Do or Die (Fight or Flight #4)

by Jamie Canosa

  Lorraine delivered their plates along with a couple glasses of water. Ashlyn wasn’t entirely sure what the wink she gave her was supposed to mean, but decided to let it go. The food was hot and greasy and everything a place like Bart’s promised to be. She didn’t eat it often—not wanting heart disease before she turned thirty—but when she did it never failed to impress.

  Ketchup squirted from the back of her bun and plopped on her plate. Roger used a fry to scoop it up. They talked and laughed about people they both knew. Ashlyn shared stories from working at Bart’s that seemed to horrify and fascinate Roger in equal measure. The thirty minute break passed quickly and Ash realized she was actually enjoying herself. Roger was a funny guy and it was nice to have someone who knew that other side of her life to talk to in a no-stress environment.

  “I’ve got to get back to work, but it was really nice seeing you.”

  “I had fun,” Roger agreed. “Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

  “Sure.” Ashlyn tied her apron back around her neck and patted the front pockets to be sure she had her pad and pen handy. “You know where to find me.”

  “I was thinking maybe somewhere else.” Roger stood, dropping a fifty in the middle of the table that covered both their bills and left Lorraine a tip she’d be gushing about for weeks. “Dinner at Vincent’s?”

  “Um . . .” Vincent’s? As in proposal, wedding anniversary, special occasion, super romantic Vincent’s? “Like . . . a date?”

  That smile was back. “I wouldn’t mind calling it that.”

  “Listen, Rog . . .” Ashlyn’s stomach knotted. Damn, things had been going so well, but then he had to go and complicate it. “I really like the idea of us being friends, but . . .”

  “I get it.” The smile vanished and a shadow crept over his face. “Which one is it? Preston or the guy you brought to the gala? It’s hard to keep your boyfriends straight these days.”

  Shock dropped Ashlyn’s jaw.

  “Excuse me?” Rude wasn’t usually part of Roger’s personality, but she was seeing all different sides of him today. “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Right . . .” He nodded abruptly. “. . . because who pays attention to a nice guy when there are assholes all around?”

  Ashlyn bristled. “Mason is not an—”

  “So it’s Mason, then,” Roger surmised.

  The background noise dimmed and Ashlyn got the distinct impression that they’d gained an audience. “It’s not—”

  “You’re making a mistake. A guy like that . . . I’m only trying to help you, but you refuse to be helped.” His finger wagged in her face and it took every ounce of self-control Ashlyn possessed not to snap it off and shove it down his throat. “You’re going to get hurt.”

  Her mouth opened and closed several times, but no more words were forthcoming. She watched in silence as he strode toward the door and before the burst of cold air from his departure could make its way to where she stood, her pocket started vibrating.

  “Crap.” She wrestled her phone out, dropping a pen and a hair tie on the floor in the process, and glanced at the caller ID.

  Double crap.

  ***

  A sinking feeling tugged at Ashlyn’s innards. Spinning. Like everything in her was being flushed down a drain. “Mom, please, just listen.”

  “No, you listen, Ashlyn Sophia Mills. You deliberately disobeyed me and now—”

  “Disobeyed?” What was this, the sixteenth century? “You don’t own me, Mom. I don’t work for you. I don’t have to obey your every command.”

  “Is that so?” Not good. When her mother’s tone got calm like that it was almost always not good.

  Ashlyn’s fingers clenched around the steering wheel and she thanked her lucky stars that she was sitting in the parking lot outside Bart’s and not on the road somewhere. “Please try to understand. My friends need me. This is important—”

  “I needed you, Ashlyn. Your mother needed you.”

  Guilt slithered through her gut. “That’s not fair.”

  If there was one thing Ashlyn couldn’t stand it was passive-aggressive bullshit. Yell, scream—hell, slap her if the situation warranted it—but guilt-trips she couldn’t bear. And her mother knew it.

  “I agree.”

  “Please . . .” Ashlyn dropped her head, cradling it in the bend of her arm. “. . . don’t.”

  Whether her plea was muffled by the sleeves of her sweatshirt or her mother simply chose to ignore it the end result was the same.

  “Your entire life, I’ve always made sure you’ve had the best of everything. The best schools, the best clothes, the best experience, the best professional contacts . . . Your father and I set you up for life and you chose to throw that all away.”

  Ashlyn’s knuckles ached with the force of her grip. “Mom, I don’t want—”

  “It’s your life, Ashlyn.” That was a revelation. Ashlyn’s head jerked back and she blinked at the phone, but her mother wasn’t finished. “If you never want to make anything of yourself, if you want to be a part-time waitress at some dump serving up warm beer and cold fries to truckers in greasy ball caps and stained shirts for the rest of your life, that’s your decision. God knows you’ve never made good ones.”

  Ashlyn shut her eyes and took a steadying breath before counting silently to ten. The senator was all aboard the emotional attack locomotive, barreling down the track full-speed ahead. If she wanted to avoid a head-on collision, it was time to veer onto the logic rail. “This isn’t like asking me to schmooze or make a public appearance. The man I’m trying to help put away is violent, he hurts people. If he gets away with it, people I care about will be in danger.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Her mother sniffed. “Now someone you obviously do not care about is in danger of losing everything she’s ever worked for.”

  Ashlyn groaned. The crazy train was about to crash and burn and all she could do was hold on tight and brace for it.

  “I think it’s high time you understood exactly what it is you’ve been taking for granted up until now. No more.”

  “I . . .” Ashlyn’s mind blanked. “What?”

  “You heard me. No more allowance. No more financial aid of any kind until you stop this nonsense and take a good long look at your priorities, young lady.”

  “I . . .” What?

  “Goodbye, Ashlyn. Call me when you’re ready to see reality. You may hate it, you may wish it wasn’t true . . . but you need me.”

  A click followed by silence and Ashlyn stared at the phone in disbelief.

  What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ashlyn

  “Nope. Not that one.”

  Em’s impatient growl was cute. It was the third straight dress that Ashlyn had vetoed, but as maid of honor she felt it was her duty to make sure the bride didn’t go through her big day wearing something with fraying seams. They were at one of the more bohemian second hand shops downtown. A choice that Ashlyn found interesting.

  Em’s style generally included whatever the hell she could afford. Oversized sweaters, holey jeans . . . Half her wardrobe consisted of whatever Jay bought and she borrowed. Not that she didn’t totally rock every last outfit, but Ashlyn enjoyed getting this sneak peek into what her friend would choose for herself given the chance. This particular dress—like the two before it—however, simply wouldn’t do.

  “Try again.”

  “Ash,” Em groaned. “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “You see that thread right there?” Ashlyn pointed to a long sting hanging from the conservative neckline. “That gets pulled and the whole thing will unravel. You want to be standing in front of everyone butt naked?”

  Em fingered the string and her shoulders dropped. Guilt settled over Ashlyn. This was supposed to be fun, but Em looked miserable.

  “You’re going about it wrong. Stop picking dresses based on the price tag and find one that you love.”

  �
�I can’t—”

  “You can.” Ashlyn pulled back the curtain to the fitting room. “Go change.”

  When Em reemerged she had the offensive dress draped over her arm. Ashlyn took it from her and swept her arm out across the shop.

  “You came in here for a reason . . . Go find it. If price was no object, what would you choose?”

  Em’s finger traveled upward to wrap in a strand of hair as her eyes drifted over the cluttered shop. Racks of clothing were arraigned in no discernable pattern. Hats, scarves, bags, and shoes filled bins to overflowing here, there, and everywhere. A headless manikin stood near the front window with its arms stretched upward, and the faint scent of time and incense lingered in the air.

  Em sighed. “Ash—”

  “Humor me.” It wasn’t lost on Ashlyn that Em and Jay had more important things to spend their money on than nice clothes, but every girl deserved to feel like a princess on her wedding day.

  “Oh, fine.”

  Hangers squealed sharply over the round metal bar of a free-standing rack as Em browsed, lifting and replacing one garment after the next. Behind her, a full length mirror hung on the wall, half buried beneath a display of feather boas, and Ashlyn caught an unfortunate glimpse of her reflection. The new bargain brand shampoo she’d been using made her hair look limp and fatigue clouded her eyes. Stressed wasn’t a very good look for her.

  Em lifted a pure white sundress from the rack and held it at arm’s length. A slow smile spread across her face. Ding, ding, they had a winner.

  Before Em could talk herself out of it, Ashlyn hurried over and pushed her towards the dressing room. “Try it on.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Quit being a pain in my ass and just try the damn thing on. Please?”

  Em sighed, but the smile lingered as she followed her marching orders and disappeared behind the curtain.

  The counter at the front of the shop was unmanned, so Ashlyn wandered through the maze until she found a woman kneeling near the back unpacking a box of costume jewelry. Rounded mirrors set near the ceiling offered a clear view of the dressing room and the front door.

  Ashlyn kept one eye on the drawn curtain. “When the girl in there comes out and asks you how much that dress is, you’re going to tell her it’s sixty dollars.”

  The sales woman glanced at the mirror and her lip curled. A pair of fake emerald earrings that looked similar to the real pair Ashlyn had pawned the week before dangled from her finger as she eyed Ash like a speck of dirt. “The dress she took in there is a hundred-and-twenty-five dollars. If you don’t have it, I suggest you shop elsewhere.”

  Ashlyn rolled her eyes—for a glorified thrift shop cashier she sure thought highly of herself—and dug in her bag for her wallet. There was two-hundred-thirty-six dollars and sixty-three cents left over from her last paycheck. The electric bill was waiting at home. Phone bill would be coming any day now. And the mortgage was due at the end of the month, but sixty-five dollars wasn’t going to make or break that. She meticulously counted each dollar before handing them over. “Sixty dollars. And not one word about this.”

  The woman counted the money again, as if she hadn’t just watched Ashlyn do it and took her sweet-ass time moving toward the counter. “Writing up two separate receipts for one item is going to screw up my inventory logs.”

  “Yeah, well . . . life’s hard.” Of the combined problems of everyone in that shop, Ashlyn was guessing that an extra receipt ranked somewhere near dead last.

  The woman tore a thin strip of paper from the register and slapped it down on the glass plated countertop just as Em pulled back the curtain. Ashlyn grabbed it and stuffed it in her pocket as she turned to face her friend.

  “Oh, Em!” Stunning. She looked absolutely stunning. “You look like a princess.”

  Em laughed, the shin length skirt floating up around her as she twirled in front of the mirror. The halter design exposed her back to just above the waistline, adding to its elegance, while a floral lace overlay gave it a vintage feel.

  Pink tinged Em’s cheeks when she sobered, running her hands over the material and taking one last look in the mirror. “I can’t afford this.”

  Ashlyn met her friend’s reflected gaze. “How do you know?”

  “There’s no price tag.” Em lifted her arms to either side. “That means it has to be expensive.”

  “Ask,” Ashlyn urged.

  Round and round and round her finger went in the lock of hair hanging over her shoulder.

  “Excuse me.” Not waiting for her friend to work up the courage, Ashlyn waved the sales woman over. “How much is this?”

  The woman looked from her, to Em, and back again. “It’s sixty dollars.”

  “Really?” Em looked stunned. The other shitty dresses she’d tried on were all in the eighty dollar range.

  “Really.” The sales woman rolled her eyes.

  If Em noticed, she wasn’t dumb enough to question it. “I’ll take it.”

  ***

  Ashlyn stood on the front porch, waving as Em backed out of the driveway, wincing slightly when the left rear tire bumped over the curb onto the street. She’d only recently gotten her license and she was still getting the hang of it.

  Small mounds of snow sat half melted in the yard, but she could see the first shoots of green coming up between them. The sun was shining. Heat seeped into her sink, unknotting some of her tighter muscles and Ashlyn turned, leaning against the railing to let it warm her shoulders. Someday she was moving to the desert. With every snowflake that fell she swore it.

  Beside the door her mailbox was bursting with envelopes. Most—if not all of them—from people who wanted her money. It was becoming a problem. One that she was beginning to realize wouldn’t go away if she just ignored it.

  Setting aside the more depressing mail, Ashlyn took a seat at the kitchen table with a single envelope that had sparked her interest. She turned it over and over in her hands. It was thick, expensive stationary, but there was no stamp, no return address. There was no address at all. Just her name, Ashlyn Mills, printed in plain black computer ink.

  Curiosity outweighing common sense, she broke the seal.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mason

  Big fat raindrops plunked against the windshield. April showers bring May flowers, or so they said, but Mason would have happily foregone the colors of spring if he could go out even once this month without getting soaked to the bone.

  An obnoxious wail cut through the steady pitter-patter. If the idiot behind him honked one more time, Mason was ready to throw his truck in reverse and ram him. Where the hell did he want him to go? An ocean of brake lights lit up the road ahead.

  Buzzing started in the passenger seat and the theme song to his favorite old-school cartoon filled the space between horn blares. Mason dumped the truck into park—he wasn’t going anywhere anyway—and reached for his phone. A picture of Ashlyn lit up the screen. A candid shot she didn’t know he’d taken and would probably insist he delete if she ever saw it. It was Mason’s favorite. The godawful Bart’s apron hung around her neck and wild hair was plastered to her cheeks, but she was smiling at something Em had said and she looked . . . happy.

  He’d taken it back when they all worked together. Mason missed those days, but things had gotten complicated. That was mostly his fault. It didn’t matter, though. School would be over in less than a year and then he’d be on his way, starting ground-floor at his parents’ company just like everyone else and earning his way up. He’d looked forward to the challenge for a long time.

  Sliding his finger over the glass, Mason lifted the phone and sank back into his seat. “Hey. I’m on my way home, but I’m stuck in—”

  “Mason.” Her voice sounded as though it had been squeezed through a straw and he could hear her panting on the other end of the line.

  “Ash?” He straightened. “What’s the matter?”

  “I . . . um . . .” An audible swallow told him they were o
n dangerous ground.

  The guy behind him honked again, but Mason didn’t have time for his bullshit. The technical term for what Ashlyn did was called ‘purging’. Mason had done his homework. Countless hours spent browsing endless websites on the subject. There was some disturbing stuff out there, but he’d screwed things up royally with Lucy. This was too important—Ash was too important—to get it wrong again.

  “Talk to me. What happened?”

  In most cases it seemed purging was used as a way to eliminate calories after binge eating to avoid weight gain; a strategy that had recently been proven ineffective, not to mention dangerous. That wasn’t Ash. She didn’t pick at food like a bird the way some girls did, but she never over ate either. He’d always admired her healthy appetite and her ability to go wing-for-wing with him on buffalo nights at the Pizza Palace. Never once had she gone running for the closest bathroom after one of those.

  No, Ashlyn was part of a smaller percentage that used purging to eliminate feelings. Negative emotions that she let build up inside of her. She buried them—locked them away behind a beautiful smile and a sharp tongue—until she couldn’t contain it anymore. All that negativity had to go somewhere, so she found a way to expel it without having to rely on anyone but herself.

  Now she was relying on him.

  “I got a letter.”

  “Okay.” Mason shifted into drive, creeping forward the grand total of three feet of space that had built up between him and the car in front of him. The gray sky flashed and thunder rolled over him. “Who was it from?”

  Keep it simple. She wasn’t great at opening up, so he aimed to make it as easy as possible for her.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I think . . .” A quiet sniffle and he knew she’d been crying. Maybe she still was. Mason dropped his head back against the headrest and ground his teeth. What he wouldn’t give to be there to wipe away her tears. “ . . . I think it was him, Mas. The guy who spray painted my house.”

  “Where are you? Are you home right now? Alone? Is the door locked? Are you okay?” Dammit. Reports of flooding had been playing on the radio when he left work. Why hadn’t he taken a different route?