. He adjusts his shades in his dark hair and then flicks his attention over to me.
“You look better,” he tells me, and there’s this deep strain in his voice, like he’s this close to fucking breaking. That bothers me. Does it have something to do with the leaked knowledge of Aspen’s death? The gunshot he suffered last week? His father?
“I thought you’d be slobbering to come and see me after.” It’s an accusation and, petty as it sounds, it’s fact. Ash looks at me like he wants to consume me entirely, like he wants to be my whole and only universe. So what’s this? I mean, I swear that I still see the gleam in his eye, but he’s behaving like we’re nothing.
“You know as well as I do that us being seen together in public is bad news—most especially for you.” He takes his shades off and folds them irritably, stuffing them into the pocket on his jacket. “I’ll take a French press. Thanks.” Ash scans his phone on the payment kiosk, and I see that he does, indeed, have the Industrial Coffee Co. app. Bully for him.
