Page 76 of Vile Bastards
“As if you just showed up here on a whim,” Ash snipes at me, but little does his arrogant ass know, I did. I really fucking did just show up here on a whim. I keep ignoring him, turning toward Widow and holding up a package of sausages called landjägers.
“Have you ever had one of these? They’re smoked dry like—”
Ash snatches my wrist and yanks me around to look at him. As he does, I drop the shopping basket and Widow catches it, whistling in surprise as he watches me slam my palm into Ash Kelly’s stomach and send him stumbling back a step.
“Don’t touch me,” I warn him, our gazes clashing. His eyes are filled with quiet fury, but he can’t hide that obsessive glimmer in his gaze, the one that promises that even if he acts aloof, he hasn’t forgotten about me. “You can’t cut me off and pretend I don’t exist, and then start jerking me around just because we ran into one another in the grocery store. I’m here with Adrian, not with you.”
“You came here to see me.” He appears convinced of the idea, and I offer up a shake of my head and a sigh.
“Aspen.” I get the name right this time, and I see how much he truly hates it, how his breath hitches, how his eyes once again move over to check the store’s side entrance. Does he have a goon out there or something? A bodyguard/spy? I wouldn’t put it past Mayor Kelly, especially after the chaos of that memorable Friday night. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Maybe I should’ve figured as much, seeing as we’ve run into one another here before. But I did not come here for you. Go home and get some sleep. I’m sure you’re all tired out from your press conference.”
I didn’t watch it.
I wanted to, but I didn’t let myself.
Instead, I listened to the KMZI recap, and it was pretty much what I suspected it would be. The mayor waxing poetic about mental health this, and mental health that, how he was going to donate money, blah, blah. Ash onstage, pretending to be Aspen pretending to mourn Ash. What a clusterfuck. As predicted, the mayor segued into a speech about the urban growth boundary and somehow managed to make it seem like the two things were related.
I turn back to Widow, gesturing for the shopping basket, but he’s an ass, and he keeps it. Oh, how chivalrous. Only it kind of is, and I like it, too. He can’t hide the disturbed pleasure in his gaze as I slip past him, and he follows.
“I’ve never seen you turn down that prick before,” he offers up as a form of praise. I give him a look over my shoulder, one that he meets without backing down. “I don’t like him, Scarlett. I have a bad feeling about him.”
“You’re not just saying that because you want to cock fight him?” I ask, but Widow doesn’t laugh or smile. Because it’s true, more than likely. “I know you don’t like him. Nobody does. But he’s …” I feel sad when I think about Ash, actually. I feel sorry for him. That’s not a great place to start or form a relationship from, but I can’t seem to help myself. “He’s alone.”
“Everyone in this world is alone, Scarlett. He’ll live.” Widow steps up close to me, caging me in against a shelf with the arm that isn’t holding the basket, but only because I let him. As I displayed with Ash, I can get out of these situations if I really want to. “He’s not a project for you to take care of.”
“I like him,” I reply with a long exhale, only to pause and find Ash staring at us from the end of the aisle. Widow scowls viciously but doesn’t move. Other shoppers see the strange interaction and move hurriedly away from the three of us.
Ash says nothing, turning away and meandering off into the store by himself.
I duck under Widow’s arm and head in the opposite direction, dragging my poor Prescott sidepiece behind me. He doesn’t know what to make of the place, and I try not to smile as he continuously picks items up and stares at them like they’re from another planet.
“A miswak?” he asks, turning the package with the strange stick over in his hand. “The fuck?” I don’t know what that is either, so I pretend not to hear him.
“It’s for brushing your teeth.” Ash reappears yet again, and then continues on by. I see now that we’re playing a game. Each aisle that Widow and I visit, he somehow appears to explain things like garlic scapes or hen-of-the-woods mushrooms.
“Stalker,” Widow growls out, but what can he really say to that effect? They are all stalkers except for Mr. Grove, but we’re getting there. As soon as I finish breaking him in like a stubborn stallion, he’ll be one, too. I can sense deviance from miles away. “I grew up on boxed mac ‘n’ cheese and cut-up hot dogs. I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”
