Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (14 page)

“I got lucky.” He smiled. “Could I buy you a drink?”

“Yes. I’d like that. I‘d like that very much.”

He flagged down a cocktail waitress.

“What could I get you?” the woman asked. In her hand the server had a notepad and pen. She seemed winded from rushing from table to table.

Ashley spoke first. “I’ll have a double martini. I could use something with some kick.”

“I’ll take a beer,” Troy told the waitress.

“From the tap?”

He browsed the menu. “No. I’ll go with a bottle of Heineken.”

“Anything else?”

He nodded. “That’ll be it for now.”

After the petite waitress had disappeared into the smoky crowd, Ashley turned to Troy and said, “Are you still working at Crown Jewel?” What she really wanted to ask was if he considered this a date.
It has to be
, she tried to convince herself.
Why else would he have splashed himself with that fine-smelling cologne?

“Yes,” he answered. “I’ve been employed at that supermarket for what seems like forever and don’t see myself finding another career anytime soon. Except now, instead of managing dairy, I’m in charge of produce.”

“Really, why is that?”

“I got transferred. The guy who used to run the produce department retired. The company asked if I wanted the position. Since it pays a higher salary than dairy, naturally I decided to make the switch.”

“That makes sense.” From her purse, Ashley fished out her pack of Marlboro Lights. Underneath her blue eyes there was quite a bit of luggage, from binge drinking and taking pills. “How’s Adam?” She ignited the smoke and then reached for the ashtray.

“Fine. Actually, he works in produce too. I had him transferred with me.”

“Interesting. How long has he been with the company?”

“Only five years. I’ve been there for fifteen.”

On the nearby stage, a four-piece band in suits and ties performed what to Ashley, sounded like a Harry Connick Jr. song. When the waitress returned with their drinks, she took a fast sip of her martini. It tasted divine.

“This is a talented band,” Troy remarked, his attention fixed on the musical assemble. Spotlights lit the group. Troy drank some beer. “Do you like jazz?”

“Some. I like a lot of musical styles. I’m very eclectic.”

“Me too. Though I like rock & roll the best. Nirvana, Oasis. U2, Zeppelin. Groups like that. I even like Michael Jackson, if you can believe that.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with that. I love Michael Jackson. But lately I‘ve been listening to a lot of Shania Twain, Mariah Carey, and Madonna.”

Troy leaned back in his chair and said, “So how do you like parenthood?”

“For the most part it’s rewarding,” Ashley replied. “However, as you could imagine, it can also be quite trying. Constantly having to change the baby’s diapers. Feed her. Give Kimberly a bath. Tend to her during the middle of the night, when she starts crying . . . What about you, do you want kids someday?”

“Actually I never really think about that.”

She frowned. Then, with a fumbling hand, Ashley tried to conceal her expression of disappointment. “It sounds like you don’t.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” he clarified. “I might want children someday. I’m just not one of those people, regarding the future, who makes elaborate plans. My motto is, whatever happens in life, happens.”

“So based on that response, I’m assuming you’ve also never considered getting married?”

He made known to her that he had once been engaged to someone named Naomi Cartwright, and that the relationship had fizzled before the wedding could be finalized. However, that was all he would say.

Not wanting to pry, Ashley elected to shift the discussion to her. She started to talk about Peter, explaining how she was still having a problem moving on, and how lonely she had been.

“What about your baby?” he said. “You have her. You have your mom too. I’m also here for you. You’re not as alone as you think.”

“Yeah. I know. It‘s just-”

“Things will get better, Ashley. You just have to give it more time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that nothing stays the same. Life is about constant change.”

Eventually when these topics had lost their appeal, Ashley asked Troy how old he was. She didn’t know what else to say. She was a little nervous.

“I turned thirty-six last month.”

“Amazing! You don’t look thirty-six.”

“Thanks. Why, if you saw me on the street, how old would you think I was?”

“Honestly, I’d say about twenty-five.”

Again, Troy glanced toward the stage, where the jazz group had started to play a new song, featuring a saxophone. “I guess I’m a late bloomer.”

“Guess so.” Ashley finished her martini.

“Whoa! Done already. Would you like another one of those?”

“I might as well, since it’s still early. But just so you know, Troy, when we get the bill, I want to split it down the middle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Consider me an equal opportunity friend.”

“All right.” He laughed. Then he motioned to the cocktail waitress.

“Beer?” the woman asked, still panting. She held a tray of what appeared to be a round of Long Island iced teas.

“No,” said Troy, shaking his head. “I’m good. But my lady friend here would like another double martini.”

“Okay. One moment please.”

As soon as the server had returned with the drink, Ashley said, “So where do you live?”

Troy put his elbows on the table. “Over in Kensington.” It was a neighboring town.

“What kind of house?”

“Not a house. I live in an apartment.”

“Oh. Is it nice?”

He grinned. “Average is about the best way I would describe it. Well, you probably know where it is. I’m staying at Weinberg Hill.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know where that is! Over by Route 87. How much do you pay a month there, if you don‘t mind me being nosey?”

“No I don’t mind. I pay $850.00”

“That’s not bad. Not bad at all. Utilities included?”

He nodded. “Everything is included. The only thing I pay is my phone bill.”

“What about your family, where are they?”

“My parents live up in Maine. They moved there ten years ago. My sister Isobel, who’s older than me and married, lives in upstate New York. We try to call each other at least twice a month.”

“So you have a sister. That’s cool. Does she have any kids?”

“She does. A six-year-old son.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“She’s an editor for a Lady‘s Home Journal. I also have a few cousins in North Jersey that I keep in touch with.”

Ashley revealed to Troy that she had no siblings, and that she did not have much contact with her cousins or Aunts and Uncles. Similar to how he would not share much regarding Naomi Cartwright, she would not divulge much about her childhood. Ashley would someday, when they got to know each other better. However, not now. It was too soon.

It didn’t take long before they would begin to discus what had happened behind the shopping center.

“Do you still have nightmares?” Troy asked.

“Yes. Sometimes.” At this stage, Ashley was sipping her fourth martini, and already felt buzzed.

“Me too. I still have nightmares about that freaking tree branch coming down on my head.” Again, as he had been doing periodically all evening long, Troy reached across the table and touched Ashley’s hand. “Lucky for me, the concussion wasn’t severe. I didn’t experience any long term memory loss.

“We were both lucky, “she said, “to have not suffered serious injuries. Although, as you and Adam plainly saw, when I was in the hospital the next day, my face was kind of messed up. And my leg was in pretty bad shape. Nevertheless, the most amazing thing to me is that nothing happened to my baby. I thought for sure, the way those men threw me around, that the child would be born with some kind of handicap.”

Troy nodded. “It is a miracle, Ashley. And I have to tell you, after that guy with the beard strangled you I didn‘t think you were alive.”

Ashley fell silent for a moment; felt comforted feeling Troy’s hand on top of hers. “I wouldn’t have been alive if it wasn’t for you. If you didn’t fend him off, right now I would be six feet under, and so would my daughter.”

Embarrassed, Troy glanced at his beer. He did not consider himself a hero. He merely did what he had thought was right.

“Troy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure. What?”

“Why didn’t you talk to the media? I heard that you declined to give a statement to both the TV news and the print media.”

He shrugged, had to think for a few seconds. “What was I supposed to tell them? When Adam did that interview for Fox news, he basically told them everything there was to say. Besides, I didn’t want to have to keep reliving the experience. And another thing, I’m glad those sickoes died, because I wasn’t prepared to face a long drawn-out trial.”

“Me either.”

“And may those guys burn in hell for eternity.” He raised his Heineken bottle up in the air to propose a toast.

“I’ll drink to that,” Ashley said, tapping his beer with her glass. Then she reached for the Heinz ketchup. They had a big plate of French fries which, if they didn’t eat soon, would be cold. “Hey before I forget,” she added. “I wanted to thank you for inviting me out. In group therapy, they told me I should go back to the shopping mall, to face my fears. I kept putting it off. Except now I know I’ll definitely go back because it‘s sure nice to be here with you. I‘m so sorry I didn‘t come to visit. The next time you see Adam, tell him I said that. Okay?”

“C’mon, it’s no big deal. We understand.”

“You do, you swear?”

“Yes,” Troy assured her. “It wasn’t easy for me to go back to the shopping center either. Except, since I still work there, I had no choice. Though, for like a month or two, at night, every time I would be out on the loading dock unpacking a truck, I would look toward the field, stare into the darkness, and get the chills.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The memory of me and you out there would come back to me. I would think about how frightened I was when I wasn’t sure whether you were alive or not, and how I thought those guys were going to murder me as well.” Troy gazed down at the table, reminiscing. “Yeah. For like a month or two, I almost couldn’t handle being out on the loading deck. I’m good now though. It doesn’t bother me too much anymore.”

By one o‘clock, as they continued to chat, a cautionary statement kept playing repeatedly in Troy’s mind,
Don’t allow Ashley to have another drink
!

Troy was on his third Heineken, and felt relatively sober. Ashley, on the other hand, was smashed, and borderline incoherent. Troy had lost track of how many martinis she had drank.

“Do you want a cigarette?” Ashley asked, ineptly sliding her half-filled pack across the table.

“No.” Troy looked at her quizzically. “I told you I quit.”

“Oh yeah. That’s right. I forgot about that.” For a second it appeared as if she might nod off.

Concerned, Troy put his hand underneath Ashley’s chin. “Do you want me to order you a cup of coffee, Ashley?” He calmly tilted her head up.

“Sure. Coffee. Why not? No more martinis for me.”

Eventually, once she had consumed the caffeinated beverage, most of it anyway, Troy decided he’d better drive Ashley home. He explained to her that she could get her car tomorrow. Thankfully she did not have a problem with that.

“Do you need a cab?” the bartender asked.

“No thanks,” said Troy, slightly embarrassed. “I have her car keys. Everything is under control.”

“Okay. Take care.”

“You too.”

***

When Troy pulled up in front of Ashley’s residence, he nudged her on the shoulder and announced, “Okay Ashley, we’re here.” He knew where she lived, because earlier, she had given him the address.

“Where’s here?”

“Your house.”

“Gee, that was fast.” She clumsily reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the lift.” As she stumbled out of the gray Subaru, her French hat fell off. “Oops! Troy, do you think you could help me walk down to the basement? Please! My feet seem discombobulated.”

“The basement?”

“Yes. That’s where my art studio is. There’s a couch down there that I can crash on. I can’t go in the house. If my mom sees me drunk, she’ll totally flip out. She’s has a thing against anyone who drinks to excess. That was the problem she had with my father.”

“How do we get to the basement from here?”

“Through the garage.”

How they got inside without waking Claire Whittaker, Troy will never know. Not only did opening the garage door make noise, he also tripped over a broom, and then knocked a can of WD-40 off of a shelf. Rather than be startled by this misfortunate blunder, Ashley burst into laughter.

“Ssh!” Troy whispered. “Stop laughing. I thought you said you were afraid of confronting your mother.”

“I am. It’s just the expression on your face. It’s so funny.” She seemed to enjoy holding Troy’s hand, much the same as she had liked him touching her hand at the nightclub.

“All right. Let’s hurry. I don’t want to confront your mom either. Which way is your studio?”

“Through that door.” She pointed toward the back of the garage. On the way down the creaky stairs, Ashley’s footing was so suspect, Troy had to hold onto her, to prevent her from taking a tumble.

“Whew! What‘s that smell!” he asked, when they had reached the bottom step.

“Turpentine,” Ashley explained. “I guess I’ll have to open a window. Get some fresh air in here.” Before doing that, she turned the cellar light on. “Voila! Welcome to my art studio. What do you think?”

“It’s uh . . . Cool. Yeah. You’ve got a sweet set up down here.”

Stacked haphazardly against the cement walls, were several poster-sized canvases. Toward the center of the big room, there was also a canvas perched on an easel.