Page 24 of Worth the Scandal
“I don’t know,” I say instead. “Angry. Hopeful. Guilty. All of it. I can’t stop thinking about her. And I don’t even know if I should. Everything about me is a warning label. You know, like do I even deserve to be happy?”
Lawson folds his hands. “Asher, you don’t need to decide everything today. But maybe the world is giving you a chance to feel something good again. Maybe you deserve that.”
I don’t know if I believe him. I don’t deserve anything.
But I nod anyway.
And as I walk out of that office, I pull out my phone and stare at the message I almost send.
You’re the one good thing that’s come out of the last few years.
Instead, I close the app and breathe.
One step at a time.
Chapter Nine - Asher
I stare at the message. Still unread. Well, maybe read. But no reply. Left on seen.
Sweet dreams, darling. I know mine will be.
Was that too much? Too cocky? Too… Asher Kingston?
I’m lying on my bed still harbouring perspiration from the shower I had 20 minutes ago. The towel is still wrapped low around my waist, and I can’t bring myself to get dressed just yet. The self-loathing of my unrequited Instagram hit up still stings just a little too much to function.
I run a hand through my damp hair and toss my phone across the bed like it personally offended me. Because it has. Or she has. Or the whole damn situation has. I’m losing my mind over this girl. How could I not? The way her eyes pinched and glossed over when she spoke about her life two weeks prior to our meeting. The way she cracked herself open for me like a crisp can ofCoke—letting her secrets and her sadness spill out, and me returning the favour with my own stories of grief and sadness. Talking about my brother so openly with someone who didn’t know me or pity me.
It’s nearly midnight and I’m lying shirtless in bed, body sore from training, brain stuck on repeat. Scarlett Walker is less than a few kms from me, probably curled up in some oversized sweater, watching a crime doc, with a candle lit and sippingwine, one of her favourite past times she told me—one that became mine so I could feel like I didn’t lose the girl. Or maybe she’s asleep. Or worse—maybe she’s not thinking about me at all.
I sit up, lean forward, elbows on knees, and glance at my phone again like it might’ve changed its mind and lit up with a notification.
Nothing.
No message. No “ha-ha” reaction. No ellipsis of hope.
Just… silence.
But earlier—earlier—she fire emoji’d my Instagram story. The one of me at training. Shirt off. Bandana on. Muscles on full display, courtesy of my manager’s twisted content plan.
“Post like a thirst trap, caption like a philosopher. That’s the brand now, Ash.”
Yeah, okay, whatever sells. I only agreed because I need the exposure. I need the sponsors. I don’t need the money, but it’s been a nice perk to support myself without the name attached to me. I do need this career to stay on track. And let’s be honest, I need to distract myself from… this.
From her.
Because one little flame emoji and I’ve combusted. Pathetic.
I groan, falling back onto the bed, one arm flung over my eyes. This girl is crawling into every corner of my mind, and she hasn’t even said anything to me since the car ride home.
Just a stupid fire emoji.
And now I’m questioning everything. Was it flirty? Passive-aggressive? A “you look hot but I’m still mad” emoji? A “yeah I remember what you looked like naked” emoji? A “maybe I’d like to see that again” emoji?
No. Stop. Don’t go there.
The room is too quiet, the fan above my bed spinning too slowly to drown out my thoughts. I glance over at the dresser, where the little shopping list I took off her fridge two years ago istucked inside the bottom corner of the mirror. I don’t even know why I kept it. Or why I brought it here when I moved. I think I just wanted a memento of the woman I’d met but wasn’t allowed to know. I know how that sounds, very serial killer esque but her writing was so rushed and raw and chaotic how her letters changed depending on the word they were in. Her font wasn’t uniform or delicate like the girl she was when she realised how much she opened up and was sobering up. The writing on the shopping list was real and raw just like the tequila fuelled girl I’d met on the balcony.
Vegetables, meat,a bottle of gossips. Lots of wine.
