by Jamie Canosa
Now they were getting somewhere. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
Mason sat beside her and Ashlyn tipped into his side. She stayed there, pressed against his arm, quietly clinging until he touched her knee.
“I want you to stay.” Her whispered confession was nearly swallowed up by the air flowing through the vent near the floor.
“Good.” Mason pried her fingers from his wrist only to thread them through his. “Because there’s nowhere else I want to be.”
“It’s not that simple,” she argued, but to him it was. It was exactly that simple.
“What do you mean? You want me to stay. I want to stay. What isn’t simple about that?”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Ashlyn
He didn’t get it. Nothing was ever that simple. Especially with her.
Ashlyn sat straighter and started chipping away at the paint on her nails. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered to paint them at all. “I was seventeen. I was angry, and stubborn, and . . . an idiot.”
She’d been so desperate for her mother’s attention, she’d done just about anything to get it. Good, bad, and crazy.
“I started hanging out with this older crowd, smoking, drinking . . . We were out late one night.” Way past a curfew no one had ever bothered to enforce. “This guy I was sort of seeing at the time . . . we got in a fight. I decided it was time to go home. I’d been drinking. A lot. But that didn’t stop me from getting behind the wheel of my car. I was drunk, and upset, and half-asleep, and . . .” Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach. “I didn’t see that I’d drifted into the wrong lane until headlights started flashing in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and cut the wheel. I ended up in a ditch with a broken collar bone and a hell of a headache. The man who was driving the other car got me out and called an ambulance. I was lying there on the side of the road with this stranger holding me in his lap and his wife . . . His wife was standing on the sidewalk. With their children.”
Ashlyn couldn’t breathe. It felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Now he knew. Now Mason would see her as the horrible, selfish monster she knew she was. Not worthy of his time or his friendship. Not worthy of him.
“Jesus Christ, Ash. That’s what you’ve been wrestling with? This whole time? All alone? That’s what haunts your dreams?” Mason’s hushed voice didn’t hold the horror and disgust it should have. Instead she heard . . . pity? He didn’t understand.
“I’ll never forget the looks on their faces. A little boy clinging to her leg, calling for his daddy. Baby girl in her arms, crying. I was driving drunk and I came so close to hitting them head on. I could have killed them. That entire family. Those kids.”
Ashlyn swallowed hard and Mason tightened his grip on her. “What happened? After?”
“I could have been locked up. I should have been locked up. My mother took care of it. Called in some favors and made the whole thing disappear. A few days in the hospital and it was like it had never happened. But it did.” Ashlyn’s breath hitched and she swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. “That was the end of it. No more shitty friends, no more acting out, no more being irresponsible. But I didn’t trust myself to make the right decisions, so I let my mom make them for me. All of them. Where I went, what I wore, who I talked to . . . everything.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Mason
Mason’s throat ached from the force it required to hold back the string of profanity edging to the surface. “Your mother took care of it when she should have been taking care of you. You needed help dealing with it, counseling. Not a cover-up. Don’t you see? She took advantage, Ash. She took one mistake and held it over you, used it to manipulate you. For years.”
She’d laid on the guilt so heavily she’d flattened her own child.
Ashlyn stiffened. “A mistake is forgetting what time to be somewhere or spilling your drink on someone. I almost killed people.”
“Ashlyn . . .” His hand wrapped around the back of her neck silky strands of hair tickling his fingers. “That was a long time ago. You were a kid who made stupid decisions.”
“Dangerous decisions.”
“I can’t argue that,” he agreed. “But you know what you did. You own it. You’ve learned from it. You’re not that person anymore.”
If only she could see that.
Ashlyn’s chin dropped, her hair fanning out like a curtain across her face.
“I’m broken, Mason.” She lifted her hand when he opened his mouth to argue. “I know you want to fix me, but I just don’t think that’s possible. If I let you stay, you’ll try anyway. And I’ll only let you down again.”
“Christ . . .” Pain seared Mason’s heart. Framing her face with both hands, he held her steady and captured her gaze. “You did not let me down. And you’re not broken. And I do not want to fix you. I want to help you. But this thing won’t be solved overnight, Ash. You’ve been dealing with it for years. There will be setbacks, relapses. Maybe you need more help than I can give. We’ll figure it out. Whatever it takes. Whatever you need. You won’t fail. You can’t fail if you never quit trying, and I won’t let you quit.”
Ashlyn tried to look away, but Mason refused to let her. He wasn’t going to lose her this time. They’d talk this out. Find their way through to the other side. Together. He was in this if she was.
“Do you trust me?” His chest compressed as though her answer to that one question carried the weight of his entire world.
It felt like eternity ticked by before she gave an infinitesimal nod. “I trust you.”
Three words. Three words was all it took for her to rock his world. Something deep inside of him snapped into place and he knew he’d do anything to keep her safe. “Thank you.”
Chapter Thirty
Ashlyn
“I’m getting holes in my socks.” Ashlyn’s cellphone buzzed on the counter. No caller ID, just a number she didn’t recognize, so she snapped it up and hit the button to reject the call.
“What?” Mason’s amusement peeked over the rim of his coffee mug.
“Holes. I’ve been washing and wearing the same two pairs of socks for over a week and I’m starting to get holes in them.” God help her if she ever actually killed one of the hundreds of idiots she mentally threatened a day. Ashlyn was not suited for prison. After only twelve days, that fancy room with all the gilded trappings—like 24/7 room service—was starting to feel like a jail cell. “I have to go home, Mason.”
He frowned at her from across the kitchen island. “The police recommended you stay out of the house until after the—”
Vrrr Vrrr. Same number. The damn thing had been going off all morning.
“Maybe you should answer it,” Mason suggested.
“No.” Silencing the phone, Ash shoved it in her pocket. “I know what the police said, but the commute to work from here is a pain in the ass. And Tank’s been with the neighbor for so long . . . What if he thinks we abandoned him?”
“You’re worried about the dog?” A single brow arched near his hairline.
Not a question. A challenge. He wanted the truth from her. Wanted her to trust him enough to be honest. Ash was worried about the dumb dog, but that wasn’t the real reason she needed to get out of there and he knew it.
“Fine.” Ashlyn moved into the bedroom and started tugging the sheets and blankets into place. The ‘Please do not disturb’ sign on the door made it so she had to do things like making the bed herself, but it was a small price to pay to keep strangers out of her personal space. It was the same reason she’d turned down her mother’s maid service time and time again despite being allergic to doing dishes and vacuuming. “I get that it’s crazy, but I need to be in my house.”
The sheet caught on the corner of the mattress and she tugged and tugged again. Mason grabbed the other side to help her slide it into place. He should. He’d been sharing the bed with her for over a week. Nothing to write home about. Just slee
ping. But it was . . . nice. Tucked into his arms at night. Warm. Safe. Plutonic. They hadn’t so much as kissed besides that once. And that, too, had been . . . nice.
“I need to go home. I need . . .” Dammit, she did sound crazy, but the right words wouldn’t come. That all too familiar twisting in her gut had her gripping the comforter with all her might and swallowing the bile creeping up the back of her throat. “I need . . .”
“You need control of your life.” Mason moved around the bed to stand behind her. His arms snaked around her waist, anchoring them together. “It feels like letting this guy drive you out of your home, he’s taken your control.”
A cool rush of relief swept across her overheated skin. He understood.
“Yes. I know it’s in my head, but it makes me feel . . .” Ashlyn rolled her shoulders and bit her lip, unable to put words to the icky feelings swirling inside of her.
“I get it.” Mason gave her waist a squeeze, his chin resting on her shoulder. “And I would do anything to give you what you need, but . . . Someone shot at that house, Ash. With a gun. There’s a bullet in your living room wall.”
Defeat curdled like sour milk. “. . . I know.”
“It’s not safe. Not yet.”
“I know.”
“The police are investigating—”
“I know, Mason.” She struggled free of his embrace, missing the warmth as soon as it was gone. “I know.”
She wasn’t going home. She wasn’t going anywhere. Mason watched her carefully as she paced across the room and back like a caged tiger, which is exactly how she felt.
“How about this? We stop by the house tonight and pick up some more stuff. Like socks,” he teased. “You can pack up whatever you want and bring it here. Make this space yours for now.”
It wasn’t exactly home, but he was right. Home wasn’t safe anymore. “We’ll stop by the neighbor’s before we leave and visit Tank?”
Mason grinned. “Def—”
Her pocket started vibrating and Ashlyn groaned.
“Seriously, you should answer it. What if it’s important?”
“Then why wouldn’t they leave a message?” The buzzing stopped as she pulled the phone from her pocket. Thirteen missed calls. Zero messages.
Mason shrugged. “Maybe they need to talk to you in person.”
The screen lit and Ashlyn’s fingers clenched around the device in a crushing grip before it even started vibrating.
“Suck it up,” Mason taunted. “Answer it.”
Ash scowled at her phone and before she’d made up her mind either way, Mason’s finger slid across the screen answering the call.
The look she shot him should have left a bloody mess as she lifted the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
No answer. Didn’t that just figure.
“Hello?”
Someone was on the line. She could hear them breathing, quiet background noises.
“Is someone there?”
“Where are you?” A guy’s voice, low, muffled, difficult to make out.
Ashlyn mentally ticked off possible callers. Not her father, not Bart, not Jay. “Who is this?”
“What’s the matter?” Concern creased Mason’s brow as he reached for the phone, tipping it away from her ear.
“Who else is there?” The caller demanded. “Who are you with?”
“Go to hell.” A fission of anxiety jolted through her as she jabbed the end call button.
“What was that all ab—” Before Mason finished speaking the phone started buzzing again and Ashlyn nearly dropped it.
It was irrational that an electronic device the size of her hand that she used primarily to take pictures and play word games could cause her to feel so exposed, but she stared at the thing like it might jump up and bite her.
“Give.” Mason swiped the phone from her palm and answered the call. “Who the hell is this?” His shoulders jerked back, body rigid. “I know you’re there, asshole. I can hear you. Hear me. Stay away from Ashlyn. Don’t ever call this number again. If you—”
The phone landed with a heavy thud on the mattress.
“What happened?”
Mason glared at the shiny device. “He hung up.”
“Did he say anything?” Fear churned the coffee sloshing around Ashlyn’s gut.
“No.” Mason stalked out of the bedroom and Ashlyn followed, taking the phone with her. His fingers tapped an erratic rhythm over the countertop in the kitchenette. “How long has this been going on? Has he called you before?”
“I don’t know. I don’t usually answer numbers I don’t recognize.” Unless someone answered them for her.
Mason plucked the phone from her hand and turned it on before handing it back. “Check your call history.”
There were a few missed calls from her mother she’d been avoiding all week, but the unidentified number sat at the top of the list. Ashlyn pressed it and was surprised by how many calls she had to scroll through. A lot more than fifteen. Calls that went back . . . “Almost a year. I’ve been getting calls from that number on and off for almost a year.”
“A year? But that’s not . . . possible.” She understood Mason’s confusion. She felt it, too. A year ago she’d never even laid eyes on Jay’s father.
It didn’t make sense. “Maybe the calls aren’t related?”
“Maybe.” Mason lifted his mug and took a slow sip before setting it aside.
Another thought occurred to her. “Maybe it was Mark.”
Her mother’s campaign manager had called her hundreds of times over the years. He easily could have had a second number, a personal line. If he called and she didn’t answer he knew her well enough to call back from a number she’d recognize. It explained why he’d never left a message. And why he sounded so pissed. Her house had been shot up and then she’d essentially disappeared. She’d left a message for her parents to let them know where she was and that she was okay, but since then she’d gone radio silent.
“Did it sound like Mark?” Mason asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe . . . If he has a cold or if he was somewhere he needed to be quiet. It could have been him.”
“Well, before I call the police why don’t you call him and find out?”
Because Mark was just about the last person she wanted to talk to. Especially if she’d just told him to go to hell. But she dialed anyway and waited. The phone rang and rang and clicked over to voicemail.
“No answer. Don’t call the police, though.” She couldn’t take one more round of questioning. “We know it’s not related to the trial. It must have been him.”
Mason’s eyes darted to where she licked her lips, gathering heat. His posture relaxed and he cupped her cheek, his thumb following the path her tongue had just taken. “Okay. I’m meeting with the DA this afternoon. I’ll mention it to her and see what she thinks. You work ‘til five, right?”
Ashlyn nodded, unable to speak with his thumb still making passes over her lips, setting off tiny firecrackers against her skin.
“I’ll be there when you get to the house. We’ll take what we need and when this is all over we’ll go home. And Ash . . .” His thumb swept up her cheek and his other hand captured her face, holding her immobile. “I’m staying this time.”
Ashlyn stared up at him, unable to respond. Every single nerve ending in her body strained toward him. He was going to kiss her. She knew it. She wanted it. Maybe even needed it. But then he withdrew, his fingers caressing her face until they slipped off the tip of her chin. Breath came in tiny pants as she watched him round the island and reclaim his coffee mug.
The smile he tried to hide behind the rim told her all she needed to know. She was a flustered mess and the rat bastard had done it to her on purpose.
Chapter Thirty-one
Ashlyn
“Easy, boy.” A wet tongue lapped at Ashlyn’s cheek. “Yeah, yeah . . . I missed you, too.”
Either that or she tasted like greasy meat. She’d come straight home from w
ork only to find Mason’s rental car noticeably absent. Much to his aggravation his truck was still out of commission, but the replacement he’d gotten through his insurance company wasn’t half bad. Built in digital GPS, heated leather seats, back-up camera, parking assist, a fuel gage that actually worked. She’d never admit it out loud, but maybe it was time she started looking for some new wheels.
“He’s been sulking ever since you left.” Mrs. Florence stood on her front step, smiling at the fur-ball. The old woman lived in the house next door long before Ashlyn moved in. A widow; children all grown and moved away. She seemed lonely. Ashlyn stopped to talk to her now and then when she was outside gardening, and when the snow was heavy she did her best to help clear her walkway. So she’d been happy to repay the favor by taking Tank in when Ashlyn had asked. “Are you home to stay?”
“Not yet. Actually . . .” Visiting Tank first had been a last ditch effort to avoid a lecture, but Mason still hadn’t arrived and she didn’t have all night. Okay, technically she did. But the thought of being in the house after dark with that lunatic still on the loose made her antsy and unsettled. “I just stopped by to get a few things from home. Would you mind if I take Tank with me? I’ll bring him back in thirty minutes tops.”
“Of course not, dear. You be careful, though. Crazy world we live in these days.” A frail hand patted Ashlyn’s shoulder and the old woman stepped back inside her house.
“C’mon, boy.” Tank bounded for the front door the minute Ashlyn opened Mrs. Florence’s gate, plowing his way past her to enter first. It seemed he missed home, too.
Ashlyn flipped on the light and took a deep breath. The air smelled stale, but she welcomed the familiar comfort of being surrounded by her things. The hum of the refrigerator, the occasional groans from the old wood when the wind picked up, the lingering scent of cinnamon . . . Even the stack of dishes in the sink and the overflowing trash can were welcome sights.
