Gilt Hollow (22 page)

“Huh.” Isaiah's gaze narrowed on her face, reminding her of his father. “Then where is he staying?”

“I couldn't really say.” She shivered.

“Oh, sorry. You must be freezing.” He turned to the dashboard and cranked up the heat.

“Thanks.” She ran her fingers through the front of her hair and then wiped her hands on her leggings. “So why did you want to meet me the day of the pep rally?”

Without looking at her, Isaiah let off the break and accelerated into the street. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

Obviously.

Forcing a light tone, she prompted, “I'm all ears. Even if they are a little wet.”

He chuckled at her lame joke and turned onto Walnut Street. They were almost home.

“Seriously, Isaiah, I can tell something's been on your mind lately. If it's about Ashton, you don't have to worry; I'm not going to judge you. It makes everyone a little nervous that he's back. Including me.”

Which was not a lie, even if he made her nervous for an entirely different reason.

“It's not that . . . Well, sort of.”

Willow forced herself not to speak. Instead, she listened to the rattle of the heater and the whoosh of the windshield wipers. It was a trick she'd learned from her dad. Whenever he wanted her to confess to a rule she'd broken, he'd sit in the same room with her, patient and quiet. She would hold out as long as she could, which wasn't long. Not that she was scared of him. His punishments were never harsh; she just
didn't like to see the disappointment on his face. But the silent treatment worked every time.

Isaiah let out a tiny sigh, like the air leaking out of a dying balloon, and Willow knew she had him. He turned into the driveway and put the car in park. “What I'm about to tell you cannot ever leave this car.”

“I understand.”

“I didn't see Ashton push Daniel off the falls that day.”

Willow sucked in a breath and bit her lip. The wipers swished, and the rain beat against the roof.

“I hate that I lied. I can't even
look
at Ashton.” Isaiah gripped the steering wheel until the bones stood out beneath his skin.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to convince him to leave Gilt Hollow.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because he's in danger.”

Willow's mouth dropped open. “You're the one who put the note in his locker.”

Isaiah turned to face her. “Willow, if you care about Ashton at all, you'll convince him to leave and never come back.”

Headlights shone through the back window. Isaiah glanced in the rearview mirror, and all the color drained from his skin.

Willow pivoted to find a police cruiser parked behind them. The rain slowed to a drizzle, and Willow leaned farther into the backseat, peering through the foggy back window. “Oh no. Is that Ashton?”

Without another thought, she jumped out of the car and approached the cruiser. Ashton sat in the passenger seat with the door cracked, one foot against the cobbled drive. The set of his brows told her he was not happy, but at least he was in
the front seat and not behind the Plexiglas divider. Willow drew closer and heard him say, “I told you, it happened too fast for me to see the driver's face, but it was a dark sedan and we were the only two vehicles on the road.”

Willow tripped over her own feet but righted herself before she fell, and rushed up to the half-open door. “Ashton, what happened? Was there an accident? Where's your bike?” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “And why are you wearing pajama bottoms?”

He stood and towered over her with a scowl. “I'm fine.” His eyes bore a hole into her skull, but it was as if he looked right through her. “I just came by to pick up one of my other bikes.”

She blinked. He didn't want the police to know he was living there. “Sure,” she said a bit too loudly. “Come on inside, and I'll get you the garage key.”

Ashton leaned into the car, bracing his hand on the roof. “Thanks for the ride, Chief. Let me know what your
investigation
turns up.”

What in the world was going on?

When the chief didn't respond, Ashton straightened and slammed the door so hard the window rattled. He winced.

“You're hurt,” Willow accused and reached for him.

He stiffened and jerked away from her touch. “I said. I'm. Fine.” Then he pivoted on his heel and stalked toward the house.

Willow shook her head in exasperation and noticed Chief Kagawa was on his phone, the sharp tone of his voice leaking outside the car. When she walked up to thank Isaiah for the ride, he was also on the phone; by his blanched face, she had to assume he was talking with his father. She thanked him for the ride, and he gave her a single nod before she shut his passenger door.

Worry for Ashton propelled her inside. The house was dark and quiet, and she remembered Mom and Rainn were serving dinner at St. Vincent's. Willow dropped her bag, toed off her shoes, and shrugged out of her jacket. “Ashton?” No answer.

After hanging her wet things in the laundry room, she headed up the stairs. Light leaked from under the door of the hall bathroom. She stood outside, debating whether to knock and ask if he was okay, when the door swung open.

Ashton stood there, framed by the soft yellow overhead light, wearing drawstring pants low on his hips and no shirt.

Sweet Baby James!

Willow stood completely motionless, her eyes drinking in the rippling plains of his stomach, his powerful chest, and his wide, solid shoulders. He was all smooth, tan skin over hard muscle.

“Like what you see?”

She raised her eyes, expecting to see a darkly amused grin. Instead, his face looked like stone—cold and unyielding. She blinked in confusion until she remembered that when he'd skinned his knee or fallen off his bike as a kid, he didn't want comfort. And if anyone tried to help him, he would lash out, covering his vulnerability with annoyance.

Steam curled into the hall, and she realized the shower was running. “I'll let you . . . um . . . finish what you were doing.” When he got like this, the best strategy was retreat.

Willow spun away, but he grabbed her arm. “Why were you in Isaiah's car?”

She shot him a glare. Was he jealous or worried or just angry at the world? Either way, his demanding tone sparked something in her gut, and she yanked her arm from his grasp. “None of your business. Why are you wearing those”—she gestured to his thin, paper-like pants—“pajamas?”

Ashton stepped toward her, his face set in hard lines. “They gave them to me at the doctor's office because my jeans were half ripped off.” He took another step, and Willow moved back. “When a car slammed into my bike and I slid across the pavement and rocketed into a ditch.”

“Oh my gosh!” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

The ice in his eyes began to thaw, but he stood stiff as a board.

Willow lowered her hand and reached out to the bruise blooming across his ribs. She didn't touch it, afraid she would hurt him. “Are they broken?”

He gave a single shake of his head in response.

“What else?”

Their eyes locked, and she noticed his breaths were labored and shallow, his face flushed.

“What else?” she insisted.

With a grimace, he reached down and lifted his right pant leg and then pulled off a corner of the bandage covering his thigh. His skin looked like someone had taken a cheese-grater to it—red, raw, and seeping. “It's just road rash.” Ashton reattached the bandage and lowered his pant leg, clenching his jaw as he straightened.

“You could've been killed!”

“I think that was the idea.”

Willow blinked up at his rigid face for several seconds, her heart pounding a symphony in her chest, and then reached her arms around him as gently as she could and laid her head on his bare chest. After a brief pause, Ashton returned her hug but lost his balance and had to brace one hand against the wall. Awareness rippled up and down Willow's body as he pressed her tighter against him, the scent and texture of his skin setting her nerve endings ablaze.

She felt his breath in her hair just before he kissed the top of her head. “Sorry for being a jerk. I don't deserve you.”

She glanced up, arched her brows, and quipped, “This is true.” Then she shut off her emotions and went into organization mode. Helping him into the bathroom, she made him sit on the closed toilet seat while she turned off the shower spray and plugged the stopper. After she turned the water back on to fill the tub and checked the temperature, she grabbed two bottles from the ledge and grinned. “Batman or Ninja Turtle?”

She and her mom had their own bathrooms, but Ashton shared this one with Rainn. He glanced back and forth between the bottles. “Batman, all the way.”

Willow poured a dollop of blue liquid under the faucet, releasing the overpowering scent of bubblegum.

“Seriously? Batman, the baddest superhero of all time, smells like chewing gum?” Ashton complained.

Willow turned the bottle in her hand. “It's Bubblegum Blast.”

“Awesome. I can't wait to smell like an eight-year-old.”

Willow took Ashton's body wash and shampoo from the shower caddy and set them on the ledge of the tub, got a fresh towel and washcloth out of the closet, and laid them within reach, and then turned to her six-feet-three, two-hundred-pound friend and bit the inside of her cheek. “Um . . .”

“I can get in the tub by myself, Wil.” The devilish grin she'd been looking for earlier tilted his mouth and lit his eyes.

She swallowed hard, the fact that he could've been killed pressing down on her like invisible hands. A wave of fury tore through her, a storm brewing that threatened to take Gilt Hollow down in its wake.

Not wishing to upset him with her rush of emotion, Willow turned on her heel and headed out of the bathroom,
throwing over her shoulder, “I'm taking a shower. Then we need to talk.”

■ ■ ■

Sitting in front of a blazing fire—if one could call a gas-generated fire blazing—Willow combed out her freshly showered hair and watched Ashton drink his tea. He lounged in one of the overstuffed chairs in the sitting area of her bedroom, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his eyes at half-mast. He'd told her what he'd learned from Penelope, and she'd shared what Mrs. M had said about the Martins, as well as what Isaiah had told her in the car. Then Willow had forced Ash to take one of the pain pills Dr. Beck had given him. After he downed two PB&J sandwiches, a bag of chips, and two cups of chamomile, the medicine finally seemed to have kicked in.

Willow set down her comb and was about to suggest Ashton go to bed before he passed out, when his eyes flickered open. His voice barely audible, he asked, “Do you think there's someone out there watching over us?”

Willow stood from the hearth, then perched on the edge of the other chair and considered for a moment before answering. She'd gone to church her entire life. She'd had her ups and downs with God—like when her dad passed away and when Ashton was taken from her—but she never doubted his existence. The perfect order of the universe, the life-sustaining architecture of the earth, the miraculously complex information contained in DNA all spoke to the logic of a higher being.

She and Ashton had had this discussion before, but this time it didn't seem like he wanted to debate the issue. “You know I do. Why do you ask?”

He set his mug down and straightened with a wince. “Something told me to wear a helmet tonight . . . Granted, it was raining, but in some ways that makes wearing a helmet harder. They protect your face from the rain, but it can make it near impossible to see. The paramedic on the scene took one look at the banged-up helmet and said it probably saved my life.”

Fighting back a wave of cold panic, Willow said, “I'm shocked they didn't send you to the hospital.”

He cracked a grin. “When Dr. Beck checked me out, he said my new nickname should be Miracle Boy.”

Willow didn't find it the least bit amusing. She pulled her chair closer to his so she could take his hand. “Do you think someone tried to kill you because they found out what Penelope told you about Cory?”

“Shh.” Ashton pressed a finger against her lips. “I can't think . . . right now.”

He threaded his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her neck as he leaned forward. Willow closed her eyes, and their lips met in a single searing kiss that she felt all the way to her toes.

Ashton pulled away and murmured, “Just making sure.”

“Of what?”

“That I didn't imagine how good you taste.”

Willow grinned at the dreamy look on his face. “I like Morphine Ashton.”

“If you like me so much, break up with Brayden.” He met her gaze with wounded eyes, his mouth pulling down like an angry toddler as he swayed in his chair.

“Okay, that's it. Time for nighty-night, big guy.”

After helping him down the hall and into his bed, Willow pulled the covers up to cover his chest and asked, “How's the leg?”

A goofy smile curled his lips. “Feels like baby dragons are tinkling on it.”

Willow swallowed a giggle. “And your ribs?”

“Like marshmallow Peeps,” he muttered.

“Perfect.”

His eyelids lowered, and she reached over to shut off the light but stopped midreach.

“Forgive me?”

Willow lowered her arm slowly and met his unguarded blue gaze. Pretty sure he didn't know what he was saying but unable to resist this rare opportunity for a glimpse into his inner thoughts, she asked, “For what?”

He blinked long and slow but then worked hard to focus on her face. “For leaving you when you needed me most . . .”

Willow sucked in a breath. She couldn't move as their eyes locked. All the resentment she'd buried over the years—her anger that he'd gone off the deep end after her father died, that she had to pick up the pieces of the mess he'd made, that he'd screwed up so badly he'd destroyed a friendship she thought was unbreakable—all leached out of her in that moment. He'd suffered so much, and so had she, but they could turn it around. Make a fresh start. She took his hand, his strong fingers limp with the sedative, and wondered if he'd remember any of this in the morning. “Of course, I forgive you.”