He stood there a moment, staring. Questions swirled, uneasy, half-formed things that refused to settle.
(6:23 p.m.)
“You absolute slut,” Tess said, lips curling around the words as she chewed her food. “I can’t believe you actually slept with that… Sasquatch!”
Ash raised an eyebrow, lounging on the floor beside her. “Tall, burly, and damaged—what’s not to like?”
They sat shoulder to shoulder, backs resting against the chaise, legs stretched across the plush rug. The floor was scattered with takeout cartons, dipping sauces, and a mostly empty bottle of rosé. Evening had fallen, and yellow slants from the streetlights cut across the tall Venetian blinds, mingling with the warm amber glow of the lamps inside. The wind had picked up. Ash could hear the faint rattle of a loose AC pipe, the slow gathering hush that meant a storm was coming.
Tess leaned over, stage-sniffing him with a dramatic flair. “I think I can smell him on you,” she declared, voice pitched low and dirty. “You’ve got that freshly-fucked glow, and this place reeks of man-juices.”
Ash rolled his eyes, fishing through his noodles with a pair of black chopsticks. “I think that’s the shrimp.”
She snatched a pillow from the chaise and smacked him with it, grinning. “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she said, settling cross-legged on the rug again. “I saw the way he looked at you last night. Like he was about to leap onto the stage and mount you in front of God and everyone. Eyes like two flaming meat thermometers.”
Ash nearly choked on his food. “That’s an image.”
“Don’t play coy now.” Tess’s grin turned sly. “He was fucking you with his eyes. I mean, Christ, I think even the ice in my glass melted from that look.” She shoveled a forkful of rice into her mouth and waved her chopsticks for emphasis. “So? Was it good?”
Ash smirked into his carton. “It was all right.”
“Oh, shutup.” She lobbed a napkin at him. “You look like you spent the night at Olympus getting ravaged by Ares himself.”
“You missed your calling. You should write erotic epics.”
“What can I say? Gossip makes my juices flow.”
Jazz trickled in softly from the record player—an old Chet Baker tune, smoky and languid, curling through the loft like incense. Poe was busy swatting a stray chopstick under the coffee table, tail twitching. Tess reached down and teased him with a bit of string from the takeout bag, flicking it through the air like a dancer’s ribbon. The cat pounced, missed, hissed in frustration, then tried again. She laughed. It was their routine.
Ash watched them. He liked how easily Tess fit into his space. No awkwardness, no pretense. She didn’t ask questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Just picked her moments, tossed her barbs, and let the rest breathe.
She started talking about the club—the new waitress who couldn’t rinse a glass to save her life, the regular who kept trying to flirt with her despite a wedding ring and breath like something had died in his throat. Ash chimed in here and there, offered a smirk or some snark (“Maybe he thinks you’re a drag queen?”, which earned him another pillow-smack over the head and a barrel of laughter), but mostly let her fill the space with her voice.
His mind drifted. To harsh fingers on his hips. The rasp of stubble against his skin. That look—hungry, almost reverent. He remembered how Rick had studied him after he fucked him,gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes, like he was trying to memorize every flicker, every line.
Ash stirred his food absently. He hadn’t told Tess about the shootout. Or the wound. Or the claw marks torn into his sheets. Some things weren’t ready to live outside his head yet. Not until he understands them first.
The record crackled faintly, then looped into the next track. A sleepy saxophone slurred into life.
Tess set her food aside and stretched, arms over her head. “Whew. That hit the spot.” She rummaged in her bag and came up with a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. “Smoke?”
Ash nodded, and she tossed him one without looking. They lit up together, leaning on the lounge, and exhaled in tandem.
“You know,” she said, watching the smoke rise toward the ceiling, “I kinda knew this would happen. The moment I saw him come to the club. That man was starving.”
Ash didn’t respond. Just inhaled slow, exhaled slower. The smoke felt grounding.
She bumped her shoulder into his. “You’re not fooling me, Hunter.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I never try.”
Tess checked her phone and sighed. “Damn. Time’s a bitch.” She stood, brushing crumbs off her pants, then began clearing the cartons, stacking them into the takeout bag with practiced ease. “Well, this has been delightfully salacious,” she said. “But I’ve gotta go open up shop, and you’ve gotta start oiling your hips.”
Ash gave her a lazy look. “You sure you don’t want to call in with secondhand horniness?”
“Tempting. But someone has to keep the place from burning down.”
She leaned in and kissed his cheek, the scent of her perfume warm and familiar. “See you later, Casanova.”
