Why am I doing this to myself? Because you’re a masochist.
I see his door up ahead, closed. There’s no red sock or any other indication that someone might be in there.
Still . . .
I don’t even need to consciously hold my breath because I’ve stopped breathing altogether as I put my ear to the door. The softest music is playing, so he’s in there, but otherwise . . . silence. No moans or groans or female voices.
Before I can chicken out, I knock lightly.
No answer.
Swallowing, I knock again.
No answer.
I reach down to gently test the doorknob, to find it unlocked.
This is the weirdest feeling I’ve ever had—blood rushes in my ears as my heart pounds viciously and yet my lungs are still. I know it can’t go on forever. I know I’ll get dizzy and pass out soon if I don’t make a choice.
I have to make a choice. I can turn and leave now—leave this house because I can’t deal with Connor—and not see Ashton. Not touch him, not have him help me forget this awful day in a way that only he can.
Or I can open the door and risk seeing him with someone else.
I open the door.
A freshly showered Ashton sits on the edge of his bed in a towel, staring at the floor while one hand fumbles with the belt band. He holds a glass with amber liquid in it.
If I were any more relieved right now, I’d dissolve to the floor. “Hey.” I say it as softly as I can, as the gravitational pull toward him takes over.
“Close the door. And lock it. Please. I don’t want to see anyone tonight.” His voice is low and hollow-sounding. He hasn’t even looked up. I don’t know what this mood is. I’ve never seen it before.
I follow his instruction, locking out the house of people, the party, Connor. Everything. Leaving just us.
And then I step closer, slowly, tentatively. Not until I’m three feet away do his dark eyes lift, scanning me from red stilettos and up slowly. He stops at my chest. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he mutters before taking a sip of his drink.
“Why aren’t you downstairs?”
He swishes the liquid around in his glass. “I had a shitty day.”
“Me too.”
Downing the last of his drink, Ashton places the glass on his nightstand. “Do you want me to help you forget?” A stir in my thighs instantly confirms that my body definitely would appreciate that. Brown eyes finally find their way to my face, no hint of amusement in them. Nothing but resigned sadness and a touch of glassiness. “I’m good at that, aren’t I.” There’s a meaning behind those words that I can’t fully comprehend.
“I know that picture came from you.”
He bows his head.
Now that I’m standing here in front of Ashton, the confusion I’ve been battling for weeks melts away. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I know exactly what I want. And I have no doubt in my mind that it’s right. “I’m going to give you something today, too.” I push aside the swirl of butterflies in my stomach, committing fully to what I’m about to do, to what I’m about to give him if he’ll take it as I slip out of my heels. I don’t know if it’s easier or harder with him not watching me, but I undo the four buttons Reagan left me and let the fitted blouse drop to the floor. My fingers make quick work of the buttons on my skirt and let that fall as well.
As if fighting the urge to resist and losing, Ashton’s eyes lift to take me in before his face turns away to look at the corner of the room. “Jesus Christ, Irish,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his hands squeezing the edge of the mattress, trying to restrain himself. “I won’t be able to stop myself.”
Reaching back to unhook my bra, I let that fall to the ground in answer. Those stupid garters follow immediately. Soon, I’ve pulled every last piece of the ridiculous costume off and Ashton’s still not looking at me. In fact, his eyes are closed.
I swallow as I reach out to run my fingertip over the bird on his arm, intentionally avoiding the scar. I lean down to place a gentle kiss on it. “Tell me what this means.” It’s not a question. I’m not giving him a choice.
There’s a long pause where he says nothing. “Freedom.”
I let my finger skate up to the one on his shoulder. I demand again. “And this? Tell me what it means.”
A little louder. “Freedom.”
I place a kiss on it in response.
I reach down to pull his towel loose and throw both ends away. I quietly climb on to straddle his lap. Ashton hasn’t touched me yet, but his eyes are now open and taking in my body with a strange expression that I can’t read. It’s almost like shock or awe, as if he can’t believe this is actually happening.
I place my hand over the symbol on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath. “Freedom?”
His eyes lift to meet mine immediately, his voice more steady, more defiant than before. “Yes.”
I don’t let that distract me, though, as my hand skates around to where I know the script with my name is. I don’t need to ask him what it means because I now know beyond a doubt. He’s already told me in so many ways.
He says it without my prompting. “Freedom.”
I don’t have all the pieces to fix this beautiful, trapped, broken man, but I do have one piece and it’s mine to give. For one night, for all nights. For however long he wants it.
Me. Completely.
I know what I have to do next. I don’t know how he’ll react. Whether this is a good idea or not, I have to do it. Holding his gaze, trying to tell him that it will all be okay with my eyes, I reach for his wrist, for the belt strap, for the snaps that affix it. A flash of panic skitters across his face and his neck muscles cord. It’s a moment when I think maybe this is a bad idea. But I grit my teeth against it, using all the anger I have over his father and what he’s done to him, what he’s still doing to him and, inadvertently, to me, and I rip that damn belt strap off and whip it across the room. “I’m giving you your freedom tonight, Ashton. So f**king take it.”
I don’t regret a second of it.
Not as he flips me onto my back.
Not as he pushes into my body without hesitation.
Not as I cry out with that moment of pain.
And certainly not as he claims his freedom.
And gives me a part of mine.
In the darkness, with the dull sounds of a party dying in the background, Ashton opens the vault just far enough that a memory slips out, unprompted. “She used to sing this song in Spanish.” His fingers swirl over my back as I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, still in awe of him and me and us together. It was . . . incredible. It feels right in a way that nothing else has ever felt right. “I can’t remember the words, and to this day I don’t know what it meant. I just remember the tune.” My cheek vibrates under the low melodic rumble as he begins to hum.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, rolling my face forward to kiss that perfect chest.
“Yeah,” he whispers in agreement. His hand slows. “When he put the duct tape over my mouth, I couldn’t do anything but hum. So I’d hum for hours. It helped.”
For hours.
“That’s my favorite memory of my mother.”
Lifting to my elbows to take in his face, I see the tears trickling down from the corners of his eyes. I so badly want to ask him what happened to her, but I can’t bring myself to do it right now. All I want to do is kiss away his tears.