by Lexi Whitlow
But it’s far from boring, because she’s radiant, even at this hour of the morning, even when she’s getting ready to go on shift and kill herself and her body for twelve hours at a time, or fourteen if they need her. I think back to that girl I first met, immaculate eyebrows and makeup, curled hair and tube dress. Back then she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen. Now, she’s something far more—a woman, and more than that too. She’s a little clumsy still, but she radiates wit and confidence even when she’s wiping coffee off her shoes.
I was mad at Bianca for a long time. But I see the point of her words when I look at Summer now.
“Dammit,” she mutters. I raise an eyebrow at her and laugh.
“Having trouble, Sunshine?”
“Yes—dammit,” she repeats. “I’m trying to get there early so I can complete a biopsy, so I can make sure I’m the first resident Priya sees. She says I could be eligible for a fellowship...” Her voice trails off, and she avoids my eyes.
“I’m sure you’ll get it.”
“Maybe,” she says, pursing her lips together. She comes up to me and gives me a kiss, quick but passionate, fingers running through my hair. After that, she flits out of the door, nearly tripping over a fat white package on the porch. It has her name written on it, and I hold it up as she flies down the stairs to her car.
“Sunshine, this is for you,” I call out to her, feeling the heft of whatever’s inside.
“I’ll look at it later!” She rolls down the window and blows me another kiss, then peels out of the driveway and leaves me to my thoughts. The package is from somewhere in Florida. I shrug and toss it on the entry table where Summer frequently places her keys, and then loses them. It’s probably the new scrubs she ordered, certainly nothing important.
I forget about it when I realize—this is the day for another betrayal, maybe not betrayal exactly. But a secret. Four or five times, Summer has told me that she’s saving up a few hundred dollars at a time, and she can get her loans deferred until her mother is up to speed with her mortgage payments. She’s shrugged when I’ve offered to pay, telling me she has it handled.
These Colington women, they think they have everything handled. And in fact, it’s nothing of the damn sort. Her mother will be homeless, her failing business closed.
I peek out the window again and make sure that she’s gone, and my chest constricts. There are things left unsaid about what I’m about to do, and I have the feeling I’m going to make her spitting mad. But I learned a long time ago that the only things in life worth doing are the things that will cause the biggest stir.
I pick up my phone and dial the bank. They’ve told me this is an absolutely idiotic move on my part, that I shouldn’t be liquidating my savings and putting my hope into one fighter’s success. I shouldn’t be shitting on my future and depending on the idea that one gym will make it so that my wife and I will be comfortable while she pays off her loans. And I damn well know I shouldn’t be depending on Linda Colington to turn her business around. None of these women has a shred of business sense—I’m glad Summer turned out to be a doctor.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I dial Wells Fargo, heart beating fast. “That woman better not open a private practice, or I’ll be the one bailing her out in five years’ time.” I laugh as the phone starts to ring. When I hear the banker I spoke to yesterday on the other end of the line, my words all come out in a rush. “I want to transfer that money we talked about yesterday, no ifs, ands, or buts. To the little inn on the south side of the island, right across from the ice cream shop. Summerside, that’s what it’s called.”
While the bank processes the exchange, there’s silence on the other end of the line. I find myself wishing I could hear it—the thump of money being moved from one drawer to another, or maybe the satisfying clink of a cash register opening. But it’s all done on a computer screen, imaginary cash moved from one person to another, putting my jobless ass in deep, pathetic trouble.
“It’s all done, Sir. We’ll call to notify Ms. Colington of the money in her account tomorrow morning. This will take care of her outstanding mortgage balance,” the banker says, amazement in his voice. He takes a deep breath in. “Who shall we say it’s from? An anonymous benefactor?”
“Hell no. It’s from Jonathan Ash.”
I hang up the phone and rush out of the house, my heart beating fast like it does after a fight. I walk straight to the house where Josh is staying and drag his ass off of the couch that he’s been sleeping on for the past week. No matter his level of injury—and it would seem Frank got him good—this kid is training today. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I drag his sorry, injured ass to my decrepit gym that’s one step away from being condemned. I guess I don’t have any damn business sense either, so my wife and I will be depending on Linda Colington to get her shit together and run a business for once in her life.
After I finish beating the hell out of Josh and taking three or four punches I didn’t need to take, I look at my phone.
Six missed calls from New York, and no messages.
“Fucking spammers,” I mutter. I put my phone away. “I’ve got more important shit to worry about.”
“What was that?” Josh asks, clapping my shoulder where he got me with a fucking horrible elbow strike earlier.
I suck in my breath and push his sorry ass out of the door before the whole building collapses on us. “Just the ramblings of a poor man who’s done a very stupid thing,” I tell him.
“Sometimes a stupid thing is all you can do, man,” Josh says with a smile.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Three Years, Three Months Ago
“I’ll pack my scrubs. Do you think I’ll need my scrubs in Syria? Do you have a passport? It’s going to be Syria. That’s what the email said.”
“I do,” Ash says. He’s using one of his knives to trim his nails, over the trashcan, of course. His nails are already trim, and it looks like he’s just fidgeting.
It’s probably because he hasn’t been out of the country before. But I checked, and spouses are welcome. Especially spouses with useful skills. I said he could very well be a porter or—well, probably a porter.
“You do what? You think I’ll need my old scrubs? Or you do have a passport?”
“I do have a passport.” He looks up at me quickly and then back down. “Whatever happens, Summer, you can’t miss your train tonight. The flight leaves in a week. Promise me.”
I put some of my t-shirts into my bag and put my heels aside. They can stay here in Ash’s apartment—our apartment—while we’re gone. My pulse quickens. There’s something dark and secretive about his tone.
“What are you talking about, Ash? You’re coming with me. You said you were. I’m going to get on that bus with you, and we’ll be in North Carolina by the morning. The week after that, we’ll leave from Charlotte.” I try to sound nonchalant, like he’s being silly. Isn’t that what wives do with husbands? There are twingey pangs low in my stomach and a weird energy rising in my body.
“Just...” He looks at me and puts his knife down on the table. I notice there’s a rusty edge to it when it glints in the light. My stomach twists as I realize it looks more like old blood. “Just promise me you’ll get on that bus. I might be late—just whatever happens—get on the bus and I’ll be behind you.”
“Seriously, is this because you don’t want to go?” My body is on edge, like I’m about to jump from somewhere very high. I wring my hands. Why would I think he wanted to go anyway? Why in the hell would a man like this leave a lucrative job with his mafia boss behind? And why would I want him to? “I can request a transfer up to the third month I’m there. I can make sure we’re somewhere you want to be—maybe Turkey? I hear it’s really beautiful in some of the more rural areas—”
“Summer, stop.” He stands up from the tiny kitchen table and walks over to me, catching my hands in his. “I’d go with you to Mongolia. Or the moon. But things here are questionable right now. Don’t worry about it. I�
�ll be right behind you.” His face looks sad as he speaks, and I collapse into him.
“I know.” I bite my lip. “I think we can go to Mongolia if that’s where you want to go.”
He tilts my face to his and smooths down my hair with his hands. “I want to go where you want to go, but not everything is that simple right now.”
“What does that—” Instead of answering, Ash leans in and presses his lips to mine. When he kisses me, his movements are gentle and slow, hands strong against the small of my back. He pecks my lips and then sinks into me, his body hot and taut and full of longing. His lips and tongue dance with mine in a rhythm I’m unaccustomed to. It’s a slow, thoughtful kiss, not like the passionate, ridiculous, grandiose kisses he tempted me with when he first met me. Not like the kisses, full of confidence and bravado, after our wedding. He kisses me like it’s a goodbye.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I wipe it away from my mind. I’m imagining things, aren’t I?
“You can say goodbye to your aunt, if you want. She’s okay.” He looks away when he says it, his normally confident expression changed to hangdog.
“Why would I be able to tell her goodbye? She was in hiding.”
“She paid Cullen off, somehow.” He looks at me and pauses, chewing on his lip. “But you’re still on his shit list. So you have to go. You’re going tonight. Promise me.”
“Yes, okay. I promise. I’m going tonight.” Nothing about this feels right. Everything inside of me screams, Wrong, wrong, wrong. “How the hell did Bianca—”
“Listen, I don’t know the particulars.” He says it impatiently and drops his hands from my arms, nearly pushing me away. “But he’s still got beef with Bianca. He’ll come after you again. Being away from everything here—that’s what you need to do.” The way he says it has such finality that my heart nearly stops in my chest. But after that, he smiles again.
And I convince myself, the rest of that day, that there’s nothing wrong.
Even though there’s that niggling feeling that everything is.
Present Day
I walk in after my shift, utterly and totally exhausted, like there are pieces of my brain being sucked away. It hasn’t been but a week I’ve been living with Ash and utterly ignoring the idea that we were going to get divorced, but I swear, staying up with him every night has left me without a lick of energy.
Aren’t new boyfriends supposed to energize you?
Except he’s not new, and he’s not a boyfriend, either.
Ash said something about a letter or a package, but I don’t see it when I fling my keys down on the breakfast table and slump into one of his overstuffed demin-blue chairs. They’re not attractive in the least, but they match the couch at least.
“There’s spaghetti,” I hear from the kitchen, and I laugh, leaning my head against one of the pillowy cushions. Just like an old married couple.
“I’m too tired to eat. And I’m not that hungry. I think I’m sick or something.”
“Suit yourself.” Ash appears, carrying a bowl of noodles and red sauce, offering it to me like a gift.
I wave my hand away and laugh again. “Since when do you cook spaghetti? Usually it’s steak or burgers or something manly, or take out from Blue Moon.”
He shrugs. “Since we officially became poor. And your mother became—well—less poor.”
I groan. “Ash, you didn’t. Oh God. Your gym. You barely know us.” I look up him when I say the last part, barely opening one eye. He scowls and sets the spaghetti down on the kitchen table. It’s like the headache I’ve been carrying around all day has finally decided to come into full bloom, with Ash and his stupid masculine bravado as the final catalyst. “I said I was going to take care of it, Ash. I can’t believe you—”
But I can believe him. He’s standing right here, approximately three feet away from me, disapproval and annoyance on his angular face. I should be annoyed that he’s annoyed because it was my problem, my mother, my everything. But one corner of my mouth raises into a grin instead.
“Can’t resist all this, can you, Sunshine?” He gestures to the ratty t-shirt he’s wearing, the pink, moon-shaped scar on his cheek, and the healing black eye.
I laugh and then clap my hand over my mouth. “Jesus, Ash. What the hell? You can’t just go around doing Robin Hood shit behind my back. And now you have nothing.” I try to make my voice sound angry, but I don’t have enough energy to manage it. “Nothing,” I repeat.
“That’s not necessarily true,” he says, stepping over the coffee table and sitting on the overstuffed chair with me. He’s so big he nearly pushes me off, but then he picks me up and puts me on his lap. I draw my breath in sharply. When he gets close to me like this, it’s hard to remember that I need to be angry, that I need to tell him that he can’t just liquidate everything he has to bail my mom out. “I have like $1500.”
“Oh God. Jesus tap-dancing Christ.” I do the math in my head. That means we have a total of $2500—if we’re pretending we’re actually married. There’s no way he can get his gym going, no way for him to get his life together. “Jesus fuck,” I moan.
“You keep taking the Lord’s name in vain. I’m Catholic.” He pulls my hair over my shoulder and kisses my neck. “And I won’t have my little woman doing such naughty things.” He slides his hands under my shirt and moves his fingers over my waist, sending chills over my body.
“Ash, come on.”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now.” He trails his lips over my neck and nips me gently. His voice is raw and husky, vibrating against my skin. My nipples stiffen, as hard as little beads. Heat creeps over my skin, threatening to cloud my judgment, threatening to take me over.
“This is important, Ash.” My voice comes out in a whimper. Each time with this man, I sink deeper and deeper. “Damn you.”
“What’s so important, Sunshine? I know you like to be serious, but it’s much better if we just take a little time to reconnect. I’ve been training all day.” He licks his lips, gripping my waist tighter and then licking the hollow of my neck. “And I’ve been thinking about making you come all day. What’s so wrong about that?”
He pushes his body into mine from beneath, all heat and hardness. His body holds promises deeper than any words a man can say, his hands communicating every reason why he went against my wishes, why he did it. Muscles and bone, fine gold hair on his forearms, lips touching me, fingertips searching the expanse of my skin—I’m wrapped in him, cocooned, until all I can feel is desire.
He knows this. He lifts my shirt and cups my breast through my bra.
I want to push him, want to make him talk. But I’m already wet, panties clinging against my skin.
Turning my body, I sit astride him. My nerves are set on fire, every inch of me aflame. Even my lips tingle with anticipation.
“Why’d you do it?” I try to make him look me in the eye, but he only pulls me tighter and brings my face to his, kissing me desperately, tongue dancing against mine until I’m moaning. When he stops, I’m panting, fingernails scraping against the back of his neck.
“I love you. That’s my reason.” He kisses me again, pulling my bottom lip between his, then pulls me closer so my legs are spread, right at his waist. His hands toy with my breasts beneath my shirt, cupping them, pinching my nipples through the lace of my bra, sending shocks deep into my core. He groans and moves his body so his cock throbs hard and hot against my sex. “Because I want to be with you, here. I’m all in, Sunshine.”
“Ash, there are things you don’t know.” My body thrums, heat pooling between my legs.
“I give exactly zero fucks about what I don’t know.” He hooks his thumb in the waist of my leggings, then his fingers make their way to the crotch of my panties, lifting and pulling, sliding over my wetness and up and over my button until I’m whimpering. Until I’m lost and becoming someone else, someone without any secrets, someone who doesn’t care about any of the money or the other bullshit that’s su
pposed to be important.
Some of Ash’s red hair has grown long, and it flops over his forehead as he pushes me back so I’m leaning against the arm of the chair, slipping two fingers inside of me all at once. His palm rocks against my clit, fingers working inside of me, wet lacy fabric clinging to me. His free hand pulls up my shirt and bra, exposing one breast, and he bends to lick and suck at my nipple, tongue traveling over my flesh as I dissolve into a puddle of incoherent whispers and moans. There are plenty of things about this man that make me uncomfortable—it’s not his background or his jobs. I don’t view him like he thinks I do. As he slides a third finger inside of me and I toss my head back, fingers laced through his hair, I pinpoint the word that comes to mind when I’m around him—excessive. Like something that should be forbidden.
His hands move like lightning, and my shirt disappears over my head. My leggings and panties follow as he throws me around, and I moan with desperation when his fingers leave my sex.
“Don’t stop—don’t stop—” I’m drunk on my own lust and absolutely incoherent, unable to think about all the things I meant to say. My muscles tense with need, and I’m babbling when he gets off the chair and kneels in front of me, wrapping my legs around his head, licking, sucking, running his tongue up and down my folds, teasing and playing with my clit as I hang onto his hair for dear life. Crying out in pleasure, I throw one leg over his back and draw him in close.
Ash unbuckles himself, his jeans falling to his knees. There’s a tremendous groan against my sex, and he sucks my button into his mouth hard, biting down on it gently. He keeps groaning as he strokes himself, lips pulling against my clit.
My body tenses and shakes, my hips bucking hard against Ash’s face. Lightning bolts reach through my body, shaking and shuddering and setting everything on fire.
Just as I start to come again, Ash slips out of his jeans and stands, lifting his shirt over his head. Before he can lift me up and carry me like he normally does, I slide down to my knees before him and take his cock in my hand. It’s already rock hard, a translucent bead at its tip. I dart my tongue out and lick it, teasing his tip and growing even wetter as he moans and absently thrusts his cock forward so that it parts my lips.