by Jamie Canosa
Mason stepped into him, drawing his arm up even higher until Preston’s mouth snapped shut. “You don’t talk to her like that. Apologize. Now.”
“Mason, please . . . Please don’t.” She grabbed his thumb and yanked, finally succeeding in breaking his grasp.
Preston took a quick step away and shook out his arm. He looked pissed.
For the love of god, do not piss him off.
Ashlyn’s throat closed. Heat swelled as though she’d stepped inside a furnace and a sheen of sweat broke out across her forehead and palms. Her gaze bounced from one exit to the next. The walls were closing in on her. She needed to go. She needed to get the hell out of there right now. If she could just get outside . . . But she couldn’t. She couldn’t run. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t breathe.
“Preston, I’m so sorry. He didn’t mean to . . . I didn’t . . .” Deep breaths. She needed to keep it together for a few more minutes. Long enough to do some damage control. “I apologize for—”
“No need to apologize.” The salacious twist of his lips could hardly be called a smile. “Just kiss it and make it better.”
“Wh-what?” Ashlyn sputtered.
“You heard me. Give me a kiss and I might not have to tell my grandfather about all of this.”
A low keening noise reached Ashlyn’s ears and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from her.
“Ash . . .” Mason tugged on her elbow. “Let’s go.”
She took a step back and Preston lifted his chin. “Oh look, there he is, speaking with your mother. It looks like she’s doing a fine job of charming him.”
Senator Harding stood near the podium beside her mother. She had her hand on his arm and as Ashlyn watched, he laughed at something she said.
Senator Harding’s support is the key to nailing down this election.
“It would be a shame if your boyfriend here ruined all her hard work. My grandfather doesn’t take lightly to physical violence.”
Chapter Eleven
Mason
The shot of whiskey he’d taken back at Ashlyn’s house ignited Mason’s gut. “You son of a—”
Ashlyn took two steps and without hesitating pressed her lips to Preston’s. Mason was too shocked to respond. Even when the scumbag wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, refusing to let her retreat when she tried. But when he copped a feel of her ass that did it. Mason lunged only to be brought up short by small hand slapping against his chest.
“Let’s go.” Ash tangled her fingers in his lapel and tugged him away in the opposite direction. When his brain caught up with him, he stalled and she tugged again. “Please, Mason, keep walking.”
“Are you alright?” Her face was pale and her eyes had taken on a shine.
“Yeah, I just . . .” Ashlyn’s jaw clenched and he watched as she swallowed convulsively.
Without another word, she turned away and her heels clicked over the floor as she pushed and shoved her way through the crowd. Mason tried to catch her, but he was bigger and people didn’t clear out of his way as quickly as they did for a pretty girl. By the time he caught up the door to the women’s restroom was being slammed in his face.
Mason’s fingers curled and stretched at his sides as he paced the vacant hallway. If she hadn’t gotten in the way, he would have suckered punched that asshole right in the mouth. How dare he talk to Ashlyn that way? How dare he put his hands on her?
Mason growled. Voices and music carried from the ballroom, but he was alone. Five steps to the right. Pause. Five to the left.
And she kissed him? That asshat? Something sickeningly close to jealousy crept over him as Mason’s eyes drifted to the scrolling letters inscribed in the thick wooden door. She’d been in there a while. No one else had come or gone. He needed to know she was okay.
The door swung inward without a sound. Mason glanced down the hall, but it was still empty so he stepped inside. Cream colored tiles were decorated with a black floral pattern alone the ceiling. A small, uncomfortable looking sofa sat against the far wall. What the hell did girls need a sofa in a bathroom for? Gold framed mirrors hung above each of the four separate sinks and to the left were three stalls.
Mason crouched to peek underneath. No feet, but he did spot Ashlyn kneeling on the floor. The door stood open an inch allowing him to hear the soft gagging noises she was making, followed by a frustrated grunt.
“Ash, are you—?” He nudged the door open and froze.
Hunched over the toilet, she had fingers shoved deep into the back of her throat. He watched as her entire body jerked with the force of her gag reflex and a foul stench accompanied the up-chuck she hurled into the bowl.
What. The. Hell. “What are you doing?”
“M-mason.” All the color drained from Ashlyn’s face. Slamming the lid down, she flushed away the evidence of her shame. “G-get out. I’m sick. I . . . I don’t want you to catch it.”
“Don’t worry.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth. “I don’t think bulimia’s contagious.”
“What?” She gasped, scrabbling deeper into the narrow crevice between the toilet and the wall, as though she could hide from him. Make him forget what he’d just witnessed.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Anger vibrated through each syllable.
“N-no. I don’t—”
“Then you must think I’m blind.”
Her eyes darted past him, noting the way he filled the doorway. She wasn’t going anywhere until he got some straight answers out of her. “No.”
“Good. Now that that’s settled, why don’t we cut the crap and just tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Mason . . .” She pressed one hand to the lid of the toilet and the other to the stall wall. Her legs shook as she lifted herself to standing and he worried she might fall in those heels. “I don’t know what—”
“Let’s not forget the ‘not stupid’ part of this conversation.” He took a single step closer, in part to catch her if she did fall and partly to make it clear he was serious. This wasn’t something she was going to bullshit her way out of.
Some color returned to her face, concentrated in her cheeks. “Get out of my way.”
“Not until you start talking. Ash . . . what you’re doing is—”
“Not here.” Her hands landed on his chest, fisting the material of his shirt. “Please. Mason. Not here.”
Jet black lashes flashed over glassy blue eyes and her lips trembled around the words. Shit. They were in a public restroom at a public event where her mother was guest of honor. Anyone could walk in on them at any moment. Friends, family, reporters. Ashlyn was frantically trying to hold herself together. This conversation was going to happen, but she was right, this wasn’t the time or place.
“Okay.” He nodded and her grip eased a fraction. “Let’s get out of here.”
Mason waited by the door as she washed her hands and brushed her teeth with a tiny disposable toothbrush she’d had packed away in her bag. When she was ready, he took her hand and escorted her down the corridor. He told himself it was in case Preston showed up again. That he did it to offer her support. To steady her shaky steps. But, in truth, he probably needed the contact more than she did. Seeing her like that—so upset, so vulnerable, hurting—it did things to him.
As they near the entry to the ballroom Ashlyn’s steps slowed. “I have to ask my mother—”
“Screw your mother.” Mason lacked an ounce of sympathy for the woman. Ash looked ready to fall apart at any moment. “You did what she asked, what he asked, let’s just go.”
“I have to find her. I have to—”
“Ash.”
“Mason.” She looked . . . desperate.
“Alright. Let’s find her, then.” He squeezed her hand and reserved comment on the way hers trembled.
***
The drive home had been brutally quiet. A million questions pressed against Mason’s lips, but Ashlyn’s anxious glances at the driver in the front seat kept them sea
led. Now they sat together at Ashlyn’s kitchen table and there was nothing to delay any longer.
“What happened, Ash? It’s like I didn’t even recognize you tonight.”
She couldn’t even bring herself to look at him. Eyes downcast, she sat silently scraping at the polish on her nails.
When she failed to respond, Mason pushed. “You let that asshole put his hands on you.”
A crimson stain spread up her throat and across her cheeks. “You don’t understand.”
“No. I don’t. And then in the bathroom—”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were on the floor, shoving fingers down your throat!” The memory alone was enough to bring his temper flaring back to life.
“It’s not like that,” Ashlyn cried, her eyes finally meeting his with some of that old fire in them. “I don’t have a body image problem. It’s not some kind of screwed up diet plan. I’m not doing it to lose weight.”
“No.” He knew exactly why she did it. “You’re doing it to gain control.”
“I—” She blinked at him. Ashlyn Mills stunned speechless . . . there was a first time for everything.
“Ashlyn.” Slipping from his seat, Mason hunkered down in front of her. “Talk to me. You may not be the textbook definition of bulimic, but this . . . Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Why?”
“Yeah. Why, Ash? We’ve known each other how long? And you still can’t trust me with your problems?” The hurt dug deeper than it should have.
“This is not a problem, Mason. Jay’s father beat the crap out of him. Em’s uncle raped her, for chrissakes. Those are problems.”
“And you’re mother has kept you trapped inside a tiny glass cage for years. That’s a problem for you, Ash. It’s so much of a problem that it’s got you hurting yourself just to feel in control of your own life. And that’s a problem for me.”
“Why?” Defeat radiated from her like a noxious cloud. “Why do you even care?”
“Because you’re my friend. Because—” A rough hand tore through his hair, planting firmly against his scalp. That was bullshit. If he was asking her to be open with him, how could he offer any less in return? “Because I care about you, Ashlyn.”
“I’m not your responsibility, Mason . . .” Red-rimmed eyes peered down at him. “You don’t want any part of this. Trust me. There is something fundamentally fucked up with me.”
“You’re not fucked up, Ash. You’re stressed out.” Probably the understatement of the century, but accurate enough. The girl took all of her emotions and boxed them up so tight that it was inevitable that they’d burst out on occasion. This was simply the manifestation of that particular character flaw. “All you need is a better outlet.”
Ashlyn bowed her head, burying her face in her hands.
“Don’t.” Mason wrapped his fingers around hers, drawing them away from her face. “Don’t hide from me.”
“You think I want to be this way?” Ashlyn’s voice rose. “That I don’t realize how screwed up this is? That I haven’t tried to stop? To find another way? You don’t understand.”
“You keep saying that, but I don’t hear you trying to explain it to me.”
Ashlyn huffed. “You want to know why I do what my mother says? Why I give her that control? Why I let her make decisions for me? Because I make bad ones.”
“That’s not true. You just have to trust yourself enough to—”
“Really? You wanna know the one decision, the one thing I chose for myself in the past four years?” Her momentary pause was for effect only. “Harrison.”
Her POC hunk of junk that caused way more trouble than it was worth, yet she refused to be rid of. Well, that was . . . unfortunate. And it made a hell of a lot more sense now.
“Sometimes it’s all just . . .” Ash took a staggering breath and tugged at her hands like she wanted to hide again, but Mason wasn’t allowing it. They were having an open discussion, something real and raw. The kind of thing Ashlyn had a tendency to run from, but not this time. “. . . too much. Everything builds up and I can’t . . . I don’t know how to . . .”
“You want to find another release? Let it be me.”
No response. Her eyes glued to their joined hands.
“Let me help you. Please.” He’d beg for the opportunity if that’s what it took. “If you need me, I’m here. I promise. Whatever you need to feel in control, we’ll work it out. We’ll find a better way.”
Taking both of her hands in one of his, he used the other to tip her chin up. Damp blue eyes collided with his and he felt the impact clear down to his soul.
“Okay.” The word came across so soft that he more read it on her lips than actually heard it.
His thumb brushed over her cheek. “Okay?”
“Okay.” She nodded, her voice more firm this time. “We’ll try it your way.”
Chapter Twelve
Ashlyn
“Ashlyn?” Lorraine stood near the bar, tapping her pen against her order pad.
Ash finished passing out two glasses of iced tea and one beer to a trio of guys dressed in bright orange vests. “What’s up?”
“There’s a guy seated in my section, but he’s asking for you.”
“He’s asking for me?” Her customer service skills weren’t so brilliant that in two years she’d ever been personally requested as a server before. “Who?”
“He’s in the back near the window. Looks like he’s got money.” Lorraine tugged at a black curl as she trailed after Ashlyn. “So . . . if he’s seated in my section . . . does that still mean I get the tip?”
Ashlyn stopped and turned to face the girl. Maybe seventeen, she’d been pulling after school and weekend shifts for the past three weeks. She was pretty enough to get Bart to hire her without any references or experience, so it had been up to Ash to train her.
“Generally, no, but . . .” Hell, the kid could probably use it. “Just this time.”
“Thanks.”
A woman sitting near the bar waved at them. “Better go check on table three.”
Lorraine twisted in the wrong direction and scanned a row of empty tables before Ashlyn turned her around and sent her on her way. The training wasn’t going well. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t stick around long. No one ever did. The depressing fact of the matter was that Ashlyn was the longest standing employee Bart’s had ever know, other than Bart himself.
The soles of her sneakers stuck to the floor as she made her way to the back of what passed for a dining room. Over the back of the booth all she could make out of the customer was a head of black hair tinted blue by the glow of the neon sign in the window.
Slapping an order pad against her palm, Ashlyn stepped up to the table. “How can I—? Roger?”
She almost didn’t recognize him in dark wash jeans and a navy button up. The thick glasses had been swapped out for wire rim one and his hair, which she’d only ever seen sliced back, hung wild and disheveled across his forehead. This was a much better look for him.
“Ashlyn?” His surprise threw her. Hadn’t he asked for her by name? “I . . . You really do work here?”
“Um . . .” No was the answer she wanted to give, but the apron and order pad would be a little hard to explain away. “Yep. How did you know?”
“Someone mentioned . . . I didn’t actually believe it until just now, though.”
Fantastic. If she had to guess, she’d put her money on that ‘someone’ being Preston. Her job at Bart’s wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers. If word got around in her mother’s circles . . . Ashlyn groaned. “Who else knows?”
“No one.” Roger sifted on the cracked plastic. “I mean . . . I overheard it as a rumor, but I don’t think anyone actually believes it. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
She didn’t feel like working for a living was something she should be ashamed of. She wasn’t hooking in a dirty alley for chrissakes. But there it was anyway. “Thanks, Rog.”
�
�Do you have a minute?” He indicated the bench across from him.
Ashlyn scanned the room. The construction crew dumped a pile of bills on their table and headed for the exit. A quiet thunk of a dart hitting the wall outside of the bullseye sounded and Joey—a regular who spent most days with his ass planted on a stool at the bar—cursed out loud. A man and woman sat together at the bar and a couple other tables were occupied, but they were all in Lorraine’s section.
“Sure. Why not? Can I get you something to eat?”
“Is there anything here that won’t kill me?” A smile softened his words.
Ashlyn laughed. “Probably not, but the fries are more of a slow death.”
She put in the order, tacking on a bacon cheeseburger for herself, and informed Bart that she was taking her lunch break even though it was barely eleven in the morning before sliding into the booth opposite Roger.
“It’s really strange seeing you here.” Ash shook her head, still struggling to reconcile two separate parts of her life colliding. “Dressed like that.”
Roger’s smile looked like something out of a dentist’s ad. It was weird that she’d never noticed that before. “Did you think I wore a tux every day?”
Ashlyn’s nod was sincere. “Slept in ‘em, too.”
The song ended and the mechanical whirl of the jukebox swapping between records filled the silence. Most businesses upgraded to digital music over the last decade, but not Bart’s. Here it was antique vinyl all day, every day with antique music to match.
“So what are you doing here?” A David Bowie song started playing. At least it wasn’t all bad. “Just came to see if the rumors were true?”
Roger shrugged. “I’m glad they were.”
“Why?” Because now he had something to hold over her? Being blackmailed by one pompous jerk wasn’t enough?
“Because now I get to have lunch with you.”
“Oh.” So maybe her jerk-dar was a little faulty lately. Cynical wasn’t a word she liked to think described her, but maybe it wasn’t far off.
