Ashton Morgan: Apartment 17B (The Wreck Me Series)

by Aly Stiles

“Mom, please. I know you didn’t call me to catch up. What do you want?”

  She huffs a breath and glances off camera nervously before focusing on me again. “So listen, sweetie. I’m in a bit of a jam. As you can imagine, after the breakup things got a little tight. I… well, I had to borrow some money from work to get by…” Her voice fades, and my pulse pounds in my ears.

  Of course she’s calling for money.

  “You borrowed it?”

  Her gaze flickers, and she lifts a shoulder with a tight smile. “I was going to pay it back, of course. Anyway, they found out and are being so pissy about it. They said if I don’t pay back what I borrowed—”

  “What you stole.”

  “Borrowed. I told you I was going to pay it back.”

  “No, Mother. When you take something without asking, that’s stealing. When you open a credit card in someone else’s name, that’s identity theft and fraud. When you move across the country and leave your eight-year-old kid behind, that’s child abandonment.”

  “Ashton—”

  “Don’t,” I warn, glaring into the phone. “When you don’t provide for your children, that’s neglect. And when they crawl back to you begging for help and you blow them off, that’s just being a shitty human being.”

  “Ashton!”

  “If we’re done here, I need to get to sleep. I have an early day tomorrow.”

  “Sweetie, please. All I need is five thousand! That’s nothing for you now, I’m sure.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “They’re going to press charges! I’ll go to jail!”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, my blood now violent and hot as it sears through me. Iris’ grip tightens around my arm, and before I can react, the phone is being plucked from my hand.

  “Ms. Morgan, it’s so lovely to finally meet you. I was devastated you hung up on Ash back in February before I could say hi. I’m Iris, Ashton’s girlfriend.”

  The pleading look on Mom’s face shifts into confusion. “Oh… um… hello. Ashton and I are kind of in the middle of an important conversation.”

  “Oh, you mean the one where you’re asking him to bail you out again? Actually, I believe he’s already made his position on the matter pretty clear.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tell you what. Because I love your son, I will personally give you the same amount you gave him when he needed help. In fact, I’m willing to double it. What do you think, babe? Should I triple it?” she asks me.

  Despite the heaviness in the air, I bite back a smile. “That sounds fair,” I say.

  Iris nods and turns back to the screen. “Well, there you have it. Send me a receipt of what you gave Ashton when he needed help last summer, and I will triple it.”

  Mom’s mouth hangs open, her eyes wide and laced with fear as she stares at us in disbelief. “Ashton,” she whispers. “Ashton, please. I could go to jail!”

  I take the phone back from Iris, glaring into the screen. “Jail? You mean a place where you’re trapped and forced into a rigid schedule? Where you live in constant fear of the next day, the next hour, the next minute? Where you lie awake feeling hopeless and lost and see no way out? Well, guess what. At least you’re not going to have to worry about whether you’ll eat or have a roof over your head. I’ve spent my life paying for your crimes. It’s your turn.”

  I hang up, shaking, drained, and strangely…

  Free.

  Yes, that’s it. I feel lighter, like a layer of confinement has been lifted.

  She’s not your dependent, Ashton. You were supposed to be hers.

  Iris pulls me backward until we’re lying side-by-side on the bed. She tucks her body against me and drapes her arm over my chest. I adjust to slide mine under her and hold her close.

  “You did the right thing,” she says quietly. “She needs to be the one to face the consequences of her actions for once.”

  “I know.”

  She tilts her head up and traces a finger along my cheek. “I haven’t told you much about my history before Dad because I really don’t know a lot, but I do know it was similar to yours. When they found us, we were alone in the apartment. They think it might even have been for a day or two. Dad said we were dehydrated and starving and probably would have died if a neighbor hadn’t gotten suspicious.”

  “Iris…”

  She shakes her head, cutting me off. “My dad had just been approved to take in foster children. During a trip overseas to tour one of the schools he sponsored, he realized there were so many children at home who needed love and support as well. We were his first placement.”

  She smiles and braces her palm on my chest. “Just a speck of cosmic dust, Ashton. That’s all it took to send my fate and yours on entirely different trajectories. But we are the ones who brought our journeys back together. You are responsible for the man you became. A man my father admires and respects because of who you are, not where you come from. You’re amazing, Ashton Morgan.”

  Her eyes fill with emotion as they stare into mine. “Can I tell you something?”

  I take a deep breath, still absorbing her words. “You will anyway.”

  She grins and presses her lips to mine. “I love you, Ash. Like that.”

  I smile and tighten her against me. “I love you too, Iris. Like that.”

  Her expression dims when I pull away, her eyes searching mine. “I hated hearing all that stuff, though. Is it true you were so hungry you couldn’t sleep?”

  I sigh and turn my head, staring up at the ceiling. After a long silence, I shift to prop myself up on my elbow to face her.

  “You know what I needed even more than food on those nights? Hope. You can survive anything for one more day if there’s hope the next will be better. It was the lack of hope that hurt the most. Please remember that as you develop your mission statement and build your organization. Meeting material needs is hugely important, but you also need to offer hope.”

  Her eyes soften with the compassion I’ve come to love about her. There’s no one better suited for this role, and I can’t wait to see all the good this world has coming to it. She brightens, her face suddenly alive with enthusiasm.

  “Actually, I had this idea. Maybe now’s a good time to talk about. It’s called ‘Ghost Giving.’ Basically, it’s a program where donors send someone money or gifts anonymously so neither party will feel embarrassed. You can specify a specific person, or we would pair you with a family in need. I know you never liked taking money from me, but would it have reduced the sting if it just started showing up?”

  She watches me with such anticipation in her eyes. My instinctive response is no, I still wouldn’t have wanted it. But that’s just pride, not reality. I think back to some of the worst moments. When I first dropped out of school and had no idea what to do. When Lane fired me and I didn’t know how I was going to buy groceries. What would I have done if that envelope from Kyle had been anonymous instead? Whether I like it or not, I would have spent it. It was Kyle and Iris’ faces that kept that money in the drawer.

  A smile seeps over my lips, and she squeals. “Oh my gosh, you like it!” She bounces on the bed as if I just gave her a diamond necklace. Iris would much prefer a good idea to jewelry anyway.

  “It sounds pretty cool. In fact.” I study her for a second. “Can I be the first one to test it out?”

  Her gaze fixes on me in surprise. “You want to support someone?”

  I nod. “Two families, actually. Marla from downstairs and the Coles across the hall. I don’t know what we would have done without them. I tried to pay them for their help with Braydon, but they’d never accept anything. I’d love to try again—anonymously this time.”

  Iris shoots up, clapping her hands. “Perfect! Get me their addresses and we’ll set it up. We can do a one-time gift or regular installments. Oh! And I’ve already drafted the letter explaining what’s happening to the recipient. I’ll definitely want your input on how we should word it.”

  I’ve never seen
someone so excited about helping people. This world would be an amazing place if it were filled with Iris Alexanders.

  “Hey, Iris?”

  “Yeah?”

  I pull out my wallet and flip to the section behind the bills. The paper is worn from all these months of being carried around and treasured. I’ve looked at it so many times. Held it. Studied it. Basked in the comfort of knowing it was in my pocket, always with me, even when she wasn’t. With a deep breath, I hand it to her, remaining silent as she glances at me in confusion.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  I shrug with a smile, waiting as she opens it. Her eyes widen in shock when she sees the note she left for me after a shitty night at Shelton Barn and Table. Luminous blue irises lock on me, shimmering like fresh dew on a spring morning.

  “That, Iris Alexander, is hope.”

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  More From Aly

  THE SAVE ME SERIES

  Available on Kindle Unlimited

  RISING WEST

  FALLING NORTH

  BREAKING SOUTH

  CRASHING EAST

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  ASHTON MORGAN: Apartment 17B

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  Note From Aly

  Thank you so much for reading The Wreck Me Series. I hope you enjoyed the book and maybe even found a bit of hope. There are so many ways we can be decent human beings, as Iris would say. Maybe all you can afford is a smile and a kind word, but if we each do our best to bring a little light into this world, think of how bright it could shine.

  Always remember you are special and important. No act of kindness is too small to help someone else feel that way too.

  xo

  Aly

  Portions of the proceeds from The Wreck Me Series will be donated to an inner city homeless shelter.

  Excerpt from Rising West

  RISING WEST

  Copyright © 2020 Aly Stiles

  All Rights Reserved

  CHAPTER 1

  Did I see him first? The way he breathed music and bled poetry from a stage that never saw him coming. What spotlight can hold a man who outshines its radiance? A dreamer. A legend. An anonymous shadow already etched into history… and he doesn’t even know it yet. No one does, but they will. Yes, one day the man who captured our small cluster of unsuspecting hearts will be the living, breathing cosmic gift everyone craves. They will claim him, live for him, fortify his legend beyond our time and space—but me, I will know the universe became his on a warm August night no one remembers. I will be the one who spelled his name in stars before he could admire them from a summit he never dared to imagine. His name will be epic and forever mine. If only I knew what it was.

  MASON

  “Mason West. Nice to meet you.”

  The other man’s clammy palm brushes mine, barely qualifying as a handshake. His gaze shifts over me in suspicion before darting back to a phone screen that’s clearly more important. Seedy bar? Check. Jaded, disinterested crowd? Check. A punk-ass bass player who hasn’t even shown up yet? Check. Should be a fun night.

  “Yo, Cat! Can you take care of the band?” Seedy Owner shouts while stalking toward a “Restricted Access” door without looking up from his phone. A woman taking an order at one of the tables scattered around the bar glares after him before firing a look at me. I shrug an apology, accepting her eye-roll as yet another fixture of The Fat Eagle’s ghetto charm.

  “This place is a dump,” Weasel mutters behind me. I cast my drummer a warning look, then cringe at the familiar, pungent odor emanating from him.

  “You couldn’t even wait until our break to light up?” I hiss.

  His eternal smirk lifts higher as he concentrates hard on the stick winding awkwardly between his fingers. Drums are my fourth instrument and I can do that trick with more finesse.

  “Your uptight ass needs a hit more than anyone,” he snorts out, then full-on cackles when the stick clatters to the floor.

  Breathe-two-three-four. “Just start bringing in the cases from the van, okay?”

  His face scrunches into a display of fanatical amusement I hope to never see again. “And put them where exactly?”

  Right. Guess, that’s where “Cat” comes in. I check on her status, and find her behind the bar, clearly doing anything she can to avoid taking care of the band.

  “One sec,” I say to Weasel, and start weaving through the tables. “Cat?”

  Her eyes flicker to mine in acknowledgement, then back to the very important lemon she’s slicing.

  I lean my forearms on the bar, breaching her line of sight. “Where should we set up?”

  Her knife stalls, maybe even tilts ever so slightly in my direction. “Wherever you find room?” Yep, so incredibly charming, this establishment.

  I manage a tight smile and push back from the bar, pulling in another draught of stale air. Like me, maybe this woman has also been up since five AM. Maybe she baked her ass off on a roof for nine hours, only to come home to jelly and toothpaste smeared over her entire apartment. Maybe she too is desperately clinging to the one last thing that’s still hers, even if it goes unappreciated in a rundown, practically vacant hole-in-the-wall.

  “Grab the other end,” I direct to Weasel as I grip the edge of a neglected foosball table.

  “For real?”

  “Will you just shut up and help me?”

  Weasel has maybe a quarter of my strength sober. High, he’s pretty much useless, but we manage to slide the giant fake-soccer box to the closest corner. I scan the bared space, checking for outlets and visualizing the layout of our equipment. We’ll have to dodge some pretty cagey looking dust bunnies, but with a few adjustments to our gear we can probably make this work.

  “Okay, let’s get those chairs stacked and—”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cat shrieks behind me. At least I finally got her attention.

  “Making room,” I say, lifting a cocktail table with one hand and dragging a chair with the other.

  “You can’t just wreck my bar!”

  Pretty sure anything I do to it would be an improvement. Unless they’re breeding those dust bunnies as a side business? I keep my observation to myself when I see her face. Knotted in fury, she looks ready to punch me. Thing is, I have an intimate relationship with overworked, underpaid exasperation and speak it fluently. Dragging in a long breath, I force my demeanor calm.

  “Cat, right?”

  Her arms cross, brow lifting in challenge.

  “Look, I know how busy you are. Believe me, I get it and I’m just trying to help. If you let us do it our way, we can be in and out without you lifting a finger. We’ll play our gig and put everything back where it was. Sound good?”

  I add a subtle nod to trigger her agreement—a technique that also works on preschoolers. Funny how this entire scene is basically the adult version of Brooklyn’s jelly-toothpaste meltdown an hour ago. That’s my story, though.

  Crisis. Breathe. Deal: My mantra since I was nineteen.

  “Mason, I’m pregnant.”

  “Mason, she’s dead.”

  Mason, you’re a single father without a job, home, or shred of knowledge about what the hell that means.


  Can I move a fucking foosball table six feet to the left?

  Also consistent with overworked exasperation, Cat maintains her skeptical look as she mutters a curse and leaves me to my demolition.

  “What’s her problem?” Weasel grunts.

  “We are. Just stack those chairs with the rest of the stuff so we can get set up.”

  The bass player never showed, Weasel kept the right beat at the wrong times, and I barely made enough in tips to cover the sitter’s ridiculously low fee. I did get a number from a cute girl I have no interest or time to date and shove it in my gig bag as we finish loading the van. And yes, we put everything back to the cluttered way we found it.

  Weasel is too high to drive so I have to deliver him to his parents’ house on the way to the storage unit. Interesting that unloading my drummer turns out to be way more work than unloading a van of band equipment.

  It’s well after midnight by the time I finish emptying the van. Resting against the wall of the steel cube, I study the pile of cases and gear while I catch my breath. It’s a lot smaller than it used to be, still bigger than it needs to be. After tonight, it’s probably time to face the truth: I’m a never-was who never-will. At some point I need to accept that reality and scale back to the occasional acoustic solo-gig of committed hobbyists. The thought compresses my chest, crushing the part of my heart that’s already shrunk to a sliver of what it once was. If I lock these crates away for good, what else will I lose? How do you let go of the blaze that created you?

  But I’m not a dreamer anymore. Can’t be, and musicians aren’t exactly lining up to audition for a band fronted by a broke single father who can’t devote more than a few hours a week to failed destiny. Problem is, I’m no coffee-shop folk artist either. I’m built for the lights, the adrenaline, the addictive high of locking into a moment with other bodies who breathe music like I do. I had that once. For a fraction of a minute, fantasy peddled promises I’d just started to believe when reality ripped me away for the only thing I could love more.