Chapter Four
Enimton
AKA
Ashen
Returning to the same bookstore for a second day in a row normally would have made me uncomfortable.
Wednesday was the day I went to the library one town over.
Would my family notice the change? They definitely would have before I started leaving my cellphone at the cottage.
Their surveillance of me since I’d graduated from college had become more intense than when I was a child.
Part of me wanted to walk away from everything and everyone I knew and start fresh. I’d come across a video of a fish in a quickly shrinking tidepool, panicking as the water disappeared around him, unaware that one wild leap would have freed him into the ocean.
The realization that all I’d ever known was the tidepool unsettled me. When I was younger, I had no choice. Now? What could my parents do? Cut me off financially? My allowance was minimum wage level.
My relationship with my parents had never been good, but that had been a common thread among the troubled youths I’d gone to school with.
I’d always known my parents had a penchant for violence, a preference for their first-born son, and a lack of empathy for my mental struggles .
. . but only recently had I begun to wonder if they weren’t also .
. . evil? Or was it just that fear looks good on no one?
When I’d overheard my parents talking about Simmons being a danger even though he was dead, I wanted to protect them. Because, despite everything, family was important to me.
I hadn’t understood why they considered twins reuniting to be so dangerous until I heard them discuss how he’d blackmailed them. Their fear was that if what Simmons did come to light, they would be linked to his crimes.
They whispered about a journal a man named Zachary had—a journal that if ever made public would ruin them and end their ability to care for Roland and me.
Me.
I’d waited my whole life for a sign that they cared for me and there it was. In that moment I’d made an impulsive decision. I’d thought if I could only get my hands on those journals . . . and scare the twins into silence . . . I could save my family.
Instead, I put one of the twins in a coma, nearly exposed everything, made the mistake of reading the journals, then nearly got killed trying to return them. Maybe I should still be on sedatives. Maybe I really am a danger to myself and others.
I entered the bookstore, clutching a package in my hands so hard the wrapping was tearing, and looked around. Helen Bart wasn’t there yet so I ordered two coffees and chose the table we’d sat at the day before.
Sunlight spilled across the polished wood as I carefully placed a cup of coffee where I hoped she would sit. If she came. She said she would. I had no reason to believe she wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to consider my level of disappointment if she’d changed her mind.
I laid my hand on the gift and smiled, imagining how I hoped she’d feel as she opened it. Would it be something she kept with her to bolster her confidence when it wavered?
Stop. You’re being too emotional. Why are you always too much?
My smile froze and withered.
The door jingled, and there she was, a vision in a flowered dress, curly hair piled high, looking too fresh and free to be in a dusty bookstore. Her pink glasses slipped down her nose as she scanned the room, then her face lit up when she spotted me. “Ashen!”
I could get used to that name. Pushing my chair back, I stood and waved her over. “You came.”
She was all smiles as she joined me. “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”
I ducked my head a bit as I answered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
After hanging a bag on the back of the chair, she sat across from me and paused when she noticed the coffee. “For me?”
Sinking into my seat again, I fought to sound less excited to see her than I was. “I took a guess that you’d want one. The barista remembered your order from yesterday, at least I hope he did. He said you like it black, no milk two sugars.”
She nodded and took a sip. “Perfect.” Then batted those lashes at me and undid me. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” After clearing my throat, I said, “I brought you something.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
I shoved the package across the table to her. “Nothing big. Just something to help you with your book.”
She tilted her head, curiosity and joy sparking in those beautiful brown eyes. “I can’t believe you brought me a present.”
A man could lose himself in eyes like hers. All I could muster to say was, “I hope you like it.”
She tore into the wrapping like a kid on Christmas. The paper fell away, revealing a simple rectangular box. When she first opened it, she looked unsure of what it was, then she lifted its plastic cover and gasped. “It’s a little typewriter.”
“A travel word processor. Small enough to fit in your purse. It doesn’t have any apps or Wi-Fi. I thought it might help you minimize distractions as you write your book.”
She ran a hand over it reverently. “What a thoughtful gift.”
“I engraved something on the bottom.”
She turned it over and brought a hand to her mouth before reading it softly aloud. “To Helen from Ashen, her first fan.”
“Ashen,” she said, tracing the letters with a reverence that made my throat tight. “This is perfect. I don’t know what to say.”
“Nothing more than a thank you is needed.”
Her hand covered mine. “Thank you. This has me feeling like a real writer.”
Slowly I withdrew my hand, not because I didn’t want her touch, but because I craved it too much. “Because you are a real writer. All you have to do now is take all the stories in your head and put them into that little computer.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is, but I can’t wait to read your first book.” When she said nothing in response to that, I added, “I know what it’s like to not be sure if you’re capable of something. Sometimes all you need is someone to tell you they believe you can do it.”
She leaned forward. “What is it you feel like you can’t do?”
I held her gaze instead of answering.
After a pause, she turned her attention back to the word processor. “You’re a kind man, Ashen Ryse.”
“I try.” That, at least, was the truth. Kind. Yes, if I could shake off all of my other labels, I would embrace that one.
She smiled again and I forgot the weight of my past—Father’s hand cracking across my cheek, Mother’s cold voice suggesting they send me away, the journals I’d stolen and returned after Dylan’s crash. Helen made me feel like I could be more than a Gravestone, more than a mistake.
“Ready to get to work?” She flexed her fingers then turned and pressed the “on” button beside the keyboard. “Let’s work on our books—yours and mine. That’s why we’re here, right?”
Was it?
“Sure,” I answered because I couldn’t share how much she already meant to me.
“All I have so far is a sketchy outline. Her name is Judy. She’s the daughter of an insanely rich and notoriously powerful man, but all she wants is a normal life.”
I leaned in. “No squids?”
She chuckled. “Not unless absolutely necessary.”
Nodding along, I pressed, “What do you like about your character?”
“She’s smart. Genius level smart. But she’s also arrogant and cocky. Young. I imagine her in college. She convinces her father to let her attend under an alias and is actually tickled when people don’t like her because everyone has been kissing up to her whole life because of who her father is.”
“In my experience people in her situation don’t realize they’re not the center of the universe.”
Helen bit her lip. “You think she won’t be believable?”
“I think you need to give her an aha moment where she wakes up to her situation.”
“What if she meets someone even smarter than she is who dismisses her as nothing more than a spoiled daddy’s girl?”
“That might do it.”
“Then she goes off to college to prove something to herself and ends up getting involved in a murder mystery.”
“I thought you were writing a romance.”
“Romances can have anything in them. I mean, if super soldiers can be trapped in silverware, I’m sure I can add a little murder to my story.”
I chuckled at that, surprised that she wanted to. “No argument here.” I looked her over again. “You’re so sweet, but are you harboring a darker side?”
Her brows furrowed again, briefly, then she asked, “Would that make you like me more or less?”
The air hummed with the kind of tension that leads to clothing flying off and zero regret. I had to strain to remember her question, but as I weighed it, I decided it deserved an honest response. “I can’t imagine a side of you I wouldn’t like.”
I expected her to blush or flutter those lashes at me again. Instead, her eyes smoldered with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “You barely know me.”
Had some player used that line on her recently? I didn’t like the idea of her putting up with that. I didn’t like the idea of her with another man, period.
I don’t even know her real name.
A wave of sadness washed over me as I realized that it was better if I never did. My real life was messed up, as messed up as my head was. We could have this—Helen and Ashen. But more than that? I’d only be fooling myself to think it was possible.
Hi, I’m recently off meds and acting erratically, but man, you’re hot.
And sweet.
And everything I’ve never had.
Oh, you want to meet my parents? Yeah, that’s probably not a good idea.
Come home with me for the night? Also, a bad idea.
How do you feel about running away to Tahiti, changing our names, and hiding out for a few decades?
Can I afford that? No. I’ve never been allowed to work.
Suddenly not interested?
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
She cleared her throat. “I was thinking . . . every story needs a bad guy. You know, someone lurking in the background, pulling strings, making everything go wrong. What do you think?”