Edge of Darkness (8 page)

“Uh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Ash. I’ve known him a few days. He could be a serial killer, for all I know. Or—worse—an accountant.”

Her mother had once told her never to marry an accountant because even while he was making love to her, he’d be counting all the ways he could be saving money instead. It might have been unfair, but it was an unattractive image that had stuck.

Asher scoffed and rolled his eyes. “If that man is an accountant, I’m the King of Spain. Seriously, honey, Christian is one thing and one thing only.”

Ember lifted her brows.

“Hot, hard Alpha male.”

Ember’s nose wrinkled. “You make him sound like a horny wolf or something. Alpha male?”

“There are only three types of men, honey. Alphas, Betas and Assholes. The last two come in varying degrees, but an Alpha…well, they only come in one size. A smart woman’s job is to find out what kind of male she’s dealing with,
before
she falls in love with him. Because once your heart gets involved, you’re toast.”

Smiling, Ember settled back against the cushions of the couch and tucked her feet up under her legs. “This should be educational.”

“Okay, we’ll start at the bottom. Assholes, well that speaks for itself. The tricky thing with an Asshole, though, is that they can manage to convince you—sometimes well enough so you’ll marry them—that they’re not really an Asshole. They’re generally charming, intelligent, and magnetic, and it’s easy to mistake that magnetism for maturity, for authentic masculinity. They’re fun and dynamic, they’re exciting. But their true nature eventually reveals itself. These are the guys who walk slightly ahead of you, just a little bit faster so you have to hurry to keep up. They always forget how you take your coffee, they flirt with other women right in front of you, they drive like madmen and tell you—not very nicely—to lighten up when you remark that you’d rather not die in the passenger seat of their car.

“They commit all kinds of minor, seemingly forgivable trespasses against your self-esteem, they make you feel slightly off-kilter and convince you it’s your problem, not theirs. They are masters of manipulation, utterly narcissistic, and very, very seductive. At first. You will never feel so desired as when an Asshole has you in his sights. But as soon as the conquest is made, he’s off to greener pastures and you’re left feeling like a baby duckling who’s had a nuclear bomb dropped on her head.”

Ember laughed. “Duly noted. No Assholes. What about Betas? Isn’t that a fish?”

He chuckled, nodding. “Close. Betas are much more sensitive and nurturing and seem like ideal husband material compared to the Asshole. Again, at first. They won’t stray, they won’t lie, they’re usually solid as a rock. And twice as dull. They’re the mama’s boys, the wimps, the conformists who don’t have the spine to stand up for themselves, let alone anyone else. Ultimately, they bring out the worst in a woman because of their failure to take charge in the relationship, the way a man secure in himself and what he has to offer would take charge. Betas let you have your way in everything and you end up feeling overworked and underappreciated. You end up feeling like their mommy because they’re too scared to make the hard decisions for themselves. If the words, ‘Yes, dear,’ ever leave a man’s mouth, you know you’re dealing with a Beta. There are a lot of women who’ve had enough of Assholes and settle down with a stable, passive Beta, only to regret it for the rest of their lives.”

Okay, that was a lot to take in from a man with a face covered in green beauty cream.

“And the Alphas?”

Asher sighed. “Ah, the elusive Alpha. The cream of the crop, so to speak. He is masculine in the purest form of the word; confident, capable, fiercely protective of those he cares about, a good father to his children, and a good lover to his woman. He won’t always go along with what you want because he’s got his own ideas of how things should be done, but when it really matters, he’ll listen to your opinion. And your feelings. Though he doesn’t often talk about them, he’s not afraid of feelings—yours or his own—and he’s not afraid of commitment like an Asshole is.

“The flip side of that coin is that he’s not afraid of confrontation, either. He’ll call you out on your bullshit. He’ll stand his ground when you fight but forgive you as soon as the fight is over. He says what he means, he means what he says, and he’s someone you can lean on when times are tough. He’s assertive, self-determined, and everything a real man should be. You might not always agree with him, but you will always
admire
him, and feel cherished by him. That’s how you know you’re dealing with an Alpha male.”

There was a long silence after this speech, in which the two friends stared at one another and the only sound was the clock ticking on the wall.

“Forget about writing about sports, you should write a romance novel! How do you know so much about men and women’s relationships anyway? I mean, seeing as how you only date
men?
”

Asher cocked his head and smiled at her, slightly sad, and very knowing. “I’ve been around a long time, honey, and I’ve seen a lot of things. I was thirty years old before I came out of the closet, and I dated my share of women before then, let me tell you. Being gay wasn’t accepted back in the day the way it is now, especially in the States. There was a time a man could be arrested just for dancing with another man in public, and I lived through that. I lived in the Village when the police raided Stonewall and sparked the riots. I grew up in a time before Gay Pride, activism, and tolerance, back when the FBI kept records of openly out gays and the Post Office kept track of addresses where materials they labeled ‘homosexual’ were sent. I served in the Marines for eight years and every single day of that time I was scared shitless someone would find out I was gay and deem me unfit to serve my country.”

Ember looked at Asher’s full head of dark hair, the smooth, unlined skin around his eyes, his baby soft hands and muscular limbs. “Ash, I know you once bit my head off for asking this question, but exactly how old
are
you? I thought you were like, I don’t know, fifteen years older than me?”

He beamed. “Oh, honey, that is so sweet! I’m telling you, if you take care of your skin you can look young forever. Sunscreen is your friend. And…I may have had a little maintenance nip and tuck here and there.”

When she raised her brows, Asher said defensively, “If the roof of your house collapses you don’t just leave it there and say it’s aging gracefully, right? No, you fix that sucker up! Also, remember these two very important words: Bo. Tox.”

He waved a hand, indicating this part of the conversation was over. “Anyway, after thirty years of living a lie, do you know who the first person I told the truth to was?”

Ember shook her head.

“My mother. God bless her, she acted as if I’d just told her I passed the Bar. She said, ‘Finally!’ gave me a hug and a kiss, and that was that. And then I called all the girls I’d dated in college and afterward and told them, too.
Every single one of them
—except Mary Catherine Campbell, she was always an uptight little priss—told me they were happy for me and wished me well. There were a few tears, a few mutters of ‘I thought something was odd,’ but on the whole they were amazing. So I have experience in relationships on both sides of the aisle, but women have always been my best friends. Just like gay men, they understand what it’s like to be marginalized. They know what it’s like to have to keep their mouths shut and their heads down and their true hearts locked up tight. They know how it feels to smile so hard their cheeks hurt while inside they’re dying.”

He closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh. “Or maybe it’s just because they dress so much better than most men.” He glanced over Ember’s outfit of sweats and a T-shirt and sent her an affectionate smile. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Ember felt a sudden, warm tenderness for him, this comrade-in-arms who’d learned all about pain and shame and loss. It pierced her heart like a spear and she had to make a joke in order to lighten the mood and hold back the tears. “I don’t know, Ash, that outfit of yours isn’t going to win any fashion awards.”

He pretended outrage. “This kimono is
Gaultier
, honey!”

She smiled. “I should’ve guessed.”

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten your promise of movies and
tapas
, baby girl. Get on it.” He shooed her off the couch and lay down with his bare feet up on the arm at one end while Ember went to the kitchen and dug around in the junk drawer for the takeout menu.

Just as she was about to dial the number to the restaurant, the phone in her hand rang. She looked down at it, saw who was calling, and the folded paper menu slipped between her fingers and drifted unnoticed to the floor.

“Hello?”

Her voice was low and a little breathy, as if she’d run across the room to pick up the phone.

“Did you get the flowers?” Christian said, smiling. He’d wanted a bigger display, but the flower shop only had a vase large enough to hold one hundred of the beautiful lavender roses, and he thought sending another vase of a hundred might have been overkill. Especially since she seemed determined to keep him at arm’s length. He was determined to keep it that way, too, but still—a few flowers couldn’t hurt.

“I did.” Ember cleared her throat. “They’re beautiful, thank you. That wasn’t necessary.”

She sounded lukewarm about the roses, a little businesslike, and it made his smile turn to a frown. Did she think he had some ulterior motive for sending them, perhaps to get a better price on the copy of
Casino Royale
? That was a disturbing thought, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. He’d simply been driving down
Las Ramblas
, spotted the little floral boutique, and given in to the strong impulse to buy her something that might put that spectacular smile back on her face.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you what your favorite flower was, so I sent mine.”

There was a loaded pause. “Oh. Lavender roses are your favorite.”

Now she sounded disappointed for some reason. His frown grew deeper.

“Actually, I love all colors of roses. My mother was an incredible gardener; we had what seemed like acres of roses covering the grounds of our property when I was growing up.”

There was another pause, this one longer. Christian imagined her thinking on the other end of the line, worrying her bottom lip like she did when preoccupied. He wished he could see her face, be near her so he could judge her reactions. He wished he could press his fingers to her throat again and feel that swift, hot throbbing against his skin.

“By the way you say, ‘grounds’, I’m guessing we’re not talking about a little country cottage here.”

Her voice had now turned from disappointed to wry, faintly acidic. He’d never thought he could irritate someone so much in three short sentences. “I’m sorry, this conversation doesn’t seem to be going the way I’d hoped. Have I said something to offend you?”

She exhaled, a pretty, feminine sound that was heavy with some unnamed emotion. “No, of course not. Ignore me. I shouldn’t be allowed to speak to normal people, my bad manners are practically contagious. The roses were beautiful. Really, thank you again.”

Christian’s voice came very low. “You think I’m
normal?
Let me assure you, September, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

“Well, your distractingly pretty looks aside—”

“Distractingly pretty?” Christian felt vaguely insulted. She’d called him pretty before too—did she mean she thought he looked effeminate? Jesus, this conversation was getting entirely derailed.

She didn’t even have the decency to sound apologetic. “You are the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, and that’s the ugly truth, Fancypants. You must be aware of how you look by now, you’ve been living with that face for…”

“Thirty-one years,” he said between gritted teeth. “And how long have you been cultivating that devastating charm of yours, Miss Jones?”

She chuckled. “Twenty-four years. Perfected it, haven’t I?”

“To a science.”

She chuckled again, then sighed. “Okay, truce. I promise not to call you pretty anymore if you promise not to send flowers again.”

“You don’t like flowers? Are you allergic?”

“Yes, and no. I love flowers, especially roses. My mother was an amazing gardener, too.” Her tone grew light, suspiciously offhand. “She taught me all the meanings of different flowers. The meanings of their different colors, too.”

A slow, spreading grin took over Christian’s face.
Now we’re getting to the bottom of it
, he thought. “That’s very interesting. We seem to have much in common, Ember. My own mother taught me the exact same thing.”

The silence from the other end of the phone actually burned. He had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

“So—is this—is this a business call, or—to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

Stammering her way through it, she sounded equal parts horrified, shocked and utterly confused. God, she was adorable. He knew her face was aflame with heat right now and he wanted to reach through the phone and caress her red cheeks. “Both business and pleasure I think. I’d like to invite you to dinner so we can finalize the deal on
Casino Royale
.”

“We don’t…we don’t need to have dinner to do that. I can quote you a price over the phone and have it delivered—”

“But then I won’t get to see you,” he said abruptly, his voice very low. He’d gone back and forth over it in his head a hundred times, and hadn’t been able to talk himself out of seeing her again. Just one last time, and then he’d be done with this nonsense for good.

He let it hang there for a moment, giving her space, giving her a chance to say no, though it was all he could do not to find some way to force her to say yes. Ignoring that faint, ringing alarm in the back of his mind that whispered
stupid, danger, stay away
, he waited.

Finally after a long, tense silence, Ember said, “All right then. When?”

“Tonight,” he said instantly. “I’ll pick you up in an hour—”

“No, I can’t tonight. I’m busy. I have a date.”

That brought him up short. “A date,” he repeated, surprised how much it angered him.

“With Asher,” she said innocently, and he heard her smile through the line.

Oh, the little minx.

“Tomorrow then. Unless you have another date.”

“No, tomorrow’s perfect. It’s my day off.”

“Seven o’clock?” Christian felt the anticipation start to rise within him, dark and electric like the precursor of a storm.

“Seven o’clock,” Ember agreed softly. Before he could say another word, she disconnected the call.

Ember stood staring at the phone silently for several moments, her mind a tangle of unanswered questions, her body a riot of emotions. She raised her gaze to Asher in the living room. When he had realized who she was talking to, he’d sat up ramrod straight on the couch and listened breathlessly to every word she spoke.

“So?” His voice was hushed, his eyes, wide. The green mask had dried in irregular patches on his skin and was beginning to flake off around his nose.

“So…it appears you’re going to get to buy me that dress after all. My knight in shining denim is coming to pick me up tomorrow night at seven o’clock. For dinner.”

After a low, thrilled gasp, Asher whispered, “You have a date with him, Ember.
A. Date. With. Him!
” He emphasized each word, his hands clutching the edge of the sofa as if he was afraid he might fall off if he didn’t hang on.

It occurred to her that this might be the worst idea she’d had in a long time.

“Don’t freak out,” Asher warned, reading the look on her face that must have telegraphed the sheer terror by which she was suddenly frozen. “It’s just dinner, Ember. Even you can make it through one dinner.”

“It’s not the dinner I’m worried about, Ash. It’s…everything else.”

Asher stood, crossed to her in a billowing cloud of blue silk, took her shoulders in his hands, and gave her a hard little shake. “Repeat after me: one day at a time.”

“One day at a time. Right. And how exactly does the motto of Alcoholics Anonymous apply to this situation?”

“Oh my God, is that the motto of AA? How the hell would I know that? Do you think that’s a sign?” He looked nauseated for about half a second, then shrugged it off. Asher was very good at shrugging off inconvenient thoughts, a talent of which Ember, plagued by not only inconvenient but agonizing and often immobilizing thoughts, was insanely jealous. “Anyway, it’s universal, honey. Life happens one day at a time. We’re just going to apply that to your relationship with Christian.”

Her eyes bulged. “
Relationship
?”

Asher rolled his eyes at her horrified expression. “Okay. Friendship, acquaintance, business association, whatever. We’re just going to take it one day at a time, one dinner at a time. We’re not going to worry about the future, we’re just going to enjoy the ride. Even
you
can do that. Right?”

Ember blew out a breath. The not-worrying-about-the-future part she had down pat. It was the enjoying the ride part that was going to give her trouble.

But Asher was looking at her with such…hope. He really was the only one in the entire world who gave a damn about her. She could probably manage one dinner for his sake.

“I suppose,” she relented. Then when his raised brows and pursed lips indicated he wasn’t quite satisfied with this answer, she said, “Okay, fine! Yes! I can do that!”

He beamed, and a little shower of green flakes from his dried mask drifted down like snowfall from his crinkling cheeks. “Good. One dinner at a time, starting with tomorrow night. And then after you’ve had a few dinners and basked in all his Alpha male glory, you’re going to answer me one question.”

“Which is?”

Asher’s smile slowly faded. He studied her face, and even through the thick layer of crusted pore-reducing mask she saw how concerned he was about her. How much he worried.

“The question is this: how alive do you want to be?” His voice was soft and tender. “Because you, honey, are barely breathing.”

Barely breathing. That sounded just about right. To compensate for the sudden flood of emotion she felt, the rush of sorrow and weariness and longing that squeezed her heart, she said, “You’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?”

He leaned in and gave her a swift, hard hug. “And that’s exactly why you love me,” he whispered into her ear.

When he pulled away Tender Asher was gone and he was in full Bossy Asher mode, complete with lifted chin, arch demeanor and a dismissive hand wave that would have been at home on the Queen of England. “Food first, then we’re going to talk about where I’m taking you shopping tomorrow morning.”

“What about the movie?”

“Screw the movie, sister, we’ve got plans to make! My boy Quentin can wait.”

Ember spent her Sunday morning—and most of the afternoon—being dragged from fancy boutique to fancier boutique by an over-caffeinated, almost manic Asher, who insisted they had to find the exact perfect thing for this momentous occasion. Knowing she’d become a project, Ember allowed herself to be manhandled and clucked over by a host of vaguely disgruntled shopgirls who stared at her as if she were a lab animal on which vaginal deodorant sprays had been tested.

She didn’t understand how other women loved shopping so much. It was exhausting. And more than a bit depressing; the clothes always looked much better on the mannequins than on her.

By the time three o’clock rolled around, she’d had enough.

“Enough!” she said to Asher just as he was about to wrap a tissue-thin silk Hermes scarf around her neck. It was the color of the Mediterranean, an enameled azure blue, and floated like a cloud between his hands. She spied the price tag and nearly gagged.

“Don’t even start with me,
chica
, you’re getting this scarf whether you like it or not. You need color against that pasty skin of yours.” He eyed her complexion and clucked in disapproval. “When you’re that pale, you need something slightly darker yet brighter than your skin tone to complement it. This is definitely your color.” He held it up to his face and examined himself in the nearby full-length mirror, smiled at his reflection, and blew himself a kiss. “And mine.”

“Asher, you know I can’t afford—”

“Tch! Quiet! Not another word, ingrate! I told you this is on me!”

He’d already bought her a dress, shoes, and a matching handbag, and had snuck in some lacy black underwear while she wasn’t looking—a matching bra and panty set that looked decadent enough to eat. She wouldn’t wear them. If she wore them, she’d be exquisitely aware of them all during dinner. She’d know they were there, lurking beneath her clothing, all fancy and feminine and demanding to be ogled.

Too dangerous. No elaborate underwear. She wasn’t even sure she was going to shave her legs.

By the time they made it back to the apartment, Ember was so exhausted she forgot to be quiet on the way in. Four steps past Dante’s apartment door and he burst through it as if he’d been coughed out.

“
Americana!
” He held his arms out wide, beaming at her as if she were a long-lost relative. His black toupee was askew atop his balding head, as always, but at least he was dressed: trousers and a dark blue cardigan that looked a little moth-eaten around the edges. “So good to see you! How was the weekend in Terrassa with your
amor
?”

Asher and Ember glanced at one another. Asher made a jerking little head motion toward Dante:
play along!

“Um, it was, um…short.”

There. That wasn’t exactly a lie. It was so short it actually hadn’t happened at all.

“Ah! Young love! So…” He muttered to himself in Spanish, searching for the right word, then, finding it, brightened. “Sweet!”