8
The Storm Inside
Riley woke him at eight the next morning, too early for Ashe to want to get out of bed. This morning, all he asked was to bury himself deeper under the thick covers and stay there for days, especially since he wasn’t expected at the theater.
“Can I open it?” she asked, waving the parcel she’d found with a rose in the kitchen. Ashe was reminded of Christmas morning, when she’d said the same thing as she’d jumped into the small bed they’d shared in his childhood bedroom in Reeth, holding a box decorated with a bow.
He would have preferred to sleep longer, but his own curiosity took over and so he sat up in bed and watched her jiggling with excitement and caffeine. She usually made her way to the kitchen when she awoke, straight to the complicated espresso machine he’d bought for her from Europe. Never one to sleep in, she’d make herself an espresso and sit on the couch reading one of his books until he woke up. Sometimes she’d play his vintage records until he’d wake up and watch her dance to the music of Elvis or the Ramones.
As she tore the wrapping from the box Ashe steeled himself for her first reaction, her body stiffening against him as she caught a glimpse of the picture book hidden beneath the tissue paper. She picked up the book, frowning as she turned it over to inspect it.
“I haven’t seen this book since Dad took it away from me. I was probably eight or nine then.” When Ashe said nothing, Riley turned to look at him. “Where did you find this? My dad said it had been destroyed in the fire.”
“I got it from him,” he replied. No need for her to know right now that her father had handed it to him after asking money for it.
“But how did you know about it?” Riley asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Gareth told me. He mentioned how much you had loved the book.”
Riley arched an eyebrow. “And you really thought that listening to Gareth was a good idea?”
As he shrugged, he saw the corners of Riley’s mouth curve upward, her mock frown replaced by a wide grin. He saw an unmistakable look of happiness in her eyes, a flash of mischief even. Then she kissed him on the lips.
“Fooled you there!” She giggled as he relaxed. “You’re wound up so tightly, Ashe. Relax.”
“Are you happy?” He’d relax later, maybe after ten hours of sleep.
“Of course I’m happy! I’m so happy I don’t know what else to say except ‘thank you.’ Thank you so much for this,” she said, settling back against his chest. Riley bent her knees and rested the book on her thighs, lifting the cover. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Of course,” replied Ashe, stifling a yawn as he leaned back.
“Oh, but you’re tired,” she said. “I should let you rest.”
Ashe shook his head. “Yes, I am tired, but I do want to hear you read it to me.”
“Why don’t I read one page, and then you can go back to sleep?” she said. “It’s still snowing, and there’s nothing else to do but sleep; nature’s telling us to hibernate.”
“Aye, let’s do that,” said Ashe, kissing her lightly on the tip of her nose. “Please read me a story. I want to hear what your mother made for you. She was a talented artist too, to draw such beautiful pictures.”
She paused, frowning. “My mother, an artist?”
“Didn’t your mother make that?”
Riley shook her head. “Not exactly. She wrote the stories, but someone else did the drawings. See?” She opened the book to the first page and Ashe was immediately transported back to the first time he’d seen it, inside Riley’s old house, with Sid watching Ashe’s reaction. He didn’t let that memory linger too long, not when Riley was right there, smelling of roses, her long blonde hair tickling his nose as she ran her finger along the page of the picture book.
“She could make up stories and these silly rhymes, but she couldn’t draw,” she said. “Even her stick figures were really bad, and it got worse as her MS progressed.”
On the paper was a drawing of a young girl wearing a pink dress and holding a brown teddy bear; it had been executed in ink after the watercolors had been painted in. It looked somewhat primitive, but as Ashe looked closely, he realized that the strokes were quite self-assured. The primitive effect was intentional, and what had seemed like plain construction paper was watercolor paper, thick and textured. Time had aged it, and dark smudges along the corners told him that Sid had flipped through it with oily fingers.
“Who drew these, then, if not your mother?” asked Ashe, peering closer at the drawing. The child’s face was directed at the reader as if addressing them. A broad smile graced her mouth and freckles dotted the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Yellow watercolor paint formed her blonde hair, tied in pigtails.
Riley shrugged. “I don’t know his name, but he was a friend of hers. He gave it to me during one of our trips in the city. I remember what he looked like, though. He had a kind face with classic features, and he always wore a tailored suit. Anyway, let me read you one of her poems.”
“Go ahead.”
She cleared her throat and glanced at him one more time, a huge grin plastered on her face, then turned back to the book. Ashe could feel her excitement flowing through him; her body was humming with it.
There once was a little girl named Riley
Who loved all things sweet and girly;
With her bright blue eyes and great big smile
Oh! How I love this sweet little girl, my Riley.
There was a pause, and for a few moments, they were quiet. Ashe could hear the wind howling outside, the soft patter of snow against the glass panes. He pushed a lock of hair behind Riley’s ear, wishing he could see her face.
“She wasn’t really much of a rhymer, was she?” Riley said suddenly, her voice breaking. Before he could reply that her late mother was an excellent rhymer and that it was all in the context, she broke down in sobs, turning her body toward him as if seeking shelter from the storm. This time, however, the storm was not the one that he could see and hear outside the window, but one that lay deep within Riley herself.
Ashe wondered then if his perfect present had been a bad idea after all.
After a long cry, sleep claimed Riley like it always did—quickly. It began as one long yawn, then she laid her head on his shoulder and promptly went to sleep. Unfortunately, by that time sleep was the furthest thing from Ashe’s mind. Ten minutes later, confident that she was all right for a while, he got up and showered in the guest bathroom and slipped on a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt.
Riley had started staying over more often, leaving her cat, Miss Bailey, in the care of her next-door neighbor, Wayne. Ashe’s three-bedroom condominium seemed much more of a home with her light touches here and there. Before he’d met her the condo was merely a place to live, primarily filled with boxes. He was never home long enough to unpack, not even his favorite books or the vintage records which he collected. He slept at every chance he got in his hectic promotion and shooting schedule. If it weren’t for his parents and niece due to visit in March, he’d have given up the place.
Then Riley came into his life. He’d brought her to his condo, she’d helped him fix it up one afternoon. Everything that had been in boxes was now in its proper place, his book collection on shelves, kitchen items in the cupboards and drawers and so on. She also added indoor plants which she’d arranged by the patio door which got most of the sun every morning. The cat tree was his idea, ordered online. That way, Miss Bailey wouldn’t have to squeeze her big behind on Ashe’s narrow windowsill to look outside. He’d even set the cat tree close to the window, next to the plants.
Ashe stood facing the sliding glass doors leading to the patio, now covered in snow. He loosened his neck with a few stretches, followed by his shoulders and then his torso, hips, and legs. He felt stiff as if he’d just run a few miles, even though he hadn’t been anywhere near a treadmill; he’d been too busy practicing sword-fighting scenes for the play. If he made just one mistake, it was a whack to the torso or an arm or leg with metal weapons which weren’t dangerously sharp but could still pierce the skin. The choreography required focus, and Ashe would need a lot of that in the months to come.
He took another deep breath, exhaled and jogged in place, moving his legs as if he were a boxer warming up for his next fight. It was enough to get his blood pumping, and when he’d warmed up, Ashe threw out a left hook followed by a right undercut, his bare feet performing a boxer’s dance on the hardwood floor. He knew his downstairs neighbor would not be happy but didn’t allow himself to worry too much about that; he had other, more important, things to worry about. As he threw punches in the air, his imaginary opponent dancing along with him, he proceeded to work everything out of his system.
Fifteen minutes later, Ashe threw one last set of jabs against his imaginary opponent before doing a final set of stretches, pulling the back of his upper arm to stretch his triceps and then shaking his wrists. He was barely perspiring, though he felt warm and his heart was racing. His thoughts were not about his body but other things, like what had happened last night between Riley and himself and Catriona’s reappearance in his life. Then there was Riley’s revelation about the man who’d drawn the pictures in the storybook.
He’d have to tackle each development one at a time. Ashe took a towel from the bathroom, draping it over his neck and shoulders and made his way into his office. He sat down in front of his laptop, flipped open the monitor and switched it on, hoping that his suspicions were merely the product of an overactive imagination.
Catriona’s presence at the restaurant may have simply been a coincidence, but her dining partner remaining seated at the table holding his mobile phone surely wasn’t. Ashe hadn’t followed Catriona’s career since he’d walked out on her five years earlier, dragging a protesting Hazel through the crowd in Club Fet. She’d just turned eighteen and was of legal age to enter a fetish club, so she had a right to be there. She was even dressed in a latex maid’s outfit, complete with a white apron, an Alice-band cap, thigh-high stockings and four-inch high heels.
It’s a surprise, darling, Catriona had told him when he’d first recognized Hazel, who had apparently volunteered to be her maid at the private club. She was curious about what we normally did in the evenings, so I told her that I’d show her. She’s old enough to be in here, you know. You can’t keep her sheltered forever.
He closed his eyes, forcing the memory away. He didn’t want it to linger longer than necessary, though it was just what he needed to sharpen his thoughts. Anger usually made him focus on things more keenly, like a hunter on his prey, and this was something he’d need to do from now on. He must focus.
If Catriona Marks was intent on tackling Hollywood, then Ashe knew what she would do next. She’d already made the first step at the restaurant, her claws sharpened; so like Catriona, Ashe thought. How he’d ended up with her so many years ago had mystified him when it was over, though if he were honest with himself, his hunger for fame and success had been a factor in his decision to stay with her as long as he did.
He had cared enough to keep coming back to her after every argument they’d had, arguments that would end up in the most amazing sex without needing whips, chains or latex costumes. Ashe swiveled the chair to face away from the desk and looked out the window instead. There was something calming about watching the snow fall outside which slowed the rapid beating of his heart. Anger was good because it helped him focus on what to do next, but it also meant he was on the defensive, and that was a position that Ashe didn’t want to be in; especially not against Catriona.
It certainly wasn’t a position that he wanted to be in with Riley by his side; she’d become a casualty of friendly fire, just as Hazel had been.
Back then, he’d hinted to Catriona that he no longer derived any pleasure from their roles, for it had stopped being a game between them a year into the lifestyle. When she interpreted his lack of interest as boredom and brought two new slaves for him to play with, he’d walked out of the house they shared in Primrose Hill. He slept on the sofa of the apartment he used to share with Lance till Catriona begged him to return home four days later, promising never to do it again.
But she had done it again, though this time she had taken on Ashe’s sister, Hazel, as her latest maid-in-training. Ashe knew Hazel had always been curious, a rebellious teenager who’d kept their parents busy with her antics. She’d almost run away with a traveling circus because she fancied herself in love with the trapeze artist, and shaved her hair into a mohawk because she had decided to relive the punk rock days that she felt Yorkshire had missed out on.
Ashe’s phone rang, and he turned back around to face his desk, smiling when he realized it was Ben. “Grand morning!” Ben exclaimed on the other end of the line.
“It’s just me, Ben,” Ashe said. “Riley’s asleep.”
“Ah, I see. She’d do well to get some rest, given whom she met last night.”
Ashe sat up straight. Emmet and his phone. “What have you heard?”
“There’s a blind item circulating the net at the moment: something about two British Dominants getting together and possibly sharing a submissive between them. Then there are the more sensational headlines that blow blind items out of the water. Will I just read you the headlines so far?”
“Go ahead.”
“Ashe Hunter and Catriona Marks — Together Again? is the first one. Here’s the second: Party of Four Perfect For Nor’easter. The third says: Ashe Hunter Enlists Dominatrix For BDSM Lessons.”
“The only person who cares that Catriona Marks is or was a Dominatrix is Catriona,” Ashe said through gritted teeth. “She fed those headlines to the gossip sites herself.”
“I agree,” said Ben, pausing. “But she had help, and you won’t be happy when you hear who it was.”
Ashe sighed. “Who?”
“Collette,” replied Ben. “One of these articles says that Collette is now managing Catriona’s career. Here’s a quote: ‘After managing the careers of younger actors, I am now refocusing my efforts on making sure that older actresses like Catriona are no longer under-represented in Hollywood, as the trend has always favored the younger generation. In fact, there’s a role that’s coming up and I would love her to get it instead of a younger actress made up to look older.’”
Brilliant, Ashe thought. Collette wasn’t lying about the preferences of Hollywood executives regarding actors in general, but he knew it was also a ploy to make Catriona’s plight more sympathetic. Collette’s involvement also complicated the whole thing involving Catriona. How much would Collette know by now about the imperfections of her ‘Mr. Perfect’ ex-client?
While Ashe was no stranger to gossip, this development was new. He was usually described by the media as Hollywood’s perfect man, the classically trained actor whose career had begun in London before he’d moved to Los Angeles and worked steadily in small roles until making it big with Sentience the previous year.
“I gather Riley knows about Catriona?”
“She does now.”
There was another pause. “How did that go?”
“Let’s just say that Ashe Hunter was almost back on the market this morning.”
“She knows nothing about your former lifestyle, does she?”
Ashe sighed. “No.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ben said. “But you might need to reconsider letting her know about the man you used to be, even if you claim you’re not that man anymore.”
“Have you seen me attend the play parties? How many invitations do I still receive? Once a month, at least, yet none of them I’ve accepted?”
“Of course not,” replied Ben. “But Riley needs to know about Catriona and how far that woman will go. The speed with which details of your secret past have been leaked to the press—blind items, my eye—indicate that she won’t stop until she gets what she wants.”