Ash: A Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  Mom, I married this criminal a few years ago, and now it seems he’s on the up and up and lives here in town. I might still want him. I might have loved him. I might still love him, but I don’t know. He was a real asshole to me when I left, Mama.

  Somehow I don’t think that would go over so well.

  “I just knew him a long time ago. Maybe he thought I mentioned him.” I glance at her, and I can tell she’s trying to read me. “Are there any guests in the Island House? I might stay there a few days.”

  “Not a lot of guests these days. You do what you want, sweetheart.” She tosses me a key and leans in to give me a kiss goodnight. As disconcerting as things were at the hospital, things don’t exactly seem right here either. It’s summer—the inn should be teeming with people, and she should she preparing for her busiest month yet. Instead, she’s dusting and serving me biscuits. The place is eerily empty.

  “Night Mom.”

  “Night, baby.” She pauses at the foot of the stairs and looks back at me. “That young man said he’d be glad to see you when he could. Did he come see you yet?”

  “No, Mama. Not yet.”

  She walks up the stairs and I take the key back to the Island House, where I can be alone with my thoughts. I don’t even turn on the light. Instead, I fall straight into bed, jeans and all, and I lie in the dark for a long time, looking up at the ceiling and watching the moonlight play through the blinds.

  I remember the first days after I left for Syria, sleeping doubled up with some other doctor in a tent, dust rolling in at night, strange noises keeping me awake. I remember the cold of the plains in the Ukraine, Russian words slipping over people’s tongues as I strained to understand them. Hands numb from suturing in the icy cold. Most of all, though, I remember Ash.

  In my job, I was on autopilot, especially that first year. While I was performing minor surgeries, I went deep into my zone, and my thoughts concentrated on the redheaded man with the scars, the one who put his body between me and Cullen, who defended my aunt and made a plan to get us both out of dodge. I thought of his body then, too, much like I’m doing now.

  And I loved him then, utterly, totally, completely. Fucking helplessly. When he appeared in front of me again—it wasn’t hate I felt, not really. It was more the lingering sadness that comes with love lost.

  He’s still perfect. He’s still sex on a damn stick. When I look at him, when I sit next to him, even when I’m pulling away, I’m unquestionably drawn to his arms.

  I can’t let him see it—and I shouldn’t give in. No, I shouldn’t.

  A man that leaves me alone in the middle of New York with cruel words and crueler loneliness—he doesn’t deserve a chance.

  But when I look at him, I forget.

  It’s so dangerous. And it’s so true.

  It’s hard to concentrate on my loneliness, on the crushing sadness I felt when I boarded that plane, and when I woke up alone in that hospital in Syria.

  Instead of that, I think of the length of his jawline, the fire in his eyes, the long-forgotten feeling of his legs pressed between mine, his hand holding my lower back, his tongue against my skin.

  Insistent, unrelenting.

  The time when all I wanted was him doesn’t seem so distant now. It feels heartbreakingly close, like a feeling distilled in time and dropped on my lap, spreading over me in waves.

  I slip my hands over my body, imagining his strong fingers, and then lower, between my legs, until it seems right that all I’m thinking of is him, making me his, making me beg.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Three Years, Five Months Ago

  After the bar, I end up at Cullen’s. I’m not on duty to watch Bianca or her minx of a niece, and I need to check in with the old bastard.

  As long as he’s not building up to something with Bianca, everything is safe. Summer is safe. For now.

  But when I walk in, I can tell that something is massively wrong with Cullen—I haven’t seen him like this in years, stomping back and forth, grinding his teeth. The place is empty apart from the two of us.

  I can’t help but think of Summer’s body against mine, how delicate and fragile she seemed.

  And suddenly, seeing Cullen like this makes the entire situation seem ten times more dangerous.

  It hits me as I watch him. He’s got a screw loose—hair mussed, eyes unfocused, pacing back and forth over the polished floors.

  This is dangerous.

  “That fucking bitch has gone one step too far,” he says to me, barely looking me in the eye. Cullen rages around his basement bar, fists clenched tight. He’s got the look in his one eye—the one he gets before he launches into one of these families in the neighborhood. “You know she told me to go fuck myself? That she didn’t need my money to keep going? Bitch is too big for her britches.”

  He looks the way he did before he terrorized that family a week ago.

  The way he did before he manipulated my father into working for him.

  I was ten, but I’ll always remember that look. That was when Cullen had two milky blue eyes. I think that might have made him twice as creepy.

  “Cullen—” I start. But he keeps walking back and forth between his back room and the empty front room with its empty green poker tables.

  “Ash, you stay out of this. Your only job is going to be to take care of the girl. I won’t get you to kill her—yet. But that bitch aunt of hers—well, I’ve been dealing with her for a long time. She used to work with me, you know. Until she got other ideas and disappeared to North Carolina for two goddamn years. She came back and bought that damn bar with some family money she got from somewhere, and she’s been a thorn in my side ever since.” Cullen puts a gun up on his bar and cleans it. Anyone watching him might think that he’d slip up and shoot the whole place up in his current emotional state, but his hands are as quick and methodical as ever, cleaning and checking each part of the damn thing.

  Summer. What does he mean by taking care of her?

  “The girl doesn’t have a part of this, Cullen.”

  He gives me a blank stare. “Did the daughter of that restaurant owner have a damn thing to do with him not paying money?”

  “No,” I say. I’m glad part of my dad’s deal with Cullen was keeping me out of the murder business, because Cullen had very recently proven he was not above casual executions to get what he wants.

  And he’s escalating.

  White-haired, old as fuck. It all makes sense in a certain screwed up way. Hell’s Kitchen was all he ever wanted, and he wanted it Irish before he died.

  “Wrong answer,” he replies, looking back down at the gun and putting it back together with a mechanical clicking sound. “Yes. She had everything to do with the restaurant owner. Because she was his family. Family is everything. We honor it in my house, and we exploit it outside of my fucking house. Do you understand, Jonny? Tell me you understand.”

  Cullen grins a Cheshire grin, and I nod grimly.

  “Tell me, Ash. Tell me you understand that Hell’s Kitchen is my house, and there’s only room for family here. If Bianca won’t pay the twenty thousand she owes, well, she doesn’t get to buy a spot in my family, does she? She can’t afford my good graces anymore, can she?”

  “I understand that, Cullen—but you said she used to be like family to you. I’ve heard you say that before—”

  He looks away and shrugs. I can’t read his expression—there’s something there that’s much deeper than a simple vendetta. And this is a man who does simple vendettas very well. “She made her decision to leave me a long time ago,” he says quietly. “She forfeited every right she had, and I’ve been far too kind since then. I don’t have much time. And before I die, I’ll take what’s mine.”

  “Summer doesn’t belong mixed up in this.”

  A wry smile appears on his face. “You like the girl, do you, Jonny?”

  I stare at him, hoping not to give anything away. I certainly haven’t spoken up for one of Cullen’s victims before,
and now was certainly not the time to start.

  “Well let me tell you something, boy. Women aren’t worth anything in this world. The only thing that matters is family. And I’m securing the future for mine. Sentimentality be damned.”

  “And you’ll do this when exactly?”

  “A week. Bianca is fine for now, and if she can cough up the money in the meantime, she’s as good as gold.”

  I sort through my bank accounts in mind—and I have nothing even close to that amount of money.

  “And the girl?” I ask.

  “There are plenty of houses Bianca knows nothing about. I bet putting Summer in one of them will make her cough up the money before I decide to kill both of them.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter what he does at this point. And then he coughs, wincing like he’s in pain.

  If he hurts Summer, he will be.

  “Hold off for now, Cullen.”

  “And why would I do something like that, Jonny?”

  “There are no guarantees, but I can get Bianca to cough up that money. And when she does, you’ll leave her alone, right?” Even as I’m saying the words, I know this is something I can’t do, but if I have enough time, I can come up with some idea—something that will make everything right.

  “Sure, Jonny.” Cullen stares at me with that one eye. Because there’s only one, it’s almost impossible to tell what he’s thinking—I’ve always felt that way about him. “I’ll make sure no harm comes to her. If I get the money in a fortnight.”

  “I’ll sort it out.” I turn and leave, turning my vague thoughts over and over in my head.

  There’s probably no way out of this.

  But if Summer’s in danger I’ll have to find a way.

  Present Day

  Marriage is never simple, Summer told me.

  I hadn’t believed her. I thought I’d take her to the courthouse, get hitched, and get divorced a couple of months later once she got safely to North Carolina and Cullen cooled down.

  It wasn’t that simple then, and it’s not simple now. Not when I’m sitting in a fucking divorce lawyer’s office, looking around like an asshole.

  I’m supposed to be meeting Josh at the new gym we’re looking at buying, but instead, I’m here.

  I clench my knuckles and scan the stupid fucking divorce lawyer’s waiting room. It’s done up in that tacky fake wood paneling that was popular about three hundred years ago, and there’s one of those pink and blue paintings of a cottage set back in the woods, painted to look like there’s light from a sunset pouring over the whole thing. It’s meant to be cheerful, I guess, but a divorce lawyer’s lobby probably isn’t a place where a lot of people are real cheerful.

  But not showing up three years ago when she asked me to was a shitty idea then, and it’s a shitty idea now. So here I am, being some kind of man about it.

  It’s the only thing I can do—because it’s the only way she said she’ll see me. And in order for her to take a risk, she needs to understand what I’m about. There are delicate pieces and old secrets in place, and she needs to understand them all before she lets me go.

  I hope she wants me enough to wait for all the pieces to fall together.

  Summer strolls through the door, right on time. Instead of her scrubs, she’s wearing a black pencil skirt and a pair of sensible flat shoes she wouldn’t have been caught dead in when I first met her. She has on some kind of flowy blue blouse that’s likely intended to look professional, but it’s slightly too low-cut, and Summer’s tits could never quite manage to look professional.

  She’s not the same girl who wandered into a college bar with a shimmery, tight little dress. But she’s still sexy as hell, even though she looks like she’s in need of a good night’s sleep and possibly another bowl of fish and grits.

  I stand up, and something tightens in my chest when I look at her. She made it clear when she sent me away the other night that she has no intention of working things out. Well, two can play at this game. I nod at her, even though I’d rather take her right back to my apartment, where she belongs. “Summer,” I say. It probably wouldn’t be a positive choice, as my sponsor would say, to call her Sunshine in this situation.

  “Ash,” she says, a faint blush rising over her cheeks. I know she prides herself on being unreadable, and that piercing gaze of hers usually is. Even now, her expression is as flat as the wood-paneled wall. But that blush gives her away, every single time. Even here, even in her conservative little get-up in this fucking depressing lawyer’s office, there’s a jolt of electricity that moves between us.

  But I’m here to play a part today, to play-act my way through this little charade. So I smile, and I straighten up, wearing my button-down shirt and a pair of my buddy’s slacks. I have the sleeves rolled up half way, because fuck button-downs. But otherwise, I’m just as professional as Summer. She smiles faintly at me.

  Before we have to say any awkward bullshit, the lawyer’s assistant welcomes us back to the office, where the lawyer sits with his puffy red cheeks and his shitty brown suit. He looks like he’s about one BLT short of a heart attack, and the wedding ring on his left hand looks like it’s struggling for room to exist on his giant sausage fingers. He smiles at us, and then glances at Summer’s tits as she sits down, his eyes lingering a little longer than necessary.

  I crack my knuckles and shake out my shoulders like I’m getting ready for a fight.

  “So, Summer and Jonathan—”

  “Ash. I don’t go by Jonathan.”

  “Yes, Ash. Got it.” The lawyer grins, but his eyes are beady and dead. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. This is an easy case. You all have been separated for three years—”

  “Not by choice.”

  Summer cuts her eyes at me. “Ash, come on. We talked about this.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t agree to this.”

  “That may be, Mr. Ash.” The lawyer looks to me. “But Ms. Colington tells me you left her three years ago, and that you’ve been separated since then. That’s grounds for what we call ‘abandonment.’ Since Ms. Colington is back in the states, she can file for divorce in North Carolina, uncontested.”

  I nod, like I’m considering what he’s saying. But when he turns back to Summer, I pull a neatly folded stack of papers from my back pocket. “I’d like to submit these. These are four emails dating back to 2012, asking Ms. Colington where in the fuck she went. There’s some colorful language in the first one, but you’ll see the following emails aren’t so bad.”

  Summer groans, and I look at her. She’s turning redder now, with rage instead of lust. We’ll get to lust eventually. “Ash—what the fuck—I never got those emails.”

  The lawyer’s eyes open wide at Summer, and then he looks to me. “Now, what is it you’re suggesting, Mr. Ash? You going to contest this divorce?”

  “All I want is the legal separation, just like everyone else in the state. We’re entitled to that. A year of legal separation where we’re still married but not living together. Not unless you want to move in—”

  “Ash, no. You didn’t send those, and I didn’t get them.” Summer’s voice is raspy, almost like it’s going to crack. I can tell she wants to curse, that she’s absolutely livid. “We can’t do this. I can’t do this. You are making this shit up.”

  “I am not, Sunshine.”

  The lawyer takes the emails out of my hand. They’re signed, notarized, and everything else I could think of. Good thing I know a forger in New York who could get them to me overnight. And good thing I know this divorce lawyer errs on the side of separation, almost universally.

  Being part of the underworld in North Carolina might not be as exciting as it is in New York, but it has its fringe benefits.

  “Ash—I didn’t get those—” There’s a quiver in her voice, like she thinks she might be losing her mind.

  “You got the first one.” I turn to the lawyer. “If you’ll see here, her response is included. It says, ‘Fuck you, Jonathan Ash.’”

  Su
mmer blushes deeply. She did send that one, just not in response to any of these forged emails. But my guy in New York got these things to look just right.

  “These do indeed look official, Miss Colington—”

  “Dr. Colington,” I correct. “They are.”

  “They are not!” She nearly shouts it and then she claps her hand over her mouth.

  “Contingent on the separation going through, I won’t reveal that she and I are married. Not to her mother, not to her place of work. But I need the separation. I won’t sign divorce papers without it.”

  She looks at me, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “Ash, what’s the point of this? What in the hell are you trying to do?”

  “Just giving us a chance. Even if it’s a snowball’s chance in hell. Even if it doesn’t make a difference. All I want is time.”

  And please Sunshine, forgive me for this one little trespass. It was shitty. It was stupid. But it’s my last ditch effort.

  The lawyer shuffles through the emails and nods. “We can do this. I don’t see any reason why not to file for the legal separation—”

  “I see every reason why not to—but this man is hell bent on screwing up my life.” Summer stands up and slams her hand against the table. Both the lawyer and I jump, and she walks out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “Send me the paperwork at my address,” I say, leaping up and following after her. I need to make some headway with this woman on this day, come hell or high water. She’s already out of the door and marching to the car in her sensible shoes, her ass bouncing and delicious. I run out into the parking lot and catch her arm, probably like a fool. A long time ago, my father said there weren’t second chances, not for men like him—or me. He was drunk and raging, and my mother was long gone.

  I believed him for a long time. But when Summer turns around and looks at me, there’s a flash of something in her eyes, something that makes her look like the girl she was when she met me.