Part 12 (1/2)

”Yeah, I met him at the party,” I explain. ”The one that I met you at.”

He sketches along the folds of my fingers, sending tingles all over my skin. ”Did you meet him before or after I talked to you that night?”

”After,” I reply. ”It was right before I left to chase down Raven... He told me someone was messing around with my car.”

”And then your car's brakes went out.” He cracks his knuckles on the steering wheel as he cogitates. ”I wonder if...”

”If what?” I press. ”Asher, do you know this the guy? And did he mess with my brakes that night? Because he told me someone else was messing with my car, and I'm starting to wonder if it was him and maybe he was also the tailgater.”

He slips his hand from mine and places it on the s.h.i.+fter; it feels like a glove slipped off my fingers and my hand feels bare. ”Ember, have you ever heard of the Anamotti?” he asks and I shake my head. ”Well, it's this term that got thrown around a lot in the neighborhood I lived in New York... It's kind of like this hush-hush secret society thing.”

”What kind of a neighborhood did you live in?” I wonder.

He hesitates. ”The Upper East Side.”

”So it's a secret society for rich people.”

”Kind of.”

”I'm confused,” I confess. ”What does this have to do with Garrick? Is he part of it?”

He fiddles anxiously with the air freshener on the rearview mirror. ”Yeah, he was... He is part of it.”

”So Garrick's from New York too?” I question. ”I don't mean to sound rude, but I'm not sure I believe that you, Cameron, and Garrick, all moved here at the same time and from New York.”

”Garrick didn't move here from New York,” Asher discloses in a subdued voice. ”I said the term got thrown around a lot in my neighborhood, but it doesn't mean every member from the Anamotti lives there.”

I ask, ”But then how do you know Garrick is part of the Anamotti?”

”That X tattoo he has,” Asher makes an X motion over his eye with his finger, ”is the symbol of the Anamotti.”

”So what are they?” I inquire, thinking about what I read on the internet about X symbols. ”What is their secret society all about? And why do they have X's?”

He restlessly drums his fingers on the s.h.i.+fter, lets out a shaky breath, and laces his fingers with mine again. ”I'm afraid it might scare you, especially because Garrick is interested in you.”

”No, he seems interested in Raven.” Unable to help myself, I caress his palm with my thumb. ”I think he was with her that night when Laden disappeared.”

”Maybe,” he says sadly. ”But I think he's using Raven to get to you.”

”For what?” I begin to pull my hand away. ”And how do you know all this... Are you part of this Anamotti?”

”I can't tell you that right now.” His hand tightens on mine. ”Trust me, I want to. Desperately. But not yet, okay? I need to... we need to spend some time together first. ” Honesty blazes in his eyes like smoke over a fire. ”Please just trust me, Ember.”

It's a strange answer, but not accepting it would be like the pot calling the kettle black. ”Okay, I can wait, I guess.”

He runs his fingers through my hair, gently tugging at the roots and sending a shock of pleasure through my body. Wow. Dear G.o.d Almighty.

”Thank you for trusting me,” his voice perpetuates my body with heat.

We leave the sunnier part of town behind and enter the rougher side. The old-fas.h.i.+oned shops and restaurants become old and dilapidated houses. Rusted cars clutter the yards and bars and smoke shops fill up the business areas. It's frightening how much this side of town feels like home.

My concentration centers on Asher. ”So where's this mysterious place you're taking me?”

Still holding my hand, he downs.h.i.+fts. ”That's kind of a surprise, but I thought we could get something to eat first. I mean, if that's okay with you.”

I crack the window and let in a cool breeze. ”Yeah, that's fine with me.”

”Are you sure there's nothing bothering you?” he asks. ”You seem a little... sad. Or sadder than usual.”

The wind gusts through my hair and I shut my eyes, breathing in deeply. ”I'm fine. I promise.” I erase my sadness as much as possible, and open my eyes, summoning up a small smile. ”I'm actually just really hungry.”

”Good.” He grins and turns the car into the crowded parking lot of Phil's Shenanigans and Fun. ”Hmm...” Asher observes the sign. ”I wonder what kind of fun it's referring to.”

”No, you don't,” I say unintentionally. It's the bar where my dad hung out.

”You've been here?” Asher shuts off the engine.

”Once or twice.” I omit some of the truth. ”And I think they card here.”

”I heard they don't.” He points a finger at the front door where a young couple is walking inside. ”And I think we go to school with them.”

”Yeah, you're probably right.” I sigh heavily. ”I think they do let in minors.”

My dad came here a lot and brought me with him. I'd sit in the corner booth, coloring, while he drank himself into a stupor, ranting about his philosophical ideas on life and death until he'd p.i.s.s off someone enough that they'd take a swing at him. Then Phil, the owner-who was like a second father to me-would load us up in his Chevy and drive us home.

”Do you know if the food's good here?” Asher opens the car door.

”Yeah, the food, the service-it's all great.” Except for the memories.

Before I can climb out of the car, Asher hurries around, opens the door, and helps me out. The boy blows my mind with his gentleman skills. He holds my hand as we walk across the parking lot. There is a row of motorcycles in front and a bench where people are smoking. The windows of the bar are s.h.i.+elded with flas.h.i.+ng neon signs and flyers. At the entrance Asher releases my hand, but only to open the door.

I fan the smoke from my face as the door swings closed. Asher returns his hand to mine. The bar is packed, the music's loud, and there are no barstools available. Paper-mache spiders and witches hang from the ceiling and each table has a miniature pumpkin.

”Hi y'all. My name is Amy and I'll be your waitress today.” A perky girl in her early twenties appears in front of us. Her black skirt barely covers her legs and her white s.h.i.+rt is tight enough that the poor girl probably can't breathe. ”We only got booths tonight. Is that okay?”

”What do you think?” Asher asks me. ”Is a booth good?”

”A booth's better,” I answer.

”Okay.” The waitress leads us through the smoke and people with a cheery skip in her walk. We settle in the corner booth, sitting across from each other, and she hands us our menus and sashays toward the bar. Phil's the bartender tonight. He's a large man with tattoos casing his arms and neck. His shaved head reflects in the low light and his goatee touches the bottom of his neck. He has a T-s.h.i.+rt on with the sleeves torn off, jeans, and biker boots. He's pouring a shot when the waitress says something to him. His eyes lift to me and I slump down in the booth, holding the menu in front of my face, ducking for cover.

”Please don't come over here. Please don't come over here,” I chant under my breath.

Asher guides the menu away from my face. ”Okay, what's up?”

I pretend to be very interested in the list of appetizers. ”Nothing. I'm just reading the menu.”

He eyes me suspiciously and aims his attention to a person standing next to our table.

”Holy biscuits and gravy, it is you.”