Me: work your magic
Asher: I’m minimizing Barnaby
Me: and?
Asher: I’m covered in blood!
Me: shower then, ffs
Chapter 7
Ella
The smell of blood is strong in a confined space. The stench coats the inside of my nostrils, so potent that even someone like me, someone who has witnessed at least a dozen deaths, feels the tug on my stomach that could lead to me vomiting. My feet are soaked in red thickness, the body of my father still at my feet, when the knocking?—
I stop typing,pull my headphones off, and listen.
Maybe I imagined the sound. Sometimes I’m so deep into my writing that I’m sure the words lift from the page and into real life, because it sounded like someone knocked on my door.
Sure enough, there’s another knock.
I drape the headphones around my neck and get up, peering through the peephole, and when I see who’s on the other side, I bounce on my feet.
I still have my makeup on, thank God, and my hair still looks great. I’m in sweats and a tank top, eager to be comfy while I write, but I look acceptably cute.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door, smiling brightly. “Hey.”
Asher grins. “Hi. Sorry to bother you.”
His hair is wet from a shower, probably, and his cheeks are pink. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and God, he looks yummy.
I bet he looks good in the shower.
“It’s okay,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Coffee?” he asks, holding out an empty cup. “I’ve got none for the morning, and I’ll die without it.”
That’s an adorable excuse. Barnaby stocks up on coffee. I’d taken a delivery for him two months ago, and it was at least a six-month supply. He always bought everything in bulk. I flush and try not to smile too much.
“Sure.” I let him inside, scanning the apartment quickly. There’s a discarded bra on the sofa, so I snatch it up and throw it in my purse.
“Your books must sell well,” he says, glancing around.
“Oh, it’s a friend's place,” I say. “She’s in Europe and lets me stay here.”
“Rent-free?” he asks, following me into the kitchen.
“Yep. I pay the bills and stuff, but I’m super lucky. It’s ideal to have somewhere nice, because I rarely leave.”
Don’t tell him you don’t go outside, Ella, you loser.
I resist tapping my temple. Reaching into the cupboard, I take out the coffee, handing him a pack.
“Just a cup is fine,” he says.
I shake my head. “Consider it a moving-in gift.”
He takes it. “Thanks. Or … I could just take you out for coffee to repay you?”
