Two minutes after that I roar into my own driveway, brakes squealing as I try not to crash into the back wall of my own garage. Mere seconds later I have my key in the back door. I get it unlocked, but the door won’t open. Someone has jammed it shut from inside.
Heart pounding, I fly into the backyard and leap onto the patio. Rambo himself would be proud as I drag a deck chair over to the kitchen window. This was Bramly’s favorite way to get inside whenever he locked himself out as a teen. So I put both hands on the window sash and shove it upwards. Diving through, I clear the kitchen sink with a graceless tumble onto the floor below.
That will leave a bruise. But I’m on my feet already, listening. I hear pounding upstairs, and my heart leaps into my throat as the shouting starts.
“Just open the door, you crazy bitch! I’m not going to hurt you.”
Gee, it’s really a wonder that Dwight has done so well in life. So charming and persuasive…
These are my thoughts as I run full tilt up the stairs to rescue my girl.
Ash
I have barricaded myself in Braht’s master bathroom, and I am steaming mad. And a little scared.
Fine—a lot scared. My hands are shaking as I stand here wielding…I don’t know what this thing is. Some kind of manscaping tool. But it has shiny metallic teeth and it’s the best idea I’ve had in the last ten seconds.
The moment I spotted Dwight downstairs, he began to talk. But I wasn’t buying what he was selling. So I turned tail and ran upstairs into Braht’s room and locked the door. Then onward into the bathroom, and I locked that door, too.
It didn’t work, though. The kind of lock they put on bedroom doors is only meant to keep out curious children who might interrupt you in the middle of sex. It’s not a lock for keeping out ex-con ex-husbands.
While I stand here hyperventilating, I hear him enter the bedroom. He probably picked the lock. That’s the kind of thing you learn in prison, right?
Holy shit, I’m going to die with a men’s shaving tool in my hand. And I haven’t even owned a pair of Louboutins, yet. I’m not ready!
Dwight snarls at me from outside the bathroom door. Trembling now, I turn away to investigate the bathroom window. Unfortunately, it looks out onto a particularly slippery bit of metal roof. If I’m forced to exit the premises that way, it’s going to hurt. A lot.
“Just!” Bang. “Open!” Bang. “The fucking…” Bang. “Door!” Dwight shouts. “I need one stupid little thing, and you’ll never see me again, you stuck-up bitch.”
“Keep talking!” I yell. “It will give the police more time to respond to my 911 call!” My voice is shaking, though. Can he hear the lie?
“Your phone is in the front hall,” he growls. “But if you listen for just one goddamn minute you know that all I need is…”
But I don’t get to hear what he needs, because there’s a sudden and mighty crash against the door, and I jump like a horror movie audience member.
Yet the door holds. And I hear… Is that the sound of fighting? The thumps and bumps are desperate and disorganized.
Dwight screams, and my lungs seize up completely.
“I would put you out of your misery right this second,” a new voice says. It’s Braht’s! I feel the first hint of relief. “…Except prison food is too carby and I don’t look good in orange.”
My exhale is mighty.
“Get off me, you penny loafer-wearing pussy!” Dwight shouts, and I tense up again as I hear more flailing. But then Dwight makes a sick little wet sound and whimpers.
“That’s right. You called it.” Braht lets out a dark chuckle. “But I’m the penny loafer-wearing pussy who’s got you pinned. Honey bear! Are you okay?”
“Y-yes,” I squeak.
“Then bring me an electrical cord. Like the hair dryer, maybe, or—”
I yank open the bathroom door to find Dwight flat on the carpet, face down, his hands wrenched behind his back by Braht. “There’s blood!” I whimper. It’s all over Braht’s hands.
“Oh, baby, it’s okay. Bella will just have to be gentle at my next manicure. My knuckles are a little busted. Hand that over, okay?”
I look down and see that I’m still holding the shaving tool.
Braht takes it out of my hand and uses the cord to wrap up Dwight’s wrists. Then he sits right down on Dwight’s ass, which makes Dwight grunt with indignation.
“Wow.” Braht lets out a breath. “First things first, I want a hello kiss.”
“So do I,” Dwight snarls.
Without even a glance at what he’s doing, Braht smacks Dwight’s exposed cheek. “Shut up. Quick now,” he says to me. “A kiss, and then the cordless phone.”
I’m rooted to this spot in the bathroom, though. It freaks me out to get close to Dwight. “In…a minute,” I argue.
Braht makes a gentle clicking sound with his tongue. “The sooner you bring me that phone, the sooner he’s out of our lives. You can bet that breaking and entering is a parole violation. You got this, Ash. The phone, please.”
I’m still in a daze, but his voice is just the right amount of calm and demanding. So I step over Dwight’s prone form and into the hallway where there’s more room to avoid him. Then I turn and scamper into the bedroom to grab the phone.
When I return, Braht takes the phone in one hand and somehow dials 911 while holding Dwight. “Yes, this is an emergency. I need to report a break-in. The man who forcibly entered my home already has an outstanding arrest warrant.”
He speaks calmly into the phone while I stand there feeling shaky. The fear just won’t release its hold on me. When I saw Dwight walk into the room with me…
A shudder travels through my body. I can’t even think about that moment without wanting to cry. I thought he was going to kill me.
“Honey bear,” Braht says softly. He’s off the phone. “Come closer.”
Reluctantly I kneel down beside him. He leans forward and kisses my forehead. It’s just a little brush of his lips across my skin. But that tiny contact lets me feel things again. “I was so scared,” I whisper. “I hate being scared!”
“It’s going to be okay.”
And he’s right. The cops show up and ask us a lot of questions. Dwight argues that he didn’t break in because he’d made an appointment to see Braht’s house. But the busted bedroom door argues otherwise. Also, Dwight gave Braht a false name when he made the appointment.
When they search Dwight’s pockets, the cops find a strange little device with a light on it. It looks like a pen, but it’s a little too large.
“That is a spy camera!” Braht yelps. “Were you going to leave that in my house?”
At that thought, I shiver yet again. Braht tucks me against his side, and I try to relax against his warmth.
“You can’t prove that,” Dwight argues. “But if Ash would just answer a simple question then I could have left you alone.”
“What. Question?” I bite out.
“Our, uh, wedding date.”
I blink down at him, and then blink again. “Wait, what? You need to know what date we were married? Why?”
“Never mind why,” he grumbles.
“Maybe it’s a password,” Braht suggests.
But my brain is still stuck back on wedding date. “How do you not know when we got married?” I demand. “It was your stupid idea.”
“Well…” he chuckles nervously. “I remember that part.”
“Oh MY GOD!” I’m getting angry again, and it feels good. It’s better than cowering. “Men! You are unbelievable.”
“Not all of us,” Braht counters. “I happen to know that you married him on October 28th, 2011,” Braht says.
“How do you know that?” Dwight demands.
“It was in the PI’s file,” Braht says to me.
“But I tried all the dates in October…” Dwight seems to catch himself, and he zips his lip.
“Tried them on what?” the cop asks, jotting down another note. “Is it the combina
tion to something important?”
“Uh, never mind,” Dwight says feebly.
“WAIT!” I exclaim, leaping to my feet. “Did you need that camera to look at my butt? My old tattoo…” It was our wedding anniversary date. Six digits.
Dwight bites his lip, careful not to say anything.
But Braht leaps to his feet, too. “Are you fucking kidding me right now? You were going to put a camera in my home so you could see Ash’s ass?”
“Never said that,” Dwight grunts.
“Nobody sees that ass but me!” Braht’s face is red. He takes a step closer to the handcuffed Dwight and makes a fist.
The cop who’s sitting with us grabs him. “Careful, buddy. I only want to take one of you downtown. He’s neutralized. You can’t hit him even if he deserves it.”
“Can I hurl an expletive at him?”
The cop shrugs. “Sure.”
“You are a fucking dweeb who needs to get his eyebrows done.”
The cop laughs.
“Get him out of here,” Braht says through clenched teeth.
“Jamison!” the cop calls to his partner in the other room. “Let’s go, okay? And tell the detective to pull this guy’s old case file. If there was missing cash somewhere he’ll need a warrant to search for a combination safe.”
“Got it!” Jamison says. “Let’s take ’im downtown now and book ’im.”
They haul the prisoner to his feet, one cop on either side. “I guess this is goodbye again,” I say flatly to Dwight. I’ve earned this closure and I’m taking it. “Lose my number, okay? I spent too many years trying to undo the damage you caused.”
He skulks out on the cop’s arm, and I watch his backside disappear out Braht’s front door. I’ve come a long way since I was the kind of girl who could be taken in by a dope like Dwight.
Braht
* * *
I have the kind of adrenaline rush that just won’t quit. I feel like a goddamn superhero. I could scale the walls right now and swing by wrist-webs across the city.
Dwight is gone. Ash is safe from him.
She’s in my kitchen, rustling around. And when she returns, it’s with a bag of corn chips and a bowl of salsa. And two beers.
Have I mentioned that she’s the perfect woman? Oh right, I have. And she’s still going to leave me. “We have to talk,” I say.
“No shit, Sherlock.” She hands me a beer. “Or rip each other’s clothes off. I’m so hyper right now I could go all day. My nipples are steel tipped right now.” She covers her mouth with one hand. “Something is wrong with me if I just said that out loud.”
“Tell them to chillax for a minute, because I have some things I need to get off my chest.” You know shit is serious if I’m turning down sex with the love of my life. But I can’t make love to her again unless she knows the whole ugly story.
“Promise me,” she says, swigging her beer. “…That you wouldn’t forget our wedding date. Who does that?”
Right? I can’t even imagine. Marrying Ash would turn me into one of those guys who sobs through his own wedding vows. It wouldn’t be a man card moment, that’s for sure. “If I ever have the honor of marrying you, that date would be burned into my soul.”
She gives me a soft smile, and I die a little inside. “There won’t be any more tattoos on my ass. I think I jinxed myself.”
“Nah. That dickhead did all the jinxing when he decided the world owed him a free paycheck.”
Her smile widens. “You know what’s funny? The tattoo artist was European. So he wrote the date…”
“In reverse order!” I cackle. “That’s hilarious. So it said, 28-10-11?”
“Yup!” she shoves a chip in her mouth with obvious glee.
“That’s why Dwight was traipsing around after you. He needed to crack the code. I wonder what he needs that code for?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve spent too much time and effort on Dwight. Now I want to spend some time and effort on you. And you can spend more on me.”
I take a quick look at her nipples. Still steel tipped. God, I want her. I bite my fist.
Yes, it’s overly dramatic, but there are times in life that call for a good old fist-biting and this is one of them. “Ash, you know I love you.”
“Yes,” she says softly.
“But there’s something I didn’t tell you, and you’re going to take it hard.”
Her eyes widen. “Why?”
“Because…” I take a deep breath. “It’s my fault your parents lost the cottage.”
She tilts her head to the side like a confused puppy. “No, it’s HIMCO’s fault.”
“HIMCO was my dad’s company. He defrauded everyone and then left the country.”
“He…” Her eyes widen. “And you’re his…?” She gulps.
“Yes.” I fill in the missing details, including my role in it. I talk for like five minutes straight while I pace and I scrub my hands through my hair.
It all feels very Romeo and Juliet and cursed.
“…And that’s why I offered on the cottage for you. I’ll sell my place and live in a shoebox somewhere and just get by. I want to do this even if you don’t want to see me anymore.”
“Braht! Shut up a second!”
I stop pacing, but it isn’t easy because I was really on a roll.
“You dick bean! I’m not blaming you for your dad’s bullshit, or something you didn’t understand when you were just a kid.”
“I was eighteen.”
She waves a hand as if brushing away a mosquito. “Please. At eighteen I thought frosted lipstick was a good idea and that Christina Aguilera could see inside my soul. I forgive myself for my teen years, and you should, too.”
It couldn’t possibly be that easy. But that fact that Ash thinks so stuns me into silence for once in my life.
“…And if you think for a minute I’m letting you go after investing all this emotional trust in you, then you’ve got your head up your ass. I love you. Did you know that?”
I shake my head. Another bomb goes off inside my poor little brain.
“Well, I do. I love your pastel colors and your pedicures. I love that you’re more high maintenance than I am and that I can bogart your moisturizer in the morning. I love that you exasperate me at work and you exhaust me in the bedroom. Of course we’re going to be together. It’s fucking obvious. I want to secure my rate of investment.”
Now it’s starting to get through, because she’s speaking our common language. She wants a good ROI?
She wants a good ROI! From me! “Oh, honey bear. I love it when you talk business. Come here right now.” I point at the floor in front of me. “I need to make a deposit on our mutual account.”
Ash gives me a catty look. “Will I get a good return?”
“Off the charts,” I whisper.
She takes a step closer, and I just want to kiss her. Like, yesterday. So I close the distance and crush my mouth over hers.
Soft arms tight around me, and she moans into my mouth. I can’t believe my luck. Ash and I make sense, damn it. And she’s one thing my parents didn’t actually steal away.
She breaks our kiss. “Now take off your clothes and let me see your mighty braht, Sebastian.”
My mighty braht. I like that. “On the bed, hot stuff.”
She races toward my room, and I’m in hot pursuit. Very hot. Because forgiveness makes me horny.
But then, when she’s just three feet from the bed, Ash comes to a halt. She stops so fast that I run into her, my hard cock poking her right in the ass.
“Ungh,” I say, when I really mean, “whoops, sorry.”
She turns around slowly, and I spot her wide eyes. “Braht,” she whispers.
“Yes, sexy thing?” The bratwurst is ready to party, so I unzip my khakis.
“What does HIMCO stand for?”
“Um…” I shed my pants. I’m so hard I’ve literally forgotten my own name. Or rather, my father’s. “Hunter Investment Management Company.?
??
“Hunter,” she squeaks. “Omigod.”
“You can say that, baby, but preferably when I’m inside you.” I reach out and begin unbuttoning her blouse.
She puts a hand on my chest. “Your real name is Hunter.”
“It was.” But that was a long time ago.
“My fake boyfriend is Hunter.”
“Don’t talk about other dudes when we’re getting naked, baby.” I unhook her bra and let those titties free. The nipples aim right at me, like a well-calibrated missile system.
I lean over to take one of them in my mouth.
“Oh fuck,” she gasps. “That feels…ungh. But…I’m having a revelation here.”
“Yeah?” I push her down on the bed. “Can you have it while I’m licking you everywhere?”
“Sebastian!” She grabs my head in two hands so that I’ll pay attention. “Listen. My subconscious is such an asshole.”
“I know, baby.” So is mine, though, because my subconscious insists on thinking about sex with Ash even while she’s trying to talk to me.
“I named my fake boyfriend Hunter. On some level I already think I knew it was you.”
“Mmm.” This has occurred to me before. I just really need to hear her say it. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t know why I fought you for so long.”
“Me either, sugar pop. How about we declare a truce and I pound you into the mattress now?”
“Okay,” she sighs, reclining on the bed. “Carry on, good sir.”
So I spread myself out on top of her and kiss her senseless. Because this is what you do when your soul mate finally accepts you. You kiss her and then make love to her until you both see stars.
Or until you both need to stop for a shower, some luxury bath products and a latte.
28 Epilogue
Ash
The snow has blanketed everything in white. And I mean everything. When you’re on a lake in Michigan, that shit does not mess around. It’s a Winterpocalypse out there.
I like snowstorms, at least lately. Braht and I are wearing ridiculously cozy sweaters—cashmere, not Christmas sweaters—joggers and slippers. The fire is crackling and he’s got my dad’s record player going. He also has a pork roast cooking. For tacos. It turns out Braht can cook exactly two things: tacos and omelets.