Do or Die (Fight or Flight #4)

by Jamie Canosa

  “So I can keep him?”

  Ashlyn groaned. He was completely impossible. “Mason, I really don’t think—”

  He held up a single finger silencing her. “There was nothing in the rental agreement I signed that said I couldn’t have pets. So technically—”

  “What rental agreement? You didn’t sign any . . .” Oh. Shit. No rental agreement meant no rules. Maybe she hadn’t thought this through entirely.

  “Come here.” Sobering, Mason took her hand.

  He had to give her a little tug to get her to move closer, but when she stumbled toward the giant beast he didn’t jump up and try to eat her face. In fact, he didn’t move a muscle. Almost as though he sensed her apprehension.

  “I’ve never been around dogs,” Ashlyn confessed. “And he’s kind of a big one. Couldn’t you start with like a Chihuahua or something?”

  One of Mason’s brows lifted. “Do I look like a Chihuahua guy to you?”

  Sweat coated her palms as Mason slowly moved her hand toward the animal. Close, closer, too close, way too close. At the last moment she ripped her hand away and took a step back. The dog’s head cocked sideways and he peered up at her.

  “It’s safe.” Mason held up his hands in surrender to show he wouldn’t try and force her again. “He’s trained.”

  “Trained how?” She kept both eyes glued to the dog—which she refused to think of as Fred.

  “I didn’t just pick him up at the local shelter. He’s a guard dog, Ash.”

  “A guard—” She struggled to split her attention between the dog and Mason. “What?”

  “He’s trained to protect his people. To keep them safe.” Mason laid his hand on the dog’s head softly stroking his fur. “We have to show him that you’re one of his people.”

  “I don’t want to be one of his people.”

  “You will if someone shows up on your front porch again,” Mason argued.

  He had a point. All night, every night she’d jumped at every little noise since the spray paint incident and now, after the whole letter delivery in the middle of the day . . . “He can stop that?”

  “Yeah. That’s his job. It’s what he’s trained for.” Mason nodded as Ashlyn took a step closer. “You think he’s scary? You’re his friend. Imagine being the person threatening his friend.”

  That . . . sounded like a very bad person to be. “Oh.”

  Squatting on the balls of her feet in case she needed to make a quick retreat, Ashlyn reached out and brushed her hand over the wiry hairs in the middle of his back far away from the Jaws of Death.

  Mason stood and offered her a hand up. With a gentle firm grip he led her across the yard towards the porch. When the dog started to follow, Mason simply told him to stay. And he stayed. No chain, no leash, he just did what he was told. Huh. He listened better than Mason.

  “Look, I get that it’s a big decision and I probably should have talked to you first, but I knew what you’d say.” Mason sighed. “I can’t be here all the time, Ash. I have classes at night. Our work schedules don’t always match up. I don’t like the idea of you being here alone. Especially after dark.” He shrugged. “I worry about you.”

  He worried about her? Well, crap. He had to go and get all sweet about it. “I don’t know the first thing about dogs.”

  “They’re pretty simple. You feed ‘em, you walk ‘em, you occasionally throw ‘em a ball . . . happy dog.”

  That didn’t sound too complicated. And there was a dog park a few blocks over. But one imperative matter still needed to be addressed. “We are not calling him Fred.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mason

  “Ashlyn?” The house was dark and Mason squinted into the shadowy corners.

  Where the hell was she? It felt as though he’d been searching forever, though he wasn’t sure why.

  “Ash?”

  “Mason?” She stood in a pool of light at the end of the hallway, her long hair hanging limp around her shoulders, dripping a puddle of water onto the carpet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for you. I thought . . . I thought you needed me.”

  “Mason?” Ashlyn looked down and his gaze followed.

  “No . . .” The handle of a large knife protruded from her belly. The pool at her feet turned crimson. “Ashlyn . . . no!”

  He raced towards her, each step a dull thud that reverberated up his shins, but no matter how fast he ran the hallway seemed to stretch into eternity. It kept going and going . . .

  “Mason,” she cried out his name and when her glassy eyes hit his, Mason’s heart rate tripled. She reached for him, the pale white of her skin standing in stark contrast to the darkness that threatened to devour her. “Please. Help me.”

  “I’m coming, Ash.” He ran harder, gasping with every breath, but she only seemed to get farther away. “Hold on. Just hold—”

  She crumpled to the ground.

  “No. Ashlyn . . .” He felt no pain when his knees hit the floor. Like an elastic band the hallway snapped back and there she was, lying right in front of him. Mason gathered her limp body into his arms and brushed the hair from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t—”

  Hot breath washed over Mason’s face followed by a cold nose and a wet tongue.

  “Uck. No. Get off.” He shoved at the heavy body lying on top of his chest and finally succeeded in dislodging it.

  A soft whine filled his ears as Mason scrubbed his face to ground himself. He was in bed, in his room, in Ashlyn’s house. And it was . . . He looked at the clock.

  “Uhhhh, hell.” Four in the morning.

  Lying on top of the twisted sheets and discarded covers at the foot of the bed was a giant furry body with two dark eyes peering back at him.

  “Come here, boy.” Mason patted the mattress. “I’m sorry.”

  Army crawling up the bed, the dog quickly made his way to Mason’s side.

  “You’re a good boy . . .” He smiled just as he had every time he used the name Ashlyn had insisted upon. “. . . Tank.”

  She’d argued that if he was a guard dog, he should at least sound like one when they were calling him in the yard. She might have had a point. No one had ever feared Fred Flintstone.

  “Okay.” He patted the dog’s head and slipped out of bed. A drink of water would help with the dryness in his mouth.

  Tank followed, nails clicking over the floorboards. At the door, he stopped. A bluish light flickered against the wall at the end of the hallway. Tank’s head lowered and his ears swiveled forward. Voices came from the living room, low and muffled, but at least one of them was male. Tank growled.

  Mason scowled at his empty nightstand. Of all the nights to leave his phone in his coat pocket . . .

  “Okay, boy,” he breathed, slipping his fingers under Tank’s collar. “Come on.”

  Together they crept down the hallway, the dog tugging Mason along, until he peeked around the corner. The harsh glare of the television nearly blinded him, but he could tell there was no one watching it. No one on the couch. No on in the kitchen. No one . . . There. A shadow stood by the window, silhouetted by the glow of a street lamp.

  “Ashlyn?”

  A high-pitched squeak burst from her lips as one hand flew to her chest and the other clutched the curtain. “Holy freaking hell, Mason. Are you trying to give a girl a heart attack?”

  “Sorry.” Letting his hands fall to his sides, he watched her catch her breath.

  “What are you doing? I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was . . . sort of. I heard voices.” His eyes drifted to the old black-and-white movie playing on the television. “Thought I should check it out.”

  “Isn’t that what the fleabag’s for?”

  “Yeah . . . well . . .” If Mason hadn’t been half asleep, he might have noticed that the dog wasn’t reacting to any kind of threat. Tank stretched out his two front legs, bowing low to the floor on an exaggerated yawn before wandering into the kitc
hen to sniff around his food bowl.

  Headlights flashed through the window, illuminating Ashlyn’s navy colored sleep shorts and the white tank she wore that rode up at her waist, exposing a strip of creamy smooth skin above her right hip. Her face was wiped clean—not a trace of makeup—and her hair was a rumpled mess from restless sleep. She’d never looked more beautiful.

  “What are you doing up? Insomnia?” It wasn’t the first time he’d known her to be awake in the middle of the night.

  Ashlyn considered the possibility before shaking her head. “More like an inadequate respect for tomorrow. I was watching a movie, but then . . .” She twisted back towards the window. “I thought I saw . . .”

  “What?” Nerves tingled along Mason’s spine as he closed the distance between them. As far as he could see, the street looked dark and quiet.

  “I thought I saw someone sitting in a car. Right there.” She pointed to an empty spot across the street. “But they’re gone now.”

  “They were just sitting out there?” Mason leaned forward, the chill from the glass brushing his skin as he peered down the deserted street. “Were they watching the house?”

  “No. I don’t know. Maybe?” Ashlyn shrugged and moved toward the couch. “I couldn’t really see. I’m probably just being paranoid.”

  Mason allowed himself to agree with her because that was what she needed to hear, but inside his own paranoia ran deep. Ashlyn plopped down, leaving enough open space for him to fit beside her. It was late, he needed to be at work in a few hours, but then again so did she. And sleep was a long way off.

  They watched the movie in silence for a while, but all Mason saw were the dark circles under Ashlyn’s eyes, the heavy droop in her shoulders, the struggle to keep her eyes open. Little-by-little, Ashlyn sank deeper into Mason’s side. By the third yawn he’d had enough.

  “You’re exhausted. Let’s go to bed.”

  “I’m noooo . . .” Her denial was undermined by yet another yawn.

  Without the makeup covering her skin, Mason could clearly see the flush creeping into her cheeks. “Wanna try that again?”

  “Alright, fine.” She snapped off the TV, plunging the room into darkness.

  Ashlyn moved through the pitch black room with ease. She could, she’d lived there for years. It wasn’t quite so easy for Mason.

  His pinky toe collided with the leg of the end table, sending him stumbling into the wall. “Ow. Shit. Dammit.”

  “You okay?” Ashlyn didn’t even bother trying to disguise her laughter.

  “I’ll survive.”

  She also didn’t bother turning on the light for him. Moving with a bit more caution, Mason caught up to her in the hallway outside her bedroom door. Her eyes churned in the glow of the moonlight coming through the window as she stared at her bed as though it were her own personal torture chamber.

  “C’mon.” Tucking a hand against her lower back, Mason ushered her forward and followed her inside.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Tucking you in.”

  Ashlyn twisted around to face him. “I’m not a—”

  “Get in bed.”

  She scowled at his persistence, but Mason had seen that look too many times to be affected by it. After a momentary stand-off, she surrendered, crawling beneath the sheets. He tugged on the heavy brown comforter, pulling it all the way up to her chin. Wide blue eyes stared up at him and with her ever-present vocal armor tucked away for the moment, she looked almost . . . vulnerable. Before he could think better of it, Mason bent at the waist to press a quick kiss to her forehead.

  “Goodnight, Ash.” He turned to go, but a small hand latched onto his. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing . . . I . . .” Straight white teeth tugged at her lower lip. “Do you . . . do you ever have nightmares?”

  Mason sighed. He knew he recognized that look in her eye. “Yeah, I do. Mostly about you.”

  Ashlyn shot him an exasperated look and he shook his head. He hadn’t meant it that way. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he kept her hand wrapped in his.

  “After everything that happened with Jay’s dad . . . and then the threats . . . You have no idea how many times you almost got woken up in the middle of the night by a call just to make sure you were alright. I thought it would get better after I moved in here, being closer, knowing you were safe, but . . .” He shrugged off the fact that he was sitting at her bedside in the middle of the night.

  “I . . . Do you . . .?” Ashlyn rolled her eyes. “I mean we’re both adults here and the bed’s more than big enough for two if we wanted to . . . ya know . . . share.”

  Mason studied her face carefully, half cloaked in darkness. “Are you asking me to sleep in here?”

  “Only if you want.” Her fingers clenched around his and he wondered if she was even aware of how tightly she was holding on to him. “Doesn’t it make sense? If we’d both sleep better that way? It’s just sleeping. It doesn’t have to be weird. You know what, never mind. It was a stupid idea. Forget I said—”

  “Stop.” When it came to shopping the girl had zero willpower, but when it came to emotional needs she could talk herself out of anything given the time. “I’d like to stay with you tonight. If you’re still okay with it.”

  She nodded slowly. “Alright.”

  Ashlyn scooted over and Mason carefully slid in beside her. She was right; the bed was more than big enough for the both of them. There was at least a foot of open space between her body and his. Part of him—a big part—wanted to keep moving over until that space was eliminated, but a smarter part warned him not to push her.

  A moment later a heavy weight landed at the foot of the bed and Ashlyn shot straight up. “Oh. no. No way. Mason, tell your mutt to get off my bed and out of my room.”

  “Sorry.” Mason grinned up at her tucking both hands behind his head. “We’re a package deal.”

  After several minutes of useless, half-hearted pushing Tank had moved a grand total of nowhere. Ashlyn flopped back on the bed and groaned, “I’m going to regret this.”

  ***

  When buzzing from Ashlyn’s nightstand woke him again, Mason stretched to shut off the alarm and blinked at the mass of blonde hair spread across his chest. Apparently Ashlyn’s sleep hadn’t been quite as deep as his own. She’d done a lot of moving around. Her head lay pillowed on his shoulder, her front plastered to his side with her arm draped across his waist. She was warm. And soft. And very, very sweet. When she was asleep.

  The moment she woke, Ashlyn rolled to her back, threw both arms up over her head, and roared a yawn that should have declared her king of the jungle.

  Mason jolted and she peeked up at him. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “No, but what the hell was that?” Even Tank was staring at her from the foot of the bed.

  “Me.” A sleepy half-smile tugged at her lips. “Waking up.”

  Mason laughed. “Do you always wake up like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a wild beast.”

  One of her brows inched up toward her hairline. Golden strands covered the pillow in every direction and he gave up trying to hide his smile. Of course she did. Ashlyn Mills was a wild beast. His smile slowly faded as he watched the stress move back into her face. She was a wild beast that someone had tried to tame. Put on display. And made sick in the process.

  If it was the last thing he did, he was going to find a way to set her free.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ashlyn

  “No. Get down. I mean it, Tank. Get . . . argh!” The one thing the dog just could not be trained to do was stay off the furniture. Not only did he climb on the couch every chance he got, but he’d stretch out and take up the whole damn thing. Already sitting on it? He didn’t mind. He’d just lay right on top of you. “Tank, I can’t feel my arm. Seriously. You have to—”

  Ashlyn’s phone started ringing in the kitchen and her head hit the back of the couch with an only slightly painfu
l thunk.

  “Fine.” She wiggled sideways, attempting to free herself of the dog’s substantial weight. “You win. The couch is yours.”

  Muttering about furry menaces, she shook out her left hand on her way into the kitchen, trying to restore feeling to her fingertips. The phone jumped and bounced on top of the microwave. Ashlyn groaned. Six names made up her contacts list; Mom, Dad, Mason, Em, Jay, and Bart. The rules were simple. If a call didn’t come from someone on that list, she didn’t answer. A seventh name had been added recently and she was beginning to regret it.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Mills?” With a name like Mary Lou Ellens, you couldn’t help but expect everything that came out of her mouth to have a southern twang, but the D.A.’s voice was as perfectly clipped as any self-respecting city dweller.

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad I finally reached you.” Ashlyn detected a hint of irritation in the woman’s voice. She may or may not have let the last few calls go to voicemail. And never listened to them. “We have a problem.”

  This was why Ashlyn preferred not to answer the phone. No one ever called with good news. “What problem?”

  “To be blunt . . . your mother.”

  “My mother?” Never should have answered. Why did she even have a phone? She was calling the company this afternoon and having it disconnected. No more phone, no more problems. “What about my mother?”

  “She’s been making some rather . . . inflammatory remarks regarding the case. The defendant in particular.”

  “So? The guy’s a scum-sucking dirtbag child abuser.” Anything anyone said about him couldn’t be worse than the truth.

  “He’s an alleged scum-sucking dirtbag child abuser.” Mary Lou clarified. “The trial hasn’t even begun yet and that’s the problem. The defense is arguing that defamatory statements from someone as influential as a senator are polluting the jury pool.”

  “How so?”

  “These people voted for your mother. They believe what she believes. If she says he’s guilty . . . The defense is petitioning for a change of venue.”