Page 25 of Sentinel's Kiss

Chapter 7

Ashley was almost a half hour late to dinner thanks to Josh’s creative shower antics. She blamed it on the traffic and hoped that no one remarked on the silk scarf that she was wearing to hide the love bite on her neck. She could still feel Josh’s cock pounding inside her and it made for an awkward dinner. Managing at least to keep the dopey smile off her face, she tried to enjoy the apricot chicken that the cook made especially for her.

“Have you heard back from Vogue yet?” her mother asked.

“No,” she said honestly, not elaborating on the fact that she never sent in an application.

Her father sneered at his grilled chicken breast and roasted vegetables. He stabbed a baby carrot viciously. Ashley almost felt guilty about eating the buttery mashed potatoes in front of him. Not bad enough to stop, though. They were made with real cream. He looked better. He certainly had more color in his face.

“Jeremy will be here this weekend.”

Ashley stifled a groan. Her perfect brother was probably bringing his equally perfect family with him. Too bad she was going to be in Pennsylvania chasing murder leads with a biker who fucked like he was an Olympic gold medalist in it.

“He’s up for the Pulitzer again for his work on the Marchand brothers’ murders.”

“Of course he is.” Ashley willed herself not to roll her eyes. Her brother wasn’t a bad reporter. He just made it a point to outshine her in every area of her life and it pissed her off.

“He’s bringing Layla and the kids. You should see your nephew. Talking at fifteen months. Can you believe it?”

She stuffed mashed potatoes in her mouth so she wouldn’t have to respond.

“You ever think about trying again?” her mother asked wistfully.

The potatoes threatened to come back out. Ashley couldn’t believe her mother had gone there. She couldn’t believe she let down her guard so her mother could get to her like this. Swallowing the potatoes, she chased them with a long drink from her Riesling. It went down cold and crisp with a sweet apricot bite that complemented the chicken perfectly.

“No,” Ashley said simply, and hoped that would end the conversation.

“I saw Mrs. Hilton’s granddaughter last week. Twelve years old.”

Ashley pasted on a pleasant expression. She hoped the granddaughter didn’t grow up to be a twit like her grandmother. Mrs. Hilton believed that if poor people just applied themselves more, it would end poverty.

“I look at her and I can’t help but think, Dawn would have been twelve this year.”

The fork made a loud clatter when Ashley dropped it on her plate.

“Oh for Christ sakes, Beth,” her father grumbled, shooting Ashley a sympathetic look.

Ashley drained her wine in one long swallow. It could have been yesterday that she held her beautiful preemie in her arms. She remembered the curve of Dawn’s cheeks and her little bow of a mouth. Too tiny. Born too soon.

“Brett’s mother called last month,” her mother said. “She checks in when they dock to see if I want to go out for drinks. We’re getting together next week at the Lobster Pot. Do you want to come with us?”

Brett.

She flashed back to him standing on the bridge. He checked his helmet and his harness. Smiling at her, he gave her two thumbs up. It was getting harder to remember his face.

Twelve years.

“Excuse me,” Ashley said, pushing away from the exquisite meal.

“Beth, why do you have to bring this up at the dinner table?” she heard her father say, but she didn’t stick around to hear her mother’s defensive answer. Probably something along the lines of, she needs to get over this. Or she needs to move on with her life.

Pounding up the stairs, Ashley pushed into her old bedroom and sank onto the bed. Unlike her bed at the apartment, this one was a canopied monstrosity fit for a princess.

Brett’s bungee cord had snapped. Instead of bouncing back up, he had bounced twice on the ground. Died on impact. Ashley went into labor prematurely.

Dawn was born nine hours later. The poor little thing had fought as hard as she could, but in the end her heart and lungs weren’t developed enough.

After they took Dawn from her arms, Ashley had wanted to die too. Everyone had said it was for the best and that she had her whole life ahead of her. They meant well, but each sentence veiled in relief enraged her. Her boyfriend was dead. Their baby was dead. Ashley had just turned sixteen. She could never shake the feeling that Brett’s family blamed her for the accident. She should have used her pregnancy to get him to stop jumping off bridges. She had tried. It never worked.