Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel)

by Meany, John

  “My parents live up in Maine. They moved there ten years ago. My sister Isobel, who’s older than me and married, lives in upstate New York. We try to call each other at least twice a month.”

  “So you have a sister. That’s cool. Does she have any kids?”

  “She does. A six-year-old son.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  “She’s an editor for a Lady‘s Home Journal. I also have a few cousins in North Jersey that I keep in touch with.”

  Ashley revealed to Troy that she had no siblings, and that she did not have much contact with her cousins or Aunts and Uncles. Similar to how he would not share much regarding Naomi Cartwright, she would not divulge much about her childhood. Ashley would someday, when they got to know each other better. However, not now. It was too soon.

  CHAPTER 29

  It didn’t take long before they would begin to discus what had happened behind the shopping center.

  “Do you still have nightmares?” Troy asked.

  “Yes. Sometimes.” At this stage, Ashley was sipping her fourth martini, and already felt buzzed.

  “Me too. I still have nightmares about that freaking tree branch coming down on my head.” Again, as he had been doing periodically all evening long, Troy reached across the table and touched Ashley’s hand. “Lucky for me, the concussion wasn’t severe. I didn’t experience any long term memory loss.

  “We were both lucky, “she said, “to have not suffered serious injuries. Although, as you and Adam plainly saw, when I was in the hospital the next day, my face was kind of messed up. And my leg was in pretty bad shape. Nevertheless, the most amazing thing to me is that nothing happened to my baby. I thought for sure, the way those men threw me around, that the child would be born with some kind of handicap.”

  Troy nodded. “It is a miracle, Ashley. And I have to tell you, after that guy with the beard strangled you I didn‘t think you were alive.”

  Ashley fell silent for a moment; felt comforted feeling Troy’s hand on top of hers. “I wouldn’t have been alive if it wasn’t for you. If you didn’t fend him off, right now I would be six feet under, and so would my daughter.”

  Embarrassed, Troy glanced at his beer. He did not consider himself a hero. He merely did what he had thought was right.

  “Troy, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Why didn’t you talk to the media? I heard that you declined to give a statement to both the TV news and the print media.”

  He shrugged, had to think for a few seconds. “What was I supposed to tell them? When Adam did that interview for Fox news, he basically told them everything there was to say. Besides, I didn’t want to have to keep reliving the experience. And another thing, I’m glad those sickoes died, because I wasn’t prepared to face a long drawn-out trial.”

  “Me either.”

  “And may those guys burn in hell for eternity.” He raised his Heineken bottle up in the air to propose a toast.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Ashley said, tapping his beer with her glass. Then she reached for the Heinz ketchup. They had a big plate of French fries which, if they didn’t eat soon, would be cold. “Hey before I forget,” she added. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me out. In group therapy, they told me I should go back to the shopping mall, to face my fears. I kept putting it off. Except now I know I’ll definitely go back because it‘s sure nice to be here with you. I‘m so sorry I didn‘t come to visit. The next time you see Adam, tell him I said that. Okay?”

  “C’mon, it’s no big deal. We understand.”

  “You do, you swear?”

  “Yes,” Troy assured her. “It wasn’t easy for me to go back to the shopping center either. Except, since I still work there, I had no choice. Though, for like a month or two, at night, every time I would be out on the loading dock unpacking a truck, I would look toward the field, stare into the darkness, and get the chills.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The memory of me and you out there would come back to me. I would think about how frightened I was when I wasn’t sure whether you were alive or not, and how I thought those guys were going to murder me as well.” Troy gazed down at the table, reminiscing. “Yeah. For like a month or two, I almost couldn’t handle being out on the loading deck. I’m good now though. It doesn’t bother me too much anymore.”

  CHAPTER 30

  By one o‘clock, as they continued to chat, a cautionary statement kept playing repeatedly in Troy’s mind, Don’t allow Ashley to have another drink!

  Troy was on his third Heineken, and felt relatively sober. Ashley, on the other hand, was smashed, and borderline incoherent. Troy had lost track of how many martinis she had drank.

  “Do you want a cigarette?” Ashley asked, ineptly sliding her half-filled pack across the table.

  “No.” Troy looked at her quizzically. “I told you I quit.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s right. I forgot about that.” For a second it appeared as if she might nod off.

  Concerned, Troy put his hand underneath Ashley’s chin. “Do you want me to order you a cup of coffee, Ashley?” He calmly tilted her head up.

  “Sure. Coffee. Why not? No more martinis for me.”

  Eventually, once she had consumed the caffeinated beverage, most of it anyway, Troy decided he’d better drive Ashley home. He explained to her that she could get her car tomorrow. Thankfully she did not have a problem with that.

  “Do you need a cab?” the bartender asked.

  “No thanks,” said Troy, slightly embarrassed. “I have her car keys. Everything is under control.”

  “Okay. Take care.”

  “You too.”

  ***

  When Troy pulled up in front of Ashley’s residence, he nudged her on the shoulder and announced, “Okay Ashley, we’re here.” He knew where she lived, because earlier, she had given him the address.

  “Where’s here?”

  “Your house.”

  “Gee, that was fast.” She clumsily reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the lift.” As she stumbled out of the gray Subaru, her French hat fell off. “Oops! Troy, do you think you could help me walk down to the basement? Please! My feet seem discombobulated.”

  “The basement?”

  “Yes. That’s where my art studio is. There’s a couch down there that I can crash on. I can’t go in the house. If my mom sees me drunk, she’ll totally flip out. She’s has a thing against anyone who drinks to excess. That was the problem she had with my father.”

  “How do we get to the basement from here?”

  “Through the garage.”

  How they got inside without waking Claire Whittaker, Troy will never know. Not only did opening the garage door make noise, he also tripped over a broom, and then knocked a can of WD-40 off of a shelf. Rather than be startled by this misfortunate blunder, Ashley burst into laughter.

  “Ssh!” Troy whispered. “Stop laughing. I thought you said you were afraid of confronting your mother.”

  “I am. It’s just the expression on your face. It’s so funny.” She seemed to enjoy holding Troy’s hand, much the same as she had liked him touching her hand at the nightclub.

  “All right. Let’s hurry. I don’t want to confront your mom either. Which way is your studio?”

  “Through that door.” She pointed toward the back of the garage. On the way down the creaky stairs, Ashley’s footing was so suspect, Troy had to hold onto her, to prevent her from taking a tumble.

  “Whew! What‘s that smell!” he asked, when they had reached the bottom step.

  “Turpentine,” Ashley explained. “I guess I’ll have to open a window. Get some fresh air in here.” Before doing that, she turned the cellar light on. “Voila! Welcome to my art studio. What do you think?”

  “It’s uh . . . Cool. Yeah. You’ve got a sweet set up down here.”

  Stacked haphazardly against the cement walls, were sever
al poster-sized canvases. Toward the center of the big room, there was also a canvas perched on an easel.

  Troy thought Ashley’s paintings were great. They were intricate, colorful, some filled with geometric shapes that immediately seized your attention. He was contemplating, why, with talent like this, would Ashley be working at a bakery? She could probably sell her artwork and make a fortune.

  Now, Troy adjusted his gaze and saw Ashley lying on the sofa with her eyes closed. It was clear that she wasn’t going to be able to stay awake for much longer.

  “Ashley, can I call you tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” she replied groggily, keeping her eyes shut. “I’d like that, Troy. I’d like that a lot. Good night. And thank you again for a wonderful evening.”

  “It was my pleasure. Sleep tight.”

  ***

  On the commute back to his apartment, the thought of Sarah Kline suddenly materialized in Troy‘s mind.

  How odd.

  Why was it that he hadn’t thought about his girlfriend all night, until now?

  CHAPTER 31

  “Did you pick up your car yet?” Troy asked Ashley on the phone the following day. It was late in the afternoon, and he sat in his living room, watching a Phillies game. The sunny room smelled of bagged popcorn.

  “Yes,” Ashley responded. “My mom drove me over to get the car a little while ago.”

  “Was she angry?”

  “No. Actually, the fact that you were kind enough to see me home safely, made her happy.”

  “Cool. Anyway, Ashley, I was thinking, I’d like to come over and take a look at your paintings.” He hoped he wasn’t being too forward. “Do you think that could be arranged?”

  “Sure,” she said, flattered. “I’d love to show you my artwork. When would you like to stop by?”

  “Whenever you’re available. What are you doing on Thursday?”

  “Hold on. Let me check my calendar.” She paused. “Let’s see, Thursday. Ah! Here we are, Thursday. We’re in luck! It looks like I’m not doing anything.”

  “Great! Also, I was wondering, do you play tennis?”

  “Tennis.” She chuckled flirtatiously. “As in Venus and Serena Williams, that kind of tennis?”

  “Yes. Do you play at all?”

  “Not really. I haven’t picked up a racket since high school.”

  “Well, I’m no Andree Agassi either. Although I can at least serve and volley. I’ll tell you what, as you probably know, there’s a few courts over here in Kensington. And they’re not usually occupied. How about sometime early in the afternoon that day I check out your paintings. Then, after that, we can pick up lunch and then go get our game on? Are you up for that?”

  “Definitely. There’s one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t own a tennis racket.”

  Troy explained to her that he had an extra one. What am I doing? he whispered to himself. Did he really want to help Ashley Ferguson get back on her feet? Or was there something more going on? Was it possible that Troy was attracted to her?

  ***

  After hanging up, Troy phoned Ashley’s mother. He had promised Claire Whittaker he would. They had exchanged numbers the day Claire had spoke to him at the supermarket.

  “Did the night go off all right?” she asked.

  “Yes Miss Whittaker, we had fun.”

  “Maybe I should have warned you about my daughter’s binge drinking problem.”

  Rather than focus on Ashley’s drunkenness, Troy elected to take a protective stance. “Awe, I wouldn’t be too upset. Your daughter was just trying to enjoy herself.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’m going to see her again.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes.” Then, in a humorous tone, he added, “Except this time I’ll try to keep her away from the bars.”

  Claire laughed. “That would be a wise decision.”

  Troy went on to give details about what they had planned for Thursday.

  ***

  Later, while he stood in the kitchen microwaving a bowl of beef ravioli for dinner, Troy heard a thunderous knock at the door.

  It was Sarah.

  “Troy, where have you been all day?” Smelling strongly of perfume, his girlfriend had her hands placed defiantly on her hips. “I thought you were supposed to call me this morning?”

  “I know. I‘m sorry.” He glanced toward the microwave’s digital clock, 6:00 PM. “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “It must have slipped your mind! That’s not very considerate.” Sarah thrust an irate hand through the dark bangs of her bob-cut hairdo. “How could you forget? Remembering to call your girlfriend should be at the top of your ‘things to do’ list.”

  With a spoon, Troy slowly stirred the garlic-scented pasta. The hot steam misted from the small plastic bowl. “Don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Why, are you hung over?”

  “No. I only drank three beers last night.”

  Troy‘s apartment was much cleaner today than it had been yesterday, yet, because of her overly critical attitude, Sarah offered no compliment. She sat down at the table. “So tell me, is this Ashley Ferguson as screwed up as her mother said she is?”

  “Sarah! That’s uncalled for.”

  “Oh wow! Listen to you. A little overly protective, are we?”

  “Shut up!”

  “And did you let her cry on your shoulder?”

  Thoroughly aware that his girlfriend’s words were seething with resentment, Troy banged his fist against the counter. “That’s enough! Don’t go there.”

  “Why? All I’m trying to do is determine how your evening went. It’s not as if I’m interrogating you.”

  “Yes you are. You’re being a jerk.”

  “Me a jerk?” she uttered derisively. “Never. I’m never a jerk. I’m your girlfriend, and I love you very much. Don’t you love me?”

  Troy did not feel like playing this silly game. He had played it too many times before. “Stop being so difficult? And I’m going to tell you right now, Sarah, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then get the hell out!”

  CHAPTER 32

  At noon on Thursday, Ashley heard her mother yell up the stairs, “Ashley.”

  “What?”

  “Troy is here.”

  “Tell him I’m not ready yet.” Ashley was in her bedroom, sitting in front of the bureau mirror, brushing her freshly washed hair. She had been primping for a while, had even decorated her mouth with lipstick. Aware that she would be sweaty later from running around on the humid tennis court, she had fixed her golden hair into a secure ponytail with a rubber band, and had applied more antiperspirant than she normally would.

  “Ash, honey, hurry up,” her mother called up the steps. “You told me you’re only going to play tennis. It shouldn’t take you that long to throw on a pair of shorts.”

  “I said I’ll be down in a minute. In the meantime, mom, why don’t you offer Troy refreshment?”

  “All right. But don’t be much longer. I have to be at Rachel’s house in twenty minutes.”

  ***

  “I see you remember my mother,” Ashley politely addressed Troy, after finally gracing him with her presence. She had stopped near the foot of the wooden steps.

  “Yes,” Troy answered respectfully. “I remember her well.” He seemed enthralled by Ashley’s girl-next-door appeal. “Your mom just showed me your baby. What a cute kid you have, Ashley.”

  “Thank you.” Her face flushed with merriment.

  “She looks just like you.” Troy wore a red Polo shirt, shorts, and Reebok sneakers. He no longer had a five o’clock shadow; he had shaved.

  “Well,” Claire interrupted, “I’d love to stay and chat some more, but Kimberly and I have to get going.”

  “You‘re leaving, Miss Whittaker?”

  “Yes,” she said, carefully lifting the tired inf
ant from her crib. “I’m going sailing with my friend.”

  “Wow! Where do you go boating?”

  “The Chelsea River.”

  “Lucky you. I‘m jealous.”

  “Hey, if you guys want, you could always-”

  “Forget it, mom!” Ashley promptly rebuked the idea. “We’re playing tennis.”

  “Suit yourself.” With Kimberly clinging to her shoulder, Claire headed for the door. The sweet tang of the flower garden blew in through the screen. “Before you leave, Ash, make sure Albert has a full bowl of water. Okay? It’s going to be hot again today and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

  “Sure.”

  “Who’s Albert?” Troy wanted to know, once Claire had left. Through the living room window, he watched her back her beige minivan out of the driveway.

  “Our new puppy. He’s out back. Did my mom offer you something to drink?”

  “Yes. I’m fine though. On the way over I stopped at Mc Donald’s.”

  “Oh.” Crestfallen, Ashley sighed. “I thought we were going to grab lunch before we go play?”

  “We are. Don’t worry. I only had coffee. I didn’t pig out like usual on Egg Mcmuffins.”

  “Good. Now that we have that cleared up, are you ready to see my artwork?”

  “Ready when you are.”

  “All right. Follow me.”

  Down in her studio, which again smelled of turpentine, the first thing Ashley did was pour herself a glass of straight vodka. The amount was equivalent to two shots. The liquor scorched her throat like Tabasco sauce.

  “I just need a little,” she told Troy, while grimacing. “To take the edge off. I hope you understand. I’m not a lush. I just need this sometimes to get rid of my anxiety.” She was uneasy because she still couldn’t find her gun. This time, Ashley had searched the entire house, including her mother’s room. She had even looked in the garage, and around the yard.