Beautifully Undone (The Beaumont Brothers #3)
Read Beautifully Undone (The Beaumont Brothers #3) Online
Authors: Susan Griscom
The Beaumont Brothers
Book Three
Susan Griscom
Copyright
© 2015 by Susan Griscom
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Edited by Michael Leah Olson
Cover Design by Susan Griscom
He was broken.
Full of hate and sorrow.
Asher Beaumont never asked for much in life. All he wanted was to play his guitar, write music, and be recognized and loved by his father. Unfortunately, that last desire was never realized. The bastard died when Asher was just a kid. Then thirteen years later, his mother dies of a brain tumor, shattering him even more and leaving him hating everyone around him, except for his two
best friends, Melody Stevens and her brother, Teddy.
Melody Stevens has crushed on her best friend, Asher Beaumont her entire life. But it's always been a secret passion. Never something she'd act upon. But when she tells Asher she’s prepared—and determined—to lose her virginity to a guy he considers to be nothing more than a cad who sleeps with anything that wears a skirt, her best friend offers her a proposition she can’t really refuse.
When Asher stumbles across a letter left by his mother before her death, begging him to seek out his half-brothers, he and Melody begin a journey of discovery. Their travels lead them to the two brothers he has spent his life despising because they had the life he always wanted. While on their trip, they discover a miracle they never, ever considered.
A Stand-alone, third book in The Beaumont Brothers series with a HEA
for Adults 18+
This book started taking flight soon after Brodie’s story, when I realized I didn’t want the Beaumont brothers to end quite yet, my mind began to imagine all sorts of possibilities. When I started writing Asher’s story, I knew exactly what I wanted and where it would end up, even all the in between stuff. Both Asher’s and Melody’s characters flowed into my imagination as if I’d lived their lives myself, though I didn’t.
You can find the first and second books on Amazon and all three are free in the Kindle Unlimited program.
Beautifully Wounded
, Book 1, Jackson and Lena
Beautifully Used
, Book 2, Brodie and Gabrielle
Beautifully Undone
, Book 3, Asher and Melody
All three of these stories deal with real life situations and social issues. I’ve tried my best to keep it as real as possible, of course, it is fiction, and I do like to have a happily ever after at the end of all my stories. Just a warning, the sex scenes get steamier with each book. Sorry, I just couldn’t help it.
It takes a strong individual to bounce back from some of the horrors of real life, and I believe I’ve portrayed that in these stories. Never give up hope, because I truly believe you are what you make of yourself and we are all in control of our own situations. Be brave, be strong, and don’t ever let someone tell you that you can’t do something or that you’re not good enough to do something that you have a passion for.
I hope you love Asher as much as I do.
Asher
I didn’t believe in ghosts. Well, not completely. I believed in spirits. If you told me that every being who ever died came back and roamed the earth for eternity…I’d have to disagree. No way could I ever believe that the monster who’d sired me was lurking around, propagating meritless inspiration to all mankind. That’d almost be as bad as saying Hitler roamed the earth, whispering hideous political objectives, advocating anti-Semitism into the ears of unsuspecting politicians. At least, I’d like to believe all that. I did hope that the song emanating from my lips transcended the here and now, radiating a comforting repose into space, and somehow captured the loving ears of my mother.
As I strummed the guitar, softly singing the words, I looked up. A crowd began to form, spanning the entire area from where I sat perched upon a sidewalk bench, all the way to the edge of the wall separating them from the unforgiving cold bay as they huddled around me, listening. Wind whipped locks of my hair into my face and licked at my fingertips as I dexterously progressed through the chords of the song. The tune, a ballad, one I’d written myself, poured from my lips with a smooth, heartfelt rhythm. Words that told a story, my story, but no one knew that. No one would ever guess that.
A woman holding the hand of a toddler stepped forward and dropped a buck into the hat that sat a few feet in front of me. I smiled at her as I sang.
I didn’t usually perform on the streets of San Francisco. I had a regular nightly gig at a nightclub on the wharf, but today, I’d felt the need to sit and watch people. Then I’d needed to just play my guitar, sing a soft tune—only to console myself. I hadn’t intended to draw a crowd, nor take in any money. That’s not why my hat was there. It had blown off my head a few minutes into the song and had rather conveniently landed rim-side-up directly in front of my feet. By my calculations, I would guess there were about thirty dollars in there now. I was on my second song already, but I hadn’t had the heart to pick up my hat and leave after the first one ended. I would have liked to just walk away and continue with my grief in private. Except people lingered, their attention directed at me, my words, my music. Their ears tuned to my voice, my guitar. Expectant. I wasn’t one to disappoint. I’d give them their show for another fifteen minutes. Then I’d be on my way, walk a few blocks west toward the beach, maybe stare at the sea for a while.
My plan was to sit and watch the seals, the people, the surroundings, everything happening around me before taking the Muni toward the Golden Gate Bridge. There I would wait, until life quieted down. Until people left with their friends and families in tow to dinner. Then, in the calm, the quiet hour of dusk, I would sprinkle her ashes. Let them trickle out slowly as I walked along the edge of the bridge. That’s what she would have wanted. She didn’t need people to mourn her; I didn’t need people to console me. My mother hadn’t been a needy person.
The hand on my shoulder startled me, but I kept on playing as I glanced up and saw Mel’s worried face. Her smile—timid, yet sweet. She sat down next to me, and with her own guitar resting across her lap, proceeded to strum the chords along with me without skipping a beat. She was miraculous that way, gifted with a talent beyond imagination. Her parents had known what they were doing when they’d given her that name.
Melody was my best friend. We’d been friends ever since she and I were babies—we were only a week apart in age, though I was older. Ted, my other best friend and Mel’s brother, was a year older than us, and the three of us had grown up together. Our mothers were best friends. Mel, Ted, and their mother had moved into the house next door to mine in San Mateo when Mel and I were four years old. Her mom still lived there. As did mine, up until last week anyway.
Mel gave me a dubious glance and raised her eyebrows in question when a woman dropped a couple of bills into the hat that still sat on the ground in front of me. I only shrugged and continued to play. After the song had ended, the crowd applauded, and several more people stepped forward to give their donations to the hat. Mel let out a small giggle, and I nodded at them, thanking each one.
When I didn’t start up a new song, the crowd slowly began to disperse. I turned to Mel. “What are you doing here?”
“You need me,” Mel retorted.
“No, I don’t. You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“I can’t let you do this on your own, Ash. You would never let me if it was the other way around and you know it.”
She was right about that, but I didn’t want her with me this time. I had to do it on my own. I had to say goodbye on my own. “Just go home. I’ll come over after. You can help me go through all her stuff tomorrow if you want, but this,
this
I need to do by myself.”
“I loved her too, you know,” she pouted.
“I know you did. But I can’t...” I couldn’t explain to her how hard this was going to be for me. That I needed to be alone in case I lost it. That would only make her want to go with me even more.
She put her hand on my arm. “Ash, you need me.”
“Don’t.” I glanced up at her, my eyes heavy with the threat of moisture. I couldn’t let her see my tears. They needed to be private. I glanced back down at my hands. I stood and started packing up my guitar, and she packed up hers, as well. Just because she and I were very close, and I could tell her just about anything, didn’t mean I could share this with her. I was all my mom had, and she was all I had. Sure, I had Melody, for now, but what would happen when she finally met her prince? I didn’t think we’d be able to continue like we were. Be as close when that happened—if she were my girlfriend, in a romantic way, I’d never stand for another man being her best friend—and then where would that leave me? Alone. So, I needed to do this solo.
“Okay. I get it. You think I don’t, but I do. When you’re done, come find me, I’ll buy you an Irish Coffee to take the chill off.” She turned and hurried away. I swallowed the lump that had built up in my throat and rubbed the wetness from my eyes before it had a chance to escape and took off toward the bridge.
The sun was sinking in the sky, and it would only be another few minutes before it dropped down completely behind the horizon. My mother had loved this time of day. She said it always made her feel like God was painting the heavens just for us to admire. I had to agree as I studied the purple and blood-red-orange of the sky. There were just enough clouds to make it a truly spectacular sunset. One she would have loved.
The bridge was fairly empty now as the sun disappeared completely, leaving nothing but the beautiful pastel hues canvassing the sky. It would only be a matter of minutes before darkness took over and the walkway on the bridge would close to pedestrians so I needed to be quick. I walked along the pathway until I reached the middle of the bridge and stopped, glancing around for any late, lingering sightseers as I reached into my backpack to pull out the urn that held my mom’s ashes. I stood, resting the gold-colored jar on the top of the railing and looked out over the bay as it flowed into the ocean on the west side of the bridge. Cars whizzed by in each direction in the middle of the structure. It was rush hour, and even though the number of pedestrians had diminished, the traffic leaving and coming into the city was horrendous.
“I know this is what you wanted, Mom, and I promised to do it.” I took in a deep breath of air and exhaled with a heavy sigh. I opened the urn and glanced inside at the ashes that used to be my mother. I held the jar out over the water, ready to release the ashes, but my hands wouldn’t turn it over to let them spill out. I pulled the urn back and sank down on the cement walkway, leaning my back against one of the metal pillars that was close by. I studied the urn in my hands. Why was I having so much trouble letting go? It wasn’t like she was in the jar. I looked inside. Nothing but ashes.
I’d said my goodbyes to her in the hospital before she died, held her hand and watched her slip away. Her last breath coming out in a small sputter. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. Later that same day, I’d had to go to the mortuary to identify her body since I was her only living relative. They’d said it was a formality, even though I’d been present when she died, the mortuary still needed a relative to identify her before they could cremate her remains.
It was getting darker, and before long, the gates on the bridge would lock. I’d be forced to try and climb them if I didn’t hurry. Not something I wanted to do since I’d probably have my ass hauled off to jail. I bent my head down and stared into the urn, then closed my eyes and tried to picture my mom’s face. Her blue eyes so full of hope, even when there wasn’t any. She was an optimist, and according to her, the glass was always three-quarters full of champagne.
When the tumor in her brain became too large, it had started to give her hallucinations. I’d sometimes find her lying in the bed talking to my father, who, of course, was never there. He hadn’t been around since I was four years old. He wasn’t always a total jerk, though. He’d sent my mom a few hundred dollars every month, but his main focus had always been on his “real” family. The one he’d had prior to meeting my mom and knocking her up with me. He’d never made any big promises to her about leaving that family and living with us, so maybe that made him somewhat honorable. Although, I didn’t know under whose definition that would fall. Certainly not mine.
I remember being a little kid, crying one day as he was leaving to go home to his other family. I’d begged him to take me with him. He’d told me I had two big brothers, and I’d wanted to meet them. Emphasis on the past tense in that last thought, since the desire to meet them and be part of that fucked up family had ended a long time ago. That was the last time I’d seen my father. When I was about eight, we’d heard through distant friends that he’d been in a horrific auto accident and passed away in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. That news came shortly after the monthly checks had stopped coming.
With the urn positioned upright between my legs and my elbows resting on my thighs, I lowered my head into my hands.
God, why is this so much harder than I thought it would be?
I should have been surprised when the slight weight of an arm draped over my shoulders, but I wasn’t. Melody knew me better than I knew myself.
“I told you, you needed me.”
I swiped the wetness from my cheeks and let her pull my head against her shoulder, allowing her to become a temporary reprieve from the grief that I hadn’t released yet. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that I’d been lacking in the solace that she so eagerly wanted to give me. I squeezed my eyes shut and just took comfort in her sweetness. A sweetness bordering on intimacy that had always only been at the surface of our relationship but never penetrable. Always forbidden in our minds.
When I finally found my voice and was able to speak without choking on my words, I lifted my head. “You’re right. Thanks.”
“When are you going to learn to listen to me?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Never.”
“Right, because I’m just a girl and girls don’t know anything.”
I laughed. That was something I’d said to her when we were about eleven years old, and she’d never let me forget it. It had been right around the time we’d vowed to marry each other when we grew up. In sixth grade, we’d actually kissed. It was her twelfth birthday, and spin the bottle was the game of choice. Parental supervision had been scarce, and everyone was taking advantage of it. It was my turn and I spun the bottle. I’d closed my eyes, not wanting it to point to anyone except Melody, and was pleasantly surprised when it stopped and aimed directly at her. I remembered her sheepish smile as I scooted close to her. When my lips had touched hers, everyone started counting. The longer the count, the more noise everyone made. I believe we made it to twenty-five before I opened my eyes and slowly drew back.
Except, after that day, neither one of us had ever dared to bring up that kiss again. In fact, the topic remained so far off the table that we’d never even dated as teenagers or become romantically involved in any sense of the term. Now that we were twenty-one, Mel and I were still best friends.