Death Collectors: Ember Part 13

"I think she might have a thing for you," I say, dipping a fry into the ranch.

Asher looks like he's about to laugh. "You think?"

"I do." I pick the onions off my chicken sandwich. "Why's that so funny?"

He pours ketchup on his burger. "Because you're probably right, but she doesn't stand a chance. She's not really my type." He glances at the disposed onions on my plate. "You don't like onions?"

"You said that like I just admitted I hate chocolate. And onions and chocolate are on two very different levels."

"Yeah, onions are much better."

"You can eat them if you want." I motion at my plate. "What's mine is yours."

He picks up the onion, tips his head back, and spirals it into his mouth. "I might hold you to that a little bit later." His eyes darken with hunger.

A tingling sensation coils inside my stomach. I clear my throat and take a bite of my chicken sandwich. "So, you like the band From Autumn to Ashes?"

He glances down at his s.h.i.+rt. "Yeah, I got this s.h.i.+rt at one of their concerts. They're pretty good. Have you heard them play?"

"Not in person." I pop a fry into my mouth. "But I have a lot of their songs downloaded."

He bites into his hamburger and a droplet of ketchup stays on his lip. The urge to lean over and suck it off his lip surfaces again. He licks it off, leisurely, watching me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

We stare at each other with heat in our eyes and desire throbbing in our bodies. It's something I don't quite understand, because I barely know him. But I don't want the feeling to ever leave.

"So what is there to do around here?" Asher's voice sounds high and he clears his throat. "Besides hanging out at bars."

"You're asking the wrong person," I tell him. "Honestly, the only thing I do is follow Raven to her parties."

"Yeah, what's up with that?" He picks a flake of lettuce off his hamburger. "It doesn't seem like you're really the partying type. Or the following type?"

"I'm not, but..."

"But Raven is, and she's the boss," he finishes for me.

"She's not the boss... Okay, well maybe she is, but it's just her personality."

He chews slowly. "I had this friend back in New York who was a little bit bossy, so finally one day I told him to shove it. You know what, we still stayed friends."

"I'm sure you didn't tell him to shove it," I remark. "You seem way too nice for that."

A smile plays at his lips as he reaches over and steals another onion off my plate. "Do I?"

I take a sip of my c.o.ke. "Are you trying to tell me that you're secretly mean?"

"I have a mean... side." He wavers. "I guess. But it doesn't come out a lot."

"I think everyone has sides of them that rarely come out." I stir the straw in my drink.

He nods. "So what's yours?"

Crazy. "I don't know..."

"You don't have to share it with me if you don't want to." He takes a sip of his water. "I won't make you do anything you don't want to."

It feels like there's a hidden meaning in his words. "So what made you want to be an artist?"

His jaw clamps tight. "My father was an artist and he pa.s.sed along his gift to me."

"You sound upset about that. Did you fight a lot with your dad or something?"

"My dad wasn't around a lot, but I love painting-it helps me get out what I'm feeling."

"I know what you mean." I think of his angel drawing and wonder what he was feeling when he painted it-I wonder if he knows stuff about angels. "It's why I write poetry."

"I'd love to read some of your poetry," he says.

I stare down at my chicken sandwich and my hair falls around my face. "I usually don't let people read it. Well, except for Raven, but she's only read what I've written on my walls." And Cameron, but that was by accident.

"You write on your walls?" He sprinkles some salt on his fries. "Now that is something you'll have to let me see."

"Sure." I tuck my hair back. "There's artwork on the walls, too-Raven's and my brother's."

He wipes his hand on a napkin. "Maybe you'll be nice enough to let me put something up on it."

"Like a painting of your sad angel."

"Would you want that? A drawing of an angel that would always be on your wall?"

"There's already one on there. Raven put it up when we were like, eight." I take another bite of my chicken sandwich. "And my brother put the Grim Reaper on it for who knows what reasons, so I have the good version of death and the evil one." As I say it aloud, I think of the book I read. A battle between good and evil. Between Angels of Death and Grim Reapers. I have the battle on my walls.

Asher's expression falls. "But which one's evil and which one's good?"

It's an obvious answer, but my lips decline to utter the words, and an image of my imaginary childhood friend pops into my head.

The waitress arrives with the bill. I try to pay for my half, but Asher won't allow it. While we're waiting for the waitress to bring the change, two men walk inside the bar that catch my attention. They stand out in their business attire and fancy haircuts. The taller of the two has blonde hair and dark eyes that look really familiar. Then it clicks. Cameron's dad. I don't recognize the man who's with him, but I notice him glance our way.

Asher's eyes find them and his eyes darken. Cameron's dad returns the look with equivalent revulsion.

"Do you know them?" I nod my head toward the two men.

Asher's eyes stay on them as he shakes his head. "No, I don't," he says through gritted teeth. He rips his gaze away and his expression is feral.

"Asher, what's wrong." I start to turn my head back to the men, but a man with long brown hair and a stocky body stumbles from a barstool, waving his finger at me.

"Ain't you that girl who killed her father?" he slurs.

"I didn't kill him." I cringe uncomfortably. "The cops just thought I did for a while."

His thigh b.u.mps the table and knocks my c.o.ke over, spilling ice all over the table. "But didn't you run away after you called the cops and reported his murder? Yeah, yeah, and they took you to jail."

"That's not how it happened," I lie, scooping up the ice and dropping it in the cup.

The waitress returns with the change. "Gary, you aren't causing trouble, are you?"

He bobs his drunken head. "Nah, just chattin' with my good friends. This is that girl who killed her father."

"I didn't kill him!" I raise my voice louder than I meant to.

Now more people than Gary are staring at me. The waitress gives Asher a concerned pat on the shoulder, like she thinks I'm going to kill him.

"If you need anything else at all, just let me know." She tugs on Gary's arm. "Come on, Gary. Let's get you home."

But he won't budge. "You know I used to work at the same shop as your dad." He wipes the sweat from his forehead. "We were pretty good buddies."

"That's great." I put some money down for a tip.

Asher slides the money back. "No way."

I push it back in the center of the table. "You paid for dinner and the least I can do is pay for the tip."

He struggles and then gives in. "Fine, but next time you're letting me pay for the whole thing."

"Is there going to be a next time?" I doubt.

"Absolutely." He smiles.

I begin to stand up, but Gary blocks the end of my booth and Amy hurries back to the counter to get some a.s.sistance. "Can you please move so I can get up?" I ask as politely as I can.

His feet stay planted. "You know he used to talk about you when we'd go out drinking after work." He leans down in my face, his breath reeking of booze as he whispers in my ear. "He told me your little secret-how you could cause death."

"I don't know what you're talking about." I start to stand again, but he shoves me down and my elbow cracks against the table and the faint scent of his death pollutes my lungs: electricity, chair, people watch, grateful he's dying. It's vile and knocks the breath out of me.

The next thing I know Gary is on the floor clutching his jaw and Asher is standing over him.

"If you ever touch her again, you won't be walking out of here alive." He extends his hand to me and I happily take it. Calmness rushes through me as we swiftly weave through the tables. A group of men push up from the barstools and follow us. Trouble lingers in the air, like a warning before a storm. Some of the men are as weak looking as Gary, but some are large, beefy, and have scars all over their arms and faces, probably old wounds from bar fights.

People eating dinner at the tables watch us nervously-they smell what's coming. And so do I. Asher and I speed up as we near the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" one of the larger men calls out.

Asher pauses at the door, deliberating something intensely. Then he slowly turns around. "We are leaving. Do you have a problem with that?"

A bulky man, sporting leather pants and a vest crosses his arms. "Yeah. You can't just knock out one of my friends and then walk away without paying the consequences." He waves his finger at me. "And that one... well, she's just a downright filthy murderer who gets to walk off easy."

"You didn't even know my dad," I state. "So shut the h.e.l.l up."

"I'm not talking about your dad," he growls. "I'm talking about my nephew, Laden Miller."

"I had nothing to do with that." My legs tremble but I refuse to cower back. "I barely knew him."

"So you say." His eyes burn with a loathing so powerful, I want to run. "But you did know your daddy and you probably killed him just like you killed my nephew. I bet you even had somethin' to do with that girl he was always hangin' out with. That Farrah girl. Yeah, I bet you killed her too."

Asher drops my hand. His muscles are tense as if he's trying to channel all his anger to stay in his body. He steps toward the man and spreads his arms open. "The next word that comes out of your mouth better be an apology."

The man cracks his knuckles and neck. "Or what?"

I eye the men, who are twice Asher's size, and then tug on Asher's sleeve, trying to lure him back. "Asher, I think we should go."

Laden's uncle laughs and the rest of the men join in. "Ooo, little murder girl said it's time to go. You better listen." Suddenly, he clocks Asher in the face.

Asher crumples to the ground, holding his cheek. "Well, that was a cheap shot."

"Oh my G.o.d." I hover over Asher. "Are you okay?"

His grey eyes darken as he starts to stand up. "Stand back," he warns.

"Are you being serious?" I ask. "They'll kill you."

"Ember, please stand back," he says, not looking at me, but at Laden's uncle with a ravage glint in his eyes. "I don't want you to get hurt."

I don't move. From the corner of the bar, Cameron's dad is watching Asher with fascination as he sips out of a martini gla.s.s. Asher stands up and pops his knuckles. With one swing, he knocks Laden's uncle out.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," I breathe, staring down at the unconscious man, his legs and arms sprawled across the floor, and there is a little bit of drool pooling at his lips.

Then all h.e.l.l breaks loose.

The rest of the men charge at full speed. Asher dodges to the side and nudges me out of the way with his elbow. A few men b.u.mp into tables, sending people springing from their chairs and plates flying through the air. The whole bar scatters for safety, screaming, and das.h.i.+ng for the front door. The music switches to a heavy metal song and abruptly, the small fight becomes a full-on brawl. I'm not surprised. I've seen it happen many times. Men take swings at each other and even a few buffer females get in on the action. Bottles are being smashed over heads and chairs are getting clobbered.

A tall, lanky man comes strutting up to me with a smirk on his face. "What's the matter, sweetheart? You scared?" He steps closer and exhales beer breath in my face. His hands touch my waist and I knee him between the legs. Death flashes through me, but it was worth it.

He collapses to the floor, groaning and clutching his manly parts.

"Do I look like someone who'd be frightened by a little bar fight?" Shaking my head, I step over him. Phil hurries out of the back room with a baseball bat and his cell phone. "s.h.i.+t." I duck through the flying gla.s.s and fists. "Asher!" I trip over an unconscious man and gla.s.s slices my palms. Keeping my head low, I dash across the room, leaping over chairs and weaving around broken tables.

Asher is near the back door, exchanging punches with a guy with a bald head and a snake tattoo coiling his upper arm. Asher's lip is split open and his cheekbone is swollen. He throws jab after jab and his movements are almost inhuman, swifter and stronger.

I'm impressed and terrified.

A tall guy with a thick neck sneaks up behind Asher, holding a beer bottle in his hand. I pick a gla.s.s cup off the floor and throw it at the guy's head. It slams him in the forehead, he drops the beer bottle, and falls to the floor like a bag of bricks.

Asher slams his opponent in the face and blood spurts from his mouth. He repeats the movement over and over again, until the guy pa.s.ses out.

Asher breathes violently as he clutches his hands. "I'm sorry, Ember... I just."

I grab his hand and lead him toward the backdoor. "Phil's about to call the cops... I can't get caught in this mess. I'm already on probation."

I shove open the door and we breathe in fresh air. The door slams shut and the noise from the bar fight is suffocated. The back parking lot is secluded from the highway and the sky is black. The lights from the neon signs flash across our faces, making us look ghostly.