Page 7 of Cruel Charming Psychos (Necessary Evils 2)

A server dressed in the same apron approaches our table. She doesn’t need to introduce herself because she has a name tag that reads, Katherine. But she introduces herself anyways, her voice gritty and scarred by the smoke of a million cigarettes stretched over a lifetime of bullshit. She pours us two cups of coffee and says she will return in a few minutes after we have time to look over the menu.

That won’t be necessary, though.

Asher rips open a packet of sugar and pours it into his coffee. He does the same thing with a packet of creamer. He always took his coffee this way. Black with one sugar and one creamer. I got used to fetching him coffee in the early hours when he would lie in bed for an extra hour after I had already woken. Nightmares of the Hamptons kept me awake.

He stirs the coffee with a thin red straw. “I’ve heard that coffee is better up here. Something to do with the altitude, but that might be bullshit.”

“It’s bullshit,” I assure him and then cut straight to the chase, “How did you find me?”

He angles his gaze out the window. “Hundreds of hours of research got me nowhere until it finally clicked that you were always so mysterious.” Then his eyes are back on me, like he’s reading me poetry about myself or something. “You were always so damn closed off to the world. I remembered you had mentioned New York once so I began looking for you there, not physically of course.” He leans back in his seat and takes a long sip of his coffee. “Once it had set in that you aren’t the girl I thought you were, I thought that maybe there was nothing honest about you. I figured if you were really running from something in your past then maybe you changed your name.” He slides his coffee to the side and leans across the table with a smile. “I literally googled your first name with random last names until I found that you were quite notorious around these parts.”

I swallow nervously. Either he really is dense, or he knows too much, knows things that are none of his business. He will never look at me the same way again, but I can’t sit here and pretend that would be a bad thing. “I never wanted you to know about any of that.”

“You killed someone, Addison,” he whispers. “I mean, shit, I always knew you were different but never pegged you to be a murderer.”

“If you think that’s true, then why the hell did you come looking for me?”

“We share something, Addison.” He throws his arms over the back of the booth, stretched out lengthwise.

“We share lies and nothing more. You don’t know a thing about me.”

He nods. “I know that you didn’t kill that boy.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” I slide to the edge of the booth and jump to my feet, grabbing my purse off the edge of the table. “You clearly don’t know a thing about me because I did kill that boy and I would do it again.”

Not like it’s my job, but I drop a ten-dollar bill onto the table before turning to head out.

“Is that why you’re fucking the dead boy’s brother?”

I come to an abrupt halt, turning to him. “Excuse me?”

“The thing about people like Nick Callaway is that publicity follows them around. I saw the photos from that big shebang over the summer.”

“Leave this place and don’t ever come back.”

“I’m not leaving.” He sits in his seat, unbothered. I always took him for a softie, someone that would do as told. I guess I was wrong. “I promise you that, just like I promised I would never leave you.”

There’s the softness. I guess I wasn’t wrong, after all. It still doesn’t change the calculation that we don’t have anything left to talk about though. I grit my teeth and head for the front, pushing open the glass door and letting it slam behind me. Only, it doesn’t slam. Asher is right behind me, catching the brunt of the door as he gives chase. As I head for my car, he grabs me by the wrist and pulls me to the side of the building.

He throws me against the exterior, not with rage but with something else. Something familiar. He shifts forward, pressing himself between my thighs. His eyes are fixed on mine, watching me as I try to pretend to struggle out from underneath the weight of his body. He dips his head slightly, hot breaths passing over the side of my throat.

And then his lips are on mine and I don’t resist.

I’m lost in the moment, lost in the memory of the way he used to make me forget about the world one fuck at a time. Made me forget where I came from and what I did. Made me forget that before him, my favorite hobby was etching scars into my own skin. I have so much to thank him for. Just the same, I have so much to hate him for.

And right now, the thing I need him to do the most is to just leave.

I break away from his kiss, panting. “I can’t do this.”

“Because of Nick?” he questions, a fleeting sense of rage in his normally even-tempered tone.

I look him straight in the eyes and push him backwards. “Because I said no and that should be enough.”

“I don’t get it,” he grinds out, spinning around to face me. “I don’t get how you can proudly proclaim that you killed that boy and in the same breath have no qualms about fucking his brother.”

“I’m pregnant, Asher.”

I didn’t mean to say it, it just came out like the worst kind of word vomit. The kind of word vomit that can incriminate someone in the court of public opinion. I have officially said too much.

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