For Better or Hearse

Chapter Six

A burning oil rig would be better than this.

Nathaniel’s trapped on a barstool next to his idiot little brother while Tate drones on about his plans for his podcast’s launch.

“It’s a startup right now,” he chatters as Nathaniel stares into his whiskey. “But we’re working on the funds to get it off the ground.”

Working on the funds means Tate is planning to ask their father for money from his inheritance.

“Do you think Dad will say yes?”

Absolutely. Then he’ll use it against you your entire life.

Nathaniel keeps that thought to himself, instead nodding as he reaches for his drink. The resort bar is packed, thanks to the unending amount of rain coming down outside.

As it always does, talk of his father has Nathaniel bristling. Maybe that makes him an asshole. Or maybe it means he’s long since given up on making the man proud.

His father’s soulless Beverly Hills plastic surgery practice is not the legacy he wants. Vapid women clamoring for nose jobs and butt lifts. Even if the plan—his entire life—was to take over the family practice. He took a job in the ER, allowing him to put his father off for years, but after the breakup with Camellia, he finally said fuck it.

He resigned his position at the prestigious hospital, gave up his loft and Mercedes, and went to live as a doctor on a floating oil rig off the coast of California.

He has Ash to blame for all of it.

She fucked up his life when she came storming into that church. Only he’s not sure fucked up is the right term. Admitting that grates at him. Has for the last three years.

A flash of black catches his eye. Ash. She’s standing in the corner, perched at the window like a disheveled vagabond. She stares out into the pouring rain, arms wrapped tight around her slender, bare shoulders.

A grin tips the edges of his lips. He was right. She is a cat.

“What do you think of the Manson girl?” Tater asks.

He swirls the whiskey in his glass. “I think she probably lives in a spider web or something.”

His brother chuckles. “She’s tight, though. You gotta admit that.”

Nathaniel pauses mid-sip, a prickle of irritation running the length of his spine. “What exactly is tight about her?”

Wicked gleam in his eyes, Tate snaps open his mouth.

“You know what?” Nathaniel says, lifting a hand to cut his brother off. “I don’t need to know.”

He already does.

She’s a demon. The prettiest demon he’s ever seen.

He’s not proud to admit that her body in that slinky dress briefly short-circuited his brain tonight. How could it not? He’d have to be a corpse to remain unaffected.

Tate grins at him. “She looks like she bites.”

Christ.

Nathaniel drags a hand down his face. One day, his horny little brother won’t piss him off. His stupid hobbies and grating commentary about the female species won’t irritate him. And on that day, he’ll be free.

At least dinner was entertaining. For that, he’ll give Ash credit. She sucked it up and took his family’s shit. She gave back as good as she got it. Defended his grandfather. But that doesn’t mean he’s taking his eyes off her. He doesn’t trust her for a second.

“You think Grandpops has lost it?”

“Grandpops is doing what he thinks is best.” Nathaniel rubs his jaw. “And unfortunately, he thinks hiring an emotional support”—he zeroes in on Ash again—“ creature is the way to go.”

Tate gives an easy shrug, like he hasn’t yet caught on that their grandfather is not long for this world. Reality doesn’t get through the cracks of Tate’s existence. Not until it’s too late.

Feeling eyes on him, Nathaniel glances at the demon woman again. Locks gazes with her.

Before he can warn her away with a glare, Tate lifts a hand to his mouth. “Ash,” he bellows. “Over here.”

Brow arched, she considers them. Her expression wars between interest and ugh . Then, slowly, with a wary look, she prowls their way.

“Gentlemen.” She sets her ridiculously tiny sequined clutch on the bar top and slips onto the stool beside Nathaniel. The way she shifts to adjust her dress causes the slit to fall open, exposing more tattoos, a flash of the curve of her ass.

Good Christ , he doesn’t need this right now.

“Bar has a dress code,” Nathaniel says, rerouting his attention to the bartender. “Doesn’t include drowned rat.”

She side-eyes him. In his periphery, her expression looks like one of amusement, or maybe irritation. He can’t tell.

“I was on the beach,” she says, wringing out her hair on the bar top. Small puddles form. “I tried to run but got caught in the downpour. Doubled back.”

His eyes drift to her boots. They’re covered in sand. Does she own a pair of flip-flops?

Her husky voice floats on the air around him. “I would recommend living a little. Have you tried it? You would love it.”

Huffing, she moves to grab a stack of napkins just out of reach. She stretches out on her barstool. Wiggles her fingers. Flattens those red lips and looks at Nathaniel.

“A little help here?”

“Maybe I like watching you struggle. ”

Her eyes glow, more green than gray in this moment. “You would. A true sadist.”

With a grunt and a wrenching stretch, she snags a stack of napkins and blots her pale face. The way water runs off her skin in rivulets tugs at his stomach. He grips the bar top with white knuckles, tamping down on the reaction. Her lipstick sticks.

What would it take to get it to come off? With a slight shake of his head, he banishes the thought.

When she’s dry and the napkins are drenched, she sighs. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

With a slight, devious smile, Ash says, “Sounds like you have too much time on your hands.”

Nathaniel bristles. Wills his muscles to unclench. He’s stuck on an oil rig for weeks at a time. He can suck it up and stick it out with this girl who aggravates his senses. Mostly the murderous side.

Her face does this pretty, pinched scrutinizing glare that makes him feel like he’s burning up on the surface of the sun.

The bartender sets a martini in front of her.

Tate leans past Nathaniel, says, “Bottoms up.”

Tate’s three objectives in life are to get people laid, get people drunk, and get people on his podcast.

“Thank you.” The honest smile Ash flashes in response makes Nathaniel’s stomach flip in an extremely fucked-up way.

“Funny, I didn’t get a thank-you,” Nathaniel says coolly. “For earlier.”

“I didn’t want your juice,” she shoots back.

“Well, you needed it.”

“Congrats on your show of chivalry. You ticked off one box.” She sips her martini, then studies both men. “While we’re here, Augustus wants me to ask each of you to write down your favorite memory of you and your grandfather together. I’m helping write his memoirs.”

Tate gapes at her, jaw slack. “Man, that’s crunchy as fuck. ”

Nathaniel sets his drink down. Hard.

It’s too close. Too in his face. He’s accepted that his grandfather won’t be around forever, but this girl is like an omen. A chaotic, disheveled presence he doesn’t want to stomach, let alone include.

Nathaniel rolls his neck out. Irritation creeps over him. “Kind of personal, if you ask me.”

“He’s dictating. I just type. I’ll compile all the stories in a book for anyone who wants it.” Ash throws him a wicked smile. “And don’t worry, Nathaniel, your little third-grade poker party secret is safe with me.”

“Christ.”

Tate snickers.

Ash continues with a shrug. “He wants to fix it, control it, because that’s—”

“Augustus,” Nathaniel says.

“Wow, finishing each other’s sentences.” Tate guffaws, drums on the bar top. “That’s a match made in—”

“Hell,” Nathaniel snarls.

Ignoring him, Ash cocks her head. Purses her lips. Examines Tate. “You’re the one with a podcast about…potatoes?”

Nathaniel grinds a fist against his forehead. “Please don’t ask him about it.”

“That’s right. Tater Talks.”

Her eyes widen. “Wow. Really cashing in on this lifelong nickname, aren’t you?” She dips her chin. “I respect that.” Then, leaning into Nathaniel, she lowers her voice. “Do you think your grandfather really knew Carlo Giacomo?”

He’s already shaking his head. “No idea.”

Bored, likely because he’s no longer the subject of the conversation, Tate stands and stretches. “Gonna head out. Can’t take much more of this doom and gloom talk.” He claps Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Think I’ll rustle up some fun. You comin’?”

Nathaniel shakes his head. Fun to his brother is a podcast, a vintage porn mag and a bag of beef jerky. “Funned out for the day. ”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tate slugs down the remains of his drink. “If I can bail tomorrow, you best believe I’m on it.” He turns his focus to Ash. “What about you? You want to come?”

Nathaniel stiffens.

As if she’s considering it, Ash runs her finger around the rim of her glass. Then she says, “Think I’ll stay and harass your brother for a while.”

“Cool.”

“Oh, and Tate—” Ash slips off the stool and steps into Tate’s space. Gripping the collar of his bowling shirt, she yanks him down to eye level. Her pretty face threatening, her teeth bared, she says, “If you go this entire vacation without having a true one-on-one with your grandfather, I’ll come to your podcast and beat the fucking shit out of you with your microphone.”

With that, she lets him loose.

“Fuck,” Tate breathes in what Nathaniel swears is amazement. Then he turns on his heel and beelines for the exit.

Ash hops onto her stool again. Slides her martini closer. “We need a task force that stops white men from starting podcasts for no reason.”

He chuckles. Barely.

They sip their drinks. Outside, the rain comes down in droves, the tin roof a lively melody of percussion.

“I’m sorry.”

Surprised, he blinks, unsure he’s heard her correctly. “For what?”

She wrinkles her nose. “For inadvertently taking Lucifer’s side tonight.” Her soft eyes sweep over his face, drop to his lips. “Your father.”

She splays her hand on the bar top. Long fingers. Long black nails. What would those nails feel like scraping down his back?

Fuck.

It takes all the willpower he has to fight the heat creeping through him and force his mind back to the conversation. “My father’s a world-class asshole, but I’m used to it by now. ”

“We all have to excel at something.” Ash props an elbow on the bar and evaluates him. “As much as I loved listening to the sound of your family silently sawing through their meat, is it always like this?”

“What? A complete disaster? Pretty much,” Nathaniel admits, frowning at his drink. “I don’t want my grandfather to be disappointed. If this doesn’t turn into what he wants.”

There’s no way his family will recognize this for what it is. One long goodbye. One last chance to bond.

“What do you mean?” Ash asks.

“We don’t relax,” he warns. “We don’t lounge. Every hour of every day is scheduled, planned. Because we are nothing if we don’t strive for excellence.”

Ash’s eyes flash, but her lip curls up like she’s amused. “No sightseeing? No poolside lounging? No gluttonous buffets?”

“Only vigorous activities that detract from building a bond or actually having conversation.” In his family, vacation is a duty to get through.

She chews her lip, considering. “On a scale of one to my-soundtrack-is-the- Rocky -theme-song, what are your holidays like?”

“Turkey trot,” he says grimly. “On Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

“I fucking knew it,” she whispers. She looks panicked and defeated, and even though it should make him smile, it doesn’t.

A few silent minutes pass, and finally, curiosity gets the best of him. “A death doula. What exactly does that entail? Communing with the dead?”

He’s asking not because he’s curious about this weird, feral girl, but because of his grandfather. It’s his duty as the oldest grandchild to do his due diligence. At least that’s what he tells himself.

Ash tucks a hunk of black hair behind her ear. “I am but a mere carrier in your grandfather’s astral plane of life.”

He rolls his eyes. “English.”

“Fine. I’m his death bouncer, so don’t fuck with him.” She inclines her head, eyes swimming with challenge. “I don’t do medical stuff. I’m there for him. If your grandfather wants to discuss his childhood or just tell fart jokes for an hour, I’ll be there. I’ll listen.” She brushes a puddle of water off the bar. “It’s another way to navigate grief.”

He regards her for a long moment. “And what makes you the expert in grief?”

“Everyone’s an expert in grief.” The gray flecks in her green eyes catch the soft overhead lighting. “We just don’t know it until it fucking hits us.” Ash plucks the olive out of her glass, pops it into her mouth. “You’re a doctor,” she says, chewing. “You try to stop death.”

Nathaniel has to tear his eyes away from those blood-red lips. “Postpone it.”

“I love Augustus,” she says, her voice thick. “Your grandfather’s a firecracker. He’s stubborn and strong, and I think he’ll be around for a long time.”

It takes effort to swallow past the rock in his throat. “What I don’t get is how one goes from love to death.”

She averts her eyes. Says nothing. Though a flush creeps up her chest and neck.

He swigs the last of his scotch, twists into her. Ready to get one thing out of the way first. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking. Maybe it’s because the question has bothered him for the last three years. Either way, he can’t stop himself from asking.

“Who hired you?”

Her kohl-lined eyes widen, and her breath catches. “Excuse me?”

Fuck. She’s even prettier when she’s stunned. If he had to guess, she doesn’t give her emotions away easily.

“Who hired you to break up my wedding?”

Those full red lips part. “I don’t give away my sources.”

He snorts. “Who are you, Lois Lane?”

“It’s called client confidentiality. A concept you should understand.” Her sharp tone wards off further questioning .

But it doesn’t stop him from persisting. “That’s cute. Pretending you give a damn about someone else’s feelings.”

Her cheeks flush. But Ash recovers quickly, turning to meet his accusing gaze. “I’m not the one who cheated on my fiancée.”

He clenches his jaw. Derision and anger pinprick his skin. “Right. Because you automatically assume you know everything about me based on a bullshit rumor.”

“It wasn’t a rumor; it was true.”

“Was it?”

He holds eye contact. Looking away from her feels like a dare.

When she says nothing, he laughs bitterly. “You like this too much.” He lifts his drink to his lips, only then realizing it’s empty. “Breaking hearts. Hurting people.”

Ash pales. “I made it better.” Her voice is small, distant. Like she’s trying to convince herself. “People should know before—”

She cuts off abruptly, bites her lip.

“Before what?” he demands.

After the briefest hesitation, she licks her lips, says, “Before they get hurt.”

Silence.

Ash rises from her stool. Smooths her damp dress. “Anyway,” she says softly. Almost sad. “I don’t do that anymore.”

Arms crossed, he nods at the windows. “Rain’s stopped.”

He’s riled her on purpose, told her what he thinks of her, made it clear he wants her to go. But now that she’s watching him with that hard stare of hers, he’s more uncomfortable than he anticipated.

Dropping her gaze, Ash curls her hands around her arms like she’s protecting herself.

Her expression—fragile, sad—causes a strange herky-jerky kick to his heart.

Then, without another word, she turns and goes.

Nathaniel eyes the trail of sand she leaves in her wake, winces at the hard clop of her boots.

Why, suddenly, is he not so sure he’s glad he chased her off?