Page 41 of Asher's Answer
“Mom,” I complain as she almost knocks me off balance, “it’s almost as if you don’t know I’m injured.”
There’s zero remorse from my mother. Instead, she says, “You’re a big boy, Daddy, and you can take a hug from your mother.”
“Please don’t call me Daddy ever again,” I cringe. “That’s so wrong coming from you.”
At the same time, her easy acceptance of my lifestyle choice feels good. She ushers me into my own living room and pushes me to sit on the couch. “I’ve been reading a lot about BDSM since Theodore explained the situation.”
Flashbacks to her lectures on gay sex have me already struggling to get back to my feet so I can escape. My cheeks are on fire. “Mom. Stop.” I look to Ash, who is covering his mouth with his hand, trying to stifle his amusement.Traitor. “Ash, help.”
Mom shakes her head. “Oh, no, I think he needs to hear this, too…”
“Actually, sorry, I can hear Spencer calling for help with the grill,” he says, flouncing out of the room.
That brat is getting the spanking of a lifetime for this. Or an hour in the corner.
Turning to my father, who looks mildly uncomfortable, I beg, “Come on, Dad. Stop her. This is madness.”
“I’ve tried,” He follows his words with the same beleaguered sigh that he gives every time she does something like this. “It’s not like I want to hear about your sex life, either.”
“I’m thirty-one!Nobodyin this room needs to be talking about my sex life.”
This.Thisis why I wanted to keep my family and Ash separate.
Josh snorts from the end of the couch and I cast him a filthy look. If I weren’t such a good brother, I’d consider outing him, too. But that is an epic douche move, and I wouldn’t forgive myself if I did it, tempting as it is to turn my mother’s “research” on him.
“I’ll be honest, I’m going to second that,” Chance says, leaning against the archway between the dining area and the living room. He lifts his bearded chin at me. “I’ve been sent to come resc…er…get you.”
“Nice save,” I respond drily, “very smooth.”
He crosses the room and extends a hand, helping me to my feet and keeping me steady while I can get my crutches under my arms again. We make our way out through the dining area and kitchen to the deck out back. My family -not wanting to be left out- trails behind us.
The rest of the gang are here, and I’m not surprised to find Max at the table as well. Ash is leaning against the wall near the grill, chatting with Spencer, who is flipping burgers. When Ash sees me, he pulls the nearest chair out and gestures for me to sit, giving me a quick peck on the lips before leaning against the side of the chair. I want nothing more than to pull him into my lap, but with the wound from my surgery still pretty fresh, I can’t.
Spence offers me a sympathetic grimace. “How long ‘til the stitches come out?” He asks, guessing my predicament correctly.
“Not soon enough,” I grumble.
Ash’s hand runs through my hair in a soothing gesture. “We’ll get through it, Daddy.”
With how sweet and optimistic he sounds, I can’t help but believe it.
* * *
Ash’s cries wake me up in the middle of the night. I shoot up into a seated position against the headboard, regretting the rapid movement instantly. Pain radiates from my shoulder and thigh, and I grit my teeth.
Ted told me that Ash has been having nightmares, but a part of me had hoped that my being home again might relieve some of his anxiety. However, even though we’re in the same bed, we’re not spooned up together as we normally would be. I have to sleep on my back while I heal, and Ash is terrified of jostling and hurting me. So, instead of being pressed up against my side, he’s curled in a fetal position on the far edge of the mattress. It’s a king-sized bed, and the distance between us makes my heart sink.
“Baby,” I reach for him, rolling onto my uninjured side, my fingers skimming his tense shoulders, “wake up. It’s just a bad dream.”
Ash comes to slowly, then turns to face me. Through the sliver of moonlight filtering in through the gap in the curtains, I catch the sheen of tears on his cheeks. The guilt on his face breaks my heart, though.
“Sorry,” he whispers into the silence, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He’s never apologized for the nightmares. Not even on that first night when we were relative strangers. I can’t explain why this hurts me so much to hear now, but it makes me ache inside. Swallowing roughly, I extend my arm, “Come here, little lamb.”
He hesitates and it twists the knife a little further.
“Asher,” he never fails to respond to my firm tone, but tonight it feels wrong to use it like this, “come here.”
