Fragments of Ash

by Katy Regnery

  Beside me, Julian’s posture shifts, but I keep my gaze trained on the tip of a rock protruding from the water about fifty feet away. He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes my hand, which I take as encouragement to continue.

  “He . . .” There is no good or easy way to share Mosier’s plans for me. They’re dark. They’re sordid. They’re twisted. All around, they’re pretty terrible. “After my mother’s funeral, he came to my bedroom to speak to me . . . to, um, to explain his plans for me now that she’s gone.”

  Julian takes a breath through his teeth and holds it.

  “He, um . . . he made it clear that he married my mother for me. I mean . . . he wants me to, well, take her place.”

  “What does that mean?” Julian asks, his voice tight and biting.

  I swallow again, my cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment and fear. “He intends to marry me. To have . . . children by me. He wants a lot of children . . . I mean . . .”

  “He wants to . . . to breed you?”

  My breath catches at the disgusted tone in his voice, and I wonder if I should pull my hand away, but before I can, he demands,

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No!” I cry. “Never! Not at all! That’s why I ran away! Why I came here!”

  His fingers squeeze mine and I squeeze his back, feeling unaccountably relieved.

  “Did he . . . try to force you?” he asks me, his voice so sharp and menacing, it’s walking the edge of deadly.

  “No,” I say. “I think he was going to, but I vomited on him.”

  “Ha!” He laughs, but it’s not an amused sound, more just surprised.

  “I couldn’t help it. He was making me so nervous, t-touching my thigh, . . . and I was so, um, upset, I don’t know. I couldn’t help it. I threw up on him. The next day, he sent me back to school. He said I could graduate, and we’d get married right after.”

  “Does he think you’re there now? At school?”

  “Yes.” I tell him the plan. “Father Joseph is going to call him and talk to him this week. Mosier doesn’t know that Tig was my mother. Father Joseph believes that once Mosier knows, he won’t want me like that. It’s a mortal sin to marry your wife’s daughter. It’s incest.”

  Julian scoffs. “Somehow your stepfather doesn’t sound like the type of guy who cares about his mortal soul.”

  “He values religion. He cares about piety.”

  “For himself? Or everyone else.”

  Good point. “Everyone else.”

  “And let me guess,” says Julian. “Especially you.”

  “Yes.”

  “He married your mother for you. For her little sister.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how old were you? When they got married?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Sick fuck,” he mutters. His breathing is choppy and agitated. Then he growls, “I’ll kill him.”

  I turn my back to the pond, facing my would-be protector.

  “No, Julian.”

  His eyes are wild when he looks down into mine. “Yes.”

  Slowly I shake my head. “No. That’s not the way.”

  “Then what?” he whispers. As he scans my face, he draws our bound hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to the back of mine.

  I step closer to him, grinning at his lips against my skin. “You said you’d wait for my permission.”

  “Then give it to me,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my hand.

  “Kiss me,” I say, stepping closer and leaning my head back to offer my lips to him.

  He reaches for my cheeks, cupping my face, his mouth falling hot and hungry onto mine. As I flatten my hands on his chest, his tongue traces my lips, first the top, then the bottom. I part them with a soft sigh, wanting to feel his tongue slide against mine again. He obliges me, pulling me closer, his hands sliding down my arms to my hips. As he pulls me against him, I arch my back, and the tips of my breasts rub against his muscles. My nipples are so sensitive, the touch makes me whimper, makes the pulsing between my legs faster and more urgent. He tilts his head the other way, slanting his lips over mine, sealing his mouth over mine, stealing my breath, stealing my heart. My legs are jelly by the time his lips skim gently along my cheek. His teeth nip at the lobe of my ear, sending shivers down my spine, and I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on.

  “Ashley.” His voice is breathy, almost drunk, as he speaks close to my ear. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Wait,” I whisper, not positive if I want him to wait a little longer for the rest of my body, or if I want him to wait for Father Joseph to talk to Mosier. Maybe both.

  “I hate waiting,” he says gruffly.

  This makes me smile. “Please, Julian. I’ll tell you everything. But for now, just wait with me. Okay?”

  He tightens his arms around me, and I close my eyes, burying my face in the crook of his neck, and hoping that this new feeling bursting inside me—of finally feeling like I’m not so very alone—will be the new normal for a little while.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Julian

  Ashley likes kissing me, so we kiss a lot over the next couple of days.

  I like kissing Ashley too, but I want so much more from her, it hurts to stop. It hurts when she pulls away from me. It hurts all over to make myself wait.

  I remind myself not to push her—that we just met and we’re still getting to know each other. Sometimes that helps. Mostly it doesn’t. My body pretty much aches for her all the fucking time.

  She still considers the barn my private space, but when I’m alone in there, I stare out the window, thinking about her. I work with more blue glass than usual because it reminds me of her eyes. I count down the minutes it takes to make whatever I’m working on, so I can walk back over to the house and find her.

  And when I do? She smells like vanilla and cinnamon when she throws her arms around my neck without asking. I kiss her like the world is ending tomorrow because our time feels fragile and finite . . . but also because she is so sweet and so beautiful and—right now—so very mine.

  Over the past couple of nights, after I kiss her good night and send her upstairs, I head to my room, take out my laptop, and work.

  What do I work on?

  In the Secret Service, we called it tactical planning.

  Sun Tzu would have called it knowledge and strategy: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

  The enemy is Mosier Răumann, and what I have learned so far chills me to the bone.

  Following the death of his first wife, seventeen years ago, Răumann immigrated to the United States from Bucharest with his young sons and settled in Brooklyn for a short time. I couldn’t find much about his first wife. Only that she died in a “tragic accident” at the Răumann vacation home on the island of Crete. She was found facedown in the family’s swimming pool, a red rose floating beside her.

  Not long after his arrival in the States, Răumann bought a mansion in Westchester County, New York, and, seemingly overnight, outfitted the estate with a high, black, wrought-iron wall around the perimeter, much to the consternation of local planning and zoning, from which he did not obtain the proper permit. After a small dustup and a heavy fine, the matter was settled with Răumann’s promise to plant shrubbery around the exterior of the wall, which effectively hid the ugliness of the eight-foot-high monstrosity.

  Not the intent of it, however: it keeps gawkers out and the Răumanns in.

  And from what I can gather online, the Răumanns are into a little of everything. Most notably, drug, weapon, and sex trafficking from various corners of Eastern Europe into the United States. There’s ample chatter on the dark web about the FBI looking into their dealings, but the Răumanns have been clever—they run dozens of legitimate offtrack betting operations across the state of New York that are kept in good standing, though I suspect these are laundering businesses for their more nefarious dealings.

  I’m
also trying to figure out Răumann’s relationship with his second wife, but while there are thousands of pictures of Tig online, very few of them are of Teagan Ellis Răumann. I am able to find only a couple of paparazzi snapshots of Mosier and Tig together: one of them sitting at a table—at a wedding reception, maybe—with his arm slung possessively over her shoulder, and another of them leaving a funeral in Brooklyn, with Mosier looking over his shoulder while Tig, in a conservative black dress and veil, makes her way down the church stairs behind him.

  In both photos, their age difference is obvious, and in neither does Tig look like the feisty model who took the world by storm. She is still beautiful, of course, but in both shots, her shoulders are hunched and her eyes are haunted. God only knows the messed-up shit she saw behind that high black fence.

  Here’s what I know for sure: both of Răumann’s wives died young and under mysterious circumstances. And I can’t help wondering if it’s a coincidence, though a sickening chill down my spine says it isn’t. And the thought of Ashley being wife number three makes me want to smash my fist through a wall . . . or kill someone.

  This guy? Mosier Răumann? He’s a criminal. A wealthy, powerful, established, international criminal. If he originally set his sights on Ashley, waiting for her to mature to eighteen over the past five years, he’s not going to let her go just because a kindly old priest asks him to. No way. This guy’s a thug and a powermonger. From what Ashley’s told me, her attendance at Catholic school was his idea—he was grooming her to be the perfect wife. Frankly I think he’s the kind of man that would prefer to see her dead than with someone else. In fact, I am positive of that.

  I slam my laptop closed and wonder how long her whereabouts can remain a secret from Răumann. According to Ashley, the only people who know she’s here are the priest, Gus, Jock, me, and Noelle. Noelle and I are nonissues because there’s nothing to tie us to Ashley. Same with Jock. That leaves: 1. The priest, and 2. Gus.

  Ashley assures me that the priest would never betray her. Nor would Gus, but Gus is known to Răumann, and unfortunately, if he tracks down Gus, it could easily lead him to Ashley.

  Ashley told me that her stepfather disapproved of Gus and forbade Tig to continue their friendship. It was risky for Gus to attend Tig’s funeral, but Ashley insists that her stepfather never saw them together.

  But if he wants to find her, he’s going to start with her mother’s dearest friend. He’s going to start with the friend who made an impression, the friend he hated. Mosier Răumann didn’t get where he is by being stupid. No doubt Tig’s preference for Gus was noted at some point in time. Sooner or later, Răumann will be coming for Gus.

  I think about calling Jock to discuss all of this with him, especially because Ashley has already told me that Jock’s been in touch with the FBI, but then I remember that Gus and Jock are coming over for dinner on Friday night. It’ll keep until then.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and undress. Wearing only my boxer shorts, I slip under the covers, lacing my fingers under my head.

  I stare at the ceiling and think about Ashley.

  After I made her breakfast again this morning, we took a walk to the pond with Bruno, then drove to a berry farm over in Charlotte. I watched her as we walked up and down the rows, eating as many as we picked and kissing under the blue sky whenever we felt like it. At one point, as she knelt in the dirt and filled a little basket with berries, I marveled at the fact that this girl, practically drowning in secrets, is someone that I’m growing to trust. For just a moment, my breath caught, heavy and painful in my lungs before I set it free. I hope I’m not throwing caution to the wind. I hope that inviting another woman into my trust isn’t a choice I’ll come to regret.

  Above me, I hear her footsteps across a hardwood floor. A toilet flushes. A faucet is turned on, then off. I imagine her walking back through the little sitting room to her bed, and my cock stiffens beneath the sheets. I lick my palm and reach for the thickening flesh, stretching it until it’s sticking way out of the elastic waistband, then flick my thumb over the tip. As I stroke up and down, I force my eyes to stay open, staring up at the ceiling she’s lying right above.

  When I come—in hot, white ribbons across my chest—I finally let my eyes close, burrowing the back of my head into the pillow as I picture her face and softly growl my pleasure.

  ***

  Ashley

  “Julian is not your boyfriend,” I whisper to my reflection in the bathroom mirror on Thursday afternoon. “You’re sharing a house, and yes, I think he’s becoming your friend. Also, you kiss him, and he kisses you back, but that doesn’t make him your boyfriend.”

  I stare at myself, willing my brain to accept this as fact, but it’s getting harder with every passing day, with every passing hour.

  It’s been five days since he first kissed me, and from that time I’ve learned the hidden places inside his mouth, the hot, wet recesses that I leisurely explore, that belong to me. My fingers know the peaks and valleys of his chest, the soft skin on the back of his neck, the way he tastes and smells. My body knows what it is to be held by him and against him. I am excited by the hard length of him pushing against my secret places, wanting more.

  I want more too, but I’ve only known him for less than two weeks. My feelings for him are so intense, they frighten me. They feel real, but how can I know for sure? I don’t know how to do this. He is the first man I have ever fallen for.

  “But that doesn’t make him your boyfriend,” I snap. My lips turn down, and I look so sad that I add in a whisper, “Not yet anyway.”

  Maybe, someday, he will be.

  Maybe, someday, in the not-so-distant future, when Mosier has given me up and I have graduated from high school, I will come back here. Jock and Gus will let me live in the attic I love so much, and Julian will still be my housemate. And then? We can really get to know each other. We can spend every waking moment together. We can fall in love and get married and have a bunch of blond, blue- and green-eyed babies. And I will never, ever be lonely again.

  I sigh at my reflection. “You’re insane. You know that, right?”

  My hopes and wishes are like a runaway train. My body is hurtling down a track at the speed of light, with Julian waiting for me at the end of the line. It makes me feel so young. Like, tragically young. When I think about Tig and Mosier and Anders and Gus—the mess I am in, the living nightmare that my life could easily become, the danger my very presence poses to those I care for—I feel so scared, it makes my breath catch. It makes me freeze. It makes me so frightened that no place on earth will ever be safe.

  It’s no wonder I have a massive crush on Julian.

  I feel Mosier’s breath on the back of my neck, getting closer and hotter every day. But Julian gives me hope that maybe, somehow, someday, I will be safe, and that hope is more precious to me than anything else.

  I splash my face with cold water and pull my hair into a ponytail. The forecast calls for thunderstorms this afternoon and evening, but we’re hoping to beat the clouds with a quick walk to the pond first, and I can hear Bruno in the kitchen, baying at me to hurry up.

  I smell the impending rain as I scramble down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Julian and his canine companion are standing by the back door.

  “Woof!” exclaims Bruno, wagging his rusty-red tail.

  “Yeah,” says Julian, grinning at me. “Woof.”

  This is happiness, a voice whispers in my heart, and I pause for a second by the marble counter, touching it lightly as I smile back at the pair of them.

  A man and his dog, waiting for me, in a farmhouse kitchen.

  This is all I need, I think. This man. This dog. This place. I could be happy here forever.

  I feel my smile slipping and blink my eyes at the intensity of my feelings. I remind myself that these are fleeting moments—that the likelihood that this story somehow ends in my favor isn’t strong. But no matter what, this time—right here, right now—is mine. One d
ay, I will remember that once upon a time, I knew happiness, and it will help me bear my sorrow when it’s gone.

  “Look at you two,” I say, trying for a bright tone.

  Julian gestures outside with his chin. “It’s going to downpour any minute. Sure you’re up for it?”

  “I’m not sugar.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he says, winking at me. He offers me his hand, his arm long and strong as he extends it in my direction. “Let’s go, doudou.”

  “Doo-doo?” I ask, pulling back the hand that was about to take his.

  “Oh! It doesn’t mean—” He puts his hands on his hips, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Doudou in French means . . .” He shrugs, swallowing his giggles. “. . . like, ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey.’”

  “Really?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Just so you know,” I say, taking his hand and pulling the door shut behind us, “I’m checking that with Noelle the next time she comes to visit.”

  “Don’t trust me?” he asks.

  “I’m getting there,” I answer honestly, “but calling me poop won’t help your cause.”

  “I promise it means ‘honey.’ You made me think of it when you said you’re not sugar. Sugar, sweet, honey, doudou. It’s nice. Really.”

  I can tell from the tone of his voice—from the humor and warmth in it—that he’s telling me the truth, but I sort of love teasing him too.

  We lace our fingers together as Bruno runs ahead and thunder crashes in the distance. Julian looks up, pointing at a group of dark gray clouds up ahead and to the east. “It’s coming.”

  “We’ll make it,” I say, speeding up and pulling him with me.

  “We won’t,” he says.

  “Want to make a bet?” I ask, laughing at his dubious expression.

  “Absolutely. What do I get when I win?”

  I stop running to turn and look up at him. “You can kiss me anytime you want.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You’ll reverse our arrangement?”

  “Just for kissing,” I say.

  “Deal,” he says. “And what do you get if you win?”