Saving Ash(book #2) Chapter-two

It’s been three weeks since I’ve agreed to move in with Ash. Yet, I’ve heard nothing from him. Sasha says he must be sorting things out, whatever that means. But I know Ash has something hidden deep down that needs to be brought to life, if he’s ever going to live a normal life.

Normal life.

How normal would I want him to be? Because let’s face it. His mysterious past and dark moods are what turn me on. I’m torn between wanting both. And I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I think what it would be like to have Ash as a boyfriend. But that’s impossible. He wants one thing, and one thing only—my body to do as he pleases.

I’m not about to be the one to contact him. He’s the one who sought me out… at the bar, and begged me to move in with him. Yet, nothing.

Maybe this is part of Master Victor’s punishment—taking something away. Me.

I’ve spent my days drawing, pretending I’m not waiting around. I’ve sketched a picture of my sister, what I think she would look like now. She would be at least 8 or 9.

The girl in the picture is blonde, like me with blue eyes. I looked in the mirror while sketching, and drew a younger version of myself. Though we have different fathers, I feel we would look alike.

I flip the sketch pad and come to the picture I drew of Ash weeks ago. I had to get it down. His look was all foreign—vulnerable. I drew him in shades of baby blue and pink—innocent. His eyes were the softest I’ve ever seen, and I had to find a new color for them—flecks of gold, smeared with white. Even now, I must look away.  He captivates me. Looking at it too long could put me in a trance. An Ash trance.

Of all the pictures I’ve drawn of him, this is my favorite. If only he could see this side of himself, and not the darkness that covers him. And yet, it’s black that encompasses all colors. Without black, colors have no depth. His colors directly influence his soul.

I flip back to the picture I’ve drawn of my sister. It makes me think of the little boy in the picture with Ash. Why does he keep it hidden? Why did he become so angry with me when I found it.

The pictures in the box.

I shudder, dropping the sketch pad. My phone pings with a text, and I don’t recognize the number. It’s not a contact of mine. Then I read the message.

My driver will be picking you up at 5:00. Be ready.

That’s it? No, how have you been? Sorry for ghosting you.

Then I remind myself, this is Ash.

I text back.

Nice to hear from you, too. How did you get my number?

I wait, expecting him to respond. The bubbles bounce on his response, then disappear. For someone who went out of their way, and practically begged me to move in. Now, has little to say?

This makes me so angry. I spent weeks in agony, drawing his picture. All thoughts consumed of him, and that’s all he has to say? I grab up the phone, pressing out my angry response.

If this is Ash, I’ve changed my mind.

Ping!

That didn’t take long.

How many men have asked you to move in with them?

I really don’t know how to respond and decide silence is the best revenge.

Ping.

Answer me, Cinder.

I don’t.

My phone rings, and I practically jump. He knows I’m here. I let it ring some more before going to voicemail.

“Hello?” I ask like I don’t know who it is.

“Are you trying to make me angry?”

“How did you get my number?”

“Answer my question.”

“No, not until you answer mine.”

“I know everything about you, remember? Even your blood type. Now answer mine.”

I’m shocked he called and forget the question. Men. Moving in.

“Cinder!”

“None, Ash.”

“Now, was that so hard?”

“Where have you been?” Why did I ask that? It makes me sound desperate. I liked it better when he begged.

“That’s none of your concern. Will you be ready at 5:00?”

“I need to pack…”

“Not necessary. I have provided you with all your needs.”

“Well, okay. But why can’t you pick me up?”

“I’m working, Cinder. And I want you at my place when I walk through the door.”

Does that mean he misses me? Visions us of running into each others arms romantically dances in my head. But it’s just my silly heart wanting more.

“Yes, I’ll be ready.”

“Good.”

“I…”

He ends the call! Just. Like. That. His cold demeanor is back, and I feel like the lamb to the slaughter. Something he needs to appease his moods. But the contract is dissolved. So why is he being so…like Ash?

I look down at the time on my phone. I only have one hour left to get ready. I jump in the shower. Looking down, I see I’m in need of a wax and grab a razor instead. Even though I don’t know if we will be having sex or not. Everything is confusing, now.

I wash my hair and body, and then wash again. Just in case.

Hopping out of the shower, I quickly towel off and give my hair a quick blow out. Make up? Or no make up? I go with a little mascara. I run to my closet and throw on the nicest thing I own—nothing. I consider raiding Sasha’s closet. No, then he will think I’m desperately trying. I am but he does’t need to know that. To him, I’m just a girl who needs this situation.

Black skinning jeans, paired with a tank top—and converse tennis shoes. I look pathetic. But it will have to do.

Grabbing up my sketch pad and backpack with my homework, I walk out of my room, and go wait on the couch until the bell rings. This will probably be my last time I get to be a teenager and prop my feet up on Sasha’s coffee table, and begin swiping through my phone. Sasha isn’t here. Out with her master, I’m sure.

The door bell rings, and I get up, placing the phone in my back pocket and pull on the backpack. Opening the door, I find the same driver from before, the one Ash keeps in New York. I doubt I can talk much to him, like I did Hunter.

“Miss McIntire, I am here to take you to Mr. Sinclair’s penthouse.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” I say, my hands pulling down on the backpack straps.

I follow him down the steps to the SUV waiting at the curb. He opens the door for me to get in. He shuts the door, and then makes his way to the driver’s seat.

It’s a quiet ride across the city. The sun is still in the sky, and I watch the trees pass by with their bright colors as autumn is setting in. Just like Ash, so many colors that make him.

What will his color be tonight?

We arrive at his penthouse building, and the driver pulls into the parking garage, parking next to the elevator. Once again, he opens the door. “Use this key, Miss McIntire. It will take you to Mr. Sinclair's private penthouse. His floor is not listed. You will see a set of doors when the elevator opens.

I look at the key like a foreign object. I didn’t know such a thing existed. A private floor? Is this because…? I take the key and exit the car.

“Have a nice evening, Miss McIntire,” He says, and gets back into the car, driving out of the garage. I feel like a puppy that’s been dumped off.

Walking over to the elevator, I press the button. The doors open, and I step inside. I search for a place this key will go. There’s only one key hole, and I place the key inside. Not soon after, the doors shut, and off I go into the unknown.

Just like the driver said, the doors open to a private floor. A long hall leads to a pair of black doors. Is this the same place I was before? When I was blindfolded? And three weeks ago when I woke up in a strange place?

I pull out the key, and step out like the floor will fall beneath me. It’s quiet, eerie. I feel eyes watching—ghosts. Something doesn’t feel right. The doors swish shut behind me, and I hear the elevator leave, disappearing into that other world where things look normal.

I look back to the black doors that seem to be ominously staring at me. I don’t have a key for them and assume they must be unlocked.

Slowly, I make why way down the hall and stop at the doors. I feel once I step inside, there’s no going back. Grasping the handle, it clicks, and the doors break open with a creak. Cool air escapes from inside. I open the door, and step in.

***

Saving Ash© 2024 Gina A. Jones rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.