The Spirit Seducer (The Echo Series Book 1) (24 page)

I’d always wanted to run my hand over a man’s cheek, feel the short, silky hairs prickle my fingers, or better, my breasts or the sensitive skin of my stomach.

Huh. Must be the wine. Or maybe Simon’s continued push to talk about Asher. He looked good in scruff. Really good.

“Just . . . be careful.”

“I always am,” I quipped. I searched his eyes. “Are you okay? Doug’s death hit us all hard.”

“Yeah. Ella and I, Jeremiah, we’ve gotten our feet under us from Doug’s death. It’s you we’re worried about.”

I pushed down the sadness. I never would’ve chosen to become a widow at thirty-two. Half my friends hadn’t even married at that age, and I’d already lost my lover. “Thanks. You know I appreciate you looking out for me.”

Simon swallowed hard, his eyes brightened by a sheen of tears. “We’ve been family a long time.”

“We have,” I said. If he cried, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to keep my own emotions in check. “So give me a little space now, please. This may be stupid, but I want to talk to Asher. We used to be friends. Good friends. I’d like the chance to reconnect.”

Simon tugged at his lower lip. “That’s what upset Doug. Your friendship with Asher. It worries me now.”

Asher glanced over, fatigue pulling at his mouth and eyes.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I touched Simon’s shoulder. “See you in a bit.”

Making my way back to Asher’s side, I grabbed his left hand, planning to pull him forward. He threaded my fingers through his, and the contact, palm to palm, stole my breath. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d held Doug’s hand.

The bubble of grief Simon had just mentioned cracked, and something thick and ugly seeped through my chest. I loosened my fingers. I needed to go home and go to bed.

I needed to quit feeling. This was too much, too soon. I wasn’t ready.

Asher gripped my hand more firmly. My breathing turned raspy. This was bad. Really bad. He must have felt my shiver because he let go of my hand and wrapped his arm around my shoulder, supporting most of my weight when I staggered against him. Instead of relief at the fresh air, black dots formed in front of my eyes.

“This was a bad idea. I-I should go,” I said. My voice was hoarse as tension crawled up my throat. I was about two seconds from a full-blown panic attack.

“We’re taking that walk. You look like you need a distraction from whatever you’re thinking about, and there’s no way I’m going back in there with those fans. They’re rabid. C’mon.”

His arm still slung over my shoulder, I stumbled along next to him as he towed me down the block. I tried to force down the weight in my throat. I couldn’t take a full breath, not with his arm around my shoulder. My heart battered my ribs so hard tears welled up in my eyes.

“Can’t,” I whispered, yanking away from him. “I’m sorry.”

“Dahlia, don’t you dare run from me. It’s almost ten, and this is not the nicest part of town.”

“Panic attack,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Don’t want you to see this.” I turned, trying to dash toward my car.

Asher cursed, but then his long fingers wrapped around my forearm. He spun me around. He must have dipped his knees because my nose was pressed into the side of his neck, his strong arms banding around me. His touch, the caring in it, unleashed the monster I’d tried so hard to chain.

He lifted my feet from the ground and stepped backward toward what I assumed was an alley. My vision tunneled, and I really didn’t care. I struggled to get air into my lungs.

I gasped, shook, and mewled as embarrassment mingled with the panic. I’d gotten better at recognizing the signs, managing to get away from others before I melted down. Not this time.

He held my head, his voice soothing. The worst of the pain passed quickly, and I trembled with relief as tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. I willed them to stop, and I tried to pull back. Asher tightened his grip just enough to keep me tucked against his large, warm body, his arm settled low on my waist. His free hand smoothed down my hair.

He spoke to me in a low voice. Soft words, like I used to say to Abbi when she had a nightmare. His fingers continued to comb through my hair. This time, I relaxed completely, basking in his warmth. This almost-stranger was more than I could handle, yet somehow exactly what I needed. The universe was so clever with its sense of humor.

He smelled good, like summer rain.

When my brain keyed in enough to hear what he was telling me, I calmed further, resting against the solid wall of his chest. My cheek was wet from tears, and sweat bloomed across our skin wherever our bodies touched.

“I remember the first time I saw you. I looked out into the crowd gathered in that garage where they held the tryouts for Cactus Arrow and saw this long, dark hair and the biggest, brightest gray eyes. I remember thinking how happy you were, how in the moment. I looked for you every day after that. I loved seeing the joy on your face. I loved talking to you.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I whispered.

“Panicking? Better than being puked on. That’s happened a couple of times.”

“You handled it well,” I said.

His eyes darkened. “My mom had panic attacks. They got worse after my father left. A lot worse. She’d try to hide them.” He raised his brows, a silent question.

“Some event usually triggers them,” I said. “At least that’s what I’ve read.”

“Doug’s death?” he asked, his voice still soft.

I hesitated, debating. “My dad’s, when I was fourteen. They got better for a while. Then Doug was diagnosed.” I pressed my cheek against the hardness of his shoulder. “With Huntington’s disease.” I stepped out of his arms.

“I don’t know what that is.”

“A death sentence,” I whispered. Much as I didn’t want to, I forced my gaze to his. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”

“It’s better than being covered in vomit.” He smiled.

I grinned. It was wobbly, but it was real. Damn, that felt good.

I scrubbed the heels of my hands over my eyes. I was glad I hadn’t bothered with mascara. At least I didn’t have black dripping down my red, blotchy cheeks. “No one else knows about my, er . . . episodes. Thank you for talking me through it. That helped. A lot, actually.”

Asher chuckled. “Jessica would be shocked you’re thanking me. More that I actually helped you out. She says I’m selfish, always focused on me. But even an egotistical ass like me understands shitty things happen to good people.”

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall. I was probably getting grime in my hair, but I was too tired to care. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I don’t normally freak out in public. That’s more of a good-times-at-home experience.”

“Something you save for Saturday night kicks?”

The smile tugged at my lips. “No. I’m not much of a crier. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“That was intense. Do you normally have any warning?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not dropping this yet, Dahlia.” His voice was stern but there was an undercurrent there. One I didn’t quite understand. “Do you know what brought it on? You should avoid your triggers. That worked for my mom. Most of the time.”

I snorted. “I avoid life.” The silence built. I met his patient gaze. “I liked holding your hand.” I swallowed. “A lot.” I shrugged, trying to cover my embarrassment. “Feel free to go back to the next band. I can hear the music. Seems pretty good.”

I closed my eyes again and waited for him to walk away from me. It was inevitable.

“If you’re feeling well enough, let’s walk. My mom said endorphins solve just about anything.”

I opened one of my eyes. “Your mom sounds smart. But I don’t want you to feel obligated. You could be having fun. I’m so not a good time. I just proved that.”

“Fun gets me into trouble. And my mom was smart, I miss her.”

“When did she die?” I asked, my voice soft.

“A few years ago.”

“My dad died in a peace-keeping mission in Eastern Europe. It was terrible.”

“You’ve had your share of shitty, too. The panic attack is nothing to be embarrassed about.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping to his side. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

“You could be inside the bar, talking licks and chords with Simon.”

“Nah, I’m all about introspection these days. Walk with me, Dahlia. Please.”

A thrill shot through my chest at the sound of my name, not just my nickname, coming from Tristan Asher Smith’s mouth.

Maybe we shouldn’t have reconnected. If he’d picked a different seat, a different bar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.

But if I’d learned anything since Doug’s death, it was to be thankful for the moments you were given. To treasure them because they were fleeting. This moment with Asher was a mere passing-in-the-night.

That made the entire situation even more intoxicating.

He’d been my favorite lyricist ever since I heard him sing in a dingy garage not far from Doug’s apartment. The band was short-lived, but I was hooked. When his first Supernaturals album came out, I’d scraped together my change to buy a copy. And for the next week, I sat close to the speakers whenever Doug was out, listening over and over to Asher’s rough, sexy voice sing about depression, drugs, and unsatisfying sexual encounters.

As I matured, I’d realized he was singing about universal tropes most people identified with, at least at some point in their lives. He seemed as sad as I was, but he was still willing to express compassion.

He slid his hand against mine, lacing our fingers together. “I like touching you. This okay?” he asked.

“Yes. Really good. Especially now that I’ve realized how much I’ve missed it. Thanks.”

That clasp, our hands the only thing that touched, was intimate.

I couldn’t let go.