Page 37 of The Consequence of You
He looks crestfallen, but he doesn’t argue. Nor does he leave. He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a silver bracelet. Callie gasps next to me. He holds itout, and she lets go of my hand to take it. Her eyes widen as she turns it over in her hands.
“Where did you get this?”
“I got some new bedroom furniture a couple of years ago. The fitters found it then. It must have fallen behind my old bedside table.”
Callie examines it, tears in her eyes as she turns it over in her hand. It’s a chain with a heart-shaped tag hanging from it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get it back to you sooner, Callie, but I didn’t want to post it. I was worried about it getting lost.”
She shakes her head, tears falling fast as she clutches it to her chest.
“Thank you. I made it impossible for you to get in touch with me, so please don’t apologise for that. I’m so glad you realised who it belonged to.”
“I haven’t exactly had hundreds of girlfriends since you. Even if you choose not to contact me again, I hope you know how much you meant to me.”
I glare at him, silently warning this motherfucker to walk away while he still has the use of his legs. He finally gets the message, and Callie and I stand together as Nico leaves, accompanied by his own security.
That’s when I see my own entourage looking for me. Squeezing Callie’s hand tighter, I lean in close.
“Want to get out of here?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CALLIE
Asher’s been firing questions at me since we left the gallery, and I haven’t answered any of them. I’m conscious I owe him an explanation, especially when he effectively rescued me from one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had, without me even having to ask. Not only that, but his presence when Nico handed me back Mama’s bracelet might have been the only thing that stopped me falling apart in a very public place.
Asher found Rossi outside the gallery and told him he’d drive me home before ushering me into his car. Too distracted to argue with him or even notice the route he drove wasn’t, in fact, to my home at all. It’s not until I get out of his car that I realise we’re in a small unfamiliar garage.
“Where are we?” He doesn’t answer and instead leads me into another car. “Asher?”
He opens the passenger door and signals for me to get in. “So, you’re allowed to ask me questions, but I can’t ask you anything?”
He cocks his brow and offers me a wry smile. “Do you think I haven’t noticed whenever I ask you something you don’t want to tell me, you just answer with another question? Or you change the subject?”
He’s not wrong.
“Maybe you should stop asking me things I don’t want to tell you then.” I offer him a weak smile; the fight having left me. “Where are we going?”
Asher reverses out of the garage, and after a few hundred metres of driving, he turns to me.
“You’ll see. It’s not far now.” I must be mad. That’s the only explanation for why I’m here right now. After what happened last night in the limo, I decided it would be okay to fool around with him as long as nothing else happened. But in the art gallery, when he came to my rescue? That felt like more than just fooling around. It felt a little like friendship. And the dangerous thing about friendship is it can lead to other feelings.
Shoving the thought from my mind, I remind myself that will never happen with Asher.
We carry on driving in silence.
Eventually, he pulls off the main road, down a narrow winding lane. We continue in relative darkness until we reach a large clearing in the trees. It’s full of cars, with people milling about everywhere. There are temporary lights set up, people drinking beer and shots, dancing and music playing.
As we drive further into the field, the crowd moves apart, and people nudge each other, whistling and pointing when they see Asher’s car. Asher pulls what Ithought was a hat down over his face. It turns out to be a black ski mask. He tosses me a matching one.
“Put this on.”
I’m too curious to find out what this is to refuse, so I do it without question. I cover my face and tuck in my hair.
We pull up next to a flashy red car. The driver is a young guy with a closely shaved head and a tattoo winding up his neck. He turns and winks at us before making a gesture of slicing his throat and pointing at both of us in turn.
The guy revs his engine loudly, and Asher laughs before leaning over me and checking my seatbelt. That’s when it dawns on me.
