Page 122 of Scars Run Deep

Asher: Come on in.

The whirr, buzz, and sharp beep of the lock sounded, and I stowed my phone into the back pocket of my jeans, then pushed open the door.

I was just a couple of steps over the threshold into his bedroom master suite when the door closed and locked behind me as usual.

I scanned his bedroom quickly.

His bed was made, the dark high-thread count sheets folded and tucked perfectly, fucking immaculate as was the norm with him. The vial of painkillers were missing from his bedside table now, meaning that he’d stopped taking them. They were probably back in the locked cabinet downstairs knowing how he was with that sort of thing. His black beaded bracelet and his Rolex were neatly positioned on the bedside table instead.

The top drawer was slightly open and instinctively, I walked over to close it.

But something inside caught my eye. For one, it was weird that it wasn’t locked. I shot a look through to the studio. I didn’t see him within view. Maybe he was out on the balcony taking a smoke break. That might’ve been what he’d meant about it being good timing.

I turned back to the drawer and eased it open a little more.

I started as I took in two prescription bottles.

I kept careful control of all medications that entered the house, and this was new to me.

I shot another look at the studio. No sign of him.

And then I picked up the bottles and studied the labels.

Jesus. One was a heavy-duty medication for severe anxiety, and the other was a hardcore stimulant. The prescribing doctor wasn’t familiar. It wasn’t our doctor here in town, or any I’d known him to use even back in the City of Torvin when we were younger. But it was familiar.

I put the bottles back exactly where I’d found them and pushed the drawer partly closed the way it had been before, as I tried to place that name.

Oh fuck. Of course. Clark Rothchild was the alias of Caleb Rowland.

He’d obtained these illegally from that fucker.

He wasn’t being treated properly, he was just taking these meds all on his own.

It was because of the therapy, I knew it. No question with him, he hated and recoiled at the very idea of that, of opening himself up like that to a medical professional. He couldn’t delve into his demons and the trauma of his childhood, all that shit Carson had tortured him with. He was worried it would compromise him, destabilize him, that it would infect him with weakness.

But he obviously needed the help.

He wouldn’t be taking these meds if he didn’t.

My phone buzzed, jolting me.

I pulled it out to find a text.

Asher: What’s the delay? Are you prostrating yourself on my bed?

Jonah: No, but I’m happy that’s where your mind went.

Asher: *middle finger emoji*

I chuckled. That actually meant he was in a good mood. Emojis weren’t exactly his go-to.

Stowing my phone back in my jeans, I crossed the bedroom toward the archway leading into his studio.

Sure enough, he was out through the balcony doors leaning against the railing having a smoke.

I pushed on out.

“Hey,” I only just managed when I took in the sight of him in just a pair of those hot-as-fuck black jeans of his resting low on his hips. He was barefoot and his deliciously cut torso was on full display, some splashes of drying red and black paint on his abs, a little white and yellow on his left cheek. His inky black hair was wild and out of place, the sexiest look on him.

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