Save Me: A dark romantic thriller (Novel) (15 page)

Troy thought Ashley’s paintings were great. They were intricate, colorful, some filled with geometric shapes that immediately seized your attention. He was contemplating, why, with talent like this, would Ashley be working at a bakery? She could probably sell her artwork and make a fortune.

Now, Troy adjusted his gaze and saw Ashley lying on the sofa with her eyes closed. It was clear that she wasn’t going to be able to stay awake for much longer.

“Ashley, can I call you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she replied groggily, keeping her eyes shut. “I’d like that, Troy. I’d like that a lot. Good night. And thank you again for a wonderful evening.”

“It was my pleasure. Sleep tight.”

***

On the commute back to his apartment, the thought of Sarah Kline suddenly materialized in Troy‘s mind.

How odd.

Why was it that he hadn’t thought about his girlfriend all night, until now?

“Did you pick up your car yet?” Troy asked Ashley on the phone the following day. It was late in the afternoon, and he sat in his living room, watching a Phillies game. The sunny room smelled of bagged popcorn.

“Yes,” Ashley responded. “My mom drove me over to get the car a little while ago.”

“Was she angry?”

“No. Actually, the fact that you were kind enough to see me home safely, made her happy.”

“Cool. Anyway, Ashley, I was thinking, I’d like to come over and take a look at your paintings.” He hoped he wasn’t being too forward. “Do you think that could be arranged?”

“Sure,” she said, flattered. “I’d love to show you my artwork. When would you like to stop by?”

“Whenever you’re available. What are you doing on Thursday?”

“Hold on. Let me check my calendar.” She paused. “Let’s see, Thursday. Ah! Here we are, Thursday. We’re in luck! It looks like I’m not doing anything.”

“Great! Also, I was wondering, do you play tennis?”

“Tennis.” She chuckled flirtatiously. “As in Venus and Serena Williams, that kind of tennis?”

“Yes. Do you play at all?”

“Not really. I haven’t picked up a racket since high school.”

“Well, I’m no Andree Agassi either. Although I can at least serve and volley. I’ll tell you what, as you probably know, there’s a few courts over here in Kensington. And they’re not usually occupied. How about sometime early in the afternoon that day I check out your paintings. Then, after that, we can pick up lunch and then go get our game on? Are you up for that?”

“Definitely. There’s one problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t own a tennis racket.”

Troy explained to her that he had an extra one. What am I doing? he whispered to himself. Did he really want to help Ashley Ferguson get back on her feet? Or was there something more going on? Was it possible that Troy was attracted to her?

***

After hanging up, Troy phoned Ashley’s mother. He had promised Claire Whittaker he would. They had exchanged numbers the day Claire had spoke to him at the supermarket.

“Did the night go off all right?” she asked.

“Yes Miss Whittaker, we had fun.”

“Maybe I should have warned you about my daughter’s binge drinking problem.”

Rather than focus on Ashley’s drunkenness, Troy elected to take a protective stance. “Awe, I wouldn’t be too upset. Your daughter was just trying to enjoy herself.”

“I suppose.”

“I’m going to see her again.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” Then, in a humorous tone, he added, “Except this time I’ll try to keep her away from the bars.”

Claire laughed. “That would be a wise decision.”

Troy went on to give details about what they had planned for Thursday.

***

Later, while he stood in the kitchen microwaving a bowl of beef ravioli for dinner, Troy heard a thunderous knock at the door.

It was Sarah.

“Troy, where have you been all day?” Smelling strongly of perfume, his girlfriend had her hands placed defiantly on her hips. “I thought you were supposed to call me this morning?”

“I know. I‘m sorry.” He glanced toward the microwave’s digital clock, 6:00 PM. “It must have slipped my mind.”

“It must have slipped your mind! That’s not very considerate.” Sarah thrust an irate hand through the dark bangs of her bob-cut hairdo. “How could you forget? Remembering to call your girlfriend should be at the top of your ‘things to do’ list.”

With a spoon, Troy slowly stirred the garlic-scented pasta. The hot steam misted from the small plastic bowl. “Don’t start with me. I’m not in the mood.”

“Why, are you hung over?”

“No. I only drank three beers last night.”

Troy‘s apartment was much cleaner today than it had been yesterday, yet, because of her overly critical attitude, Sarah offered no compliment. She sat down at the table. “So tell me, is this Ashley Ferguson as screwed up as her mother said she is?”

“Sarah! That’s uncalled for.”

“Oh wow! Listen to you. A little overly protective, are we?”

“Shut up!”

“And did you let her cry on your shoulder?”

Thoroughly aware that his girlfriend’s words were seething with resentment, Troy banged his fist against the counter. “That’s enough! Don’t go there.”

“Why? All I’m trying to do is determine how your evening went. It’s not as if I’m interrogating you.”

“Yes you are. You’re being a jerk.”

“Me a jerk?” she uttered derisively. “Never. I’m never a jerk. I’m your girlfriend, and I love you very much. Don’t you love me?”

Troy did not feel like playing this silly game. He had played it too many times before. “Stop being so difficult? And I’m going to tell you right now, Sarah, if you don’t have anything nice to say, then get the hell out!”

At noon on Thursday, Ashley heard her mother yell up the stairs, “Ashley.”

“What?”

“Troy is here.”

“Tell him I’m not ready yet.” Ashley was in her bedroom, sitting in front of the bureau mirror, brushing her freshly washed hair. She had been primping for a while, had even decorated her mouth with lipstick. Aware that she would be sweaty later from running around on the humid tennis court, she had fixed her golden hair into a secure ponytail with a rubber band, and had applied more antiperspirant than she normally would.

“Ash, honey, hurry up,” her mother called up the steps. “You told me you’re only going to play tennis. It shouldn’t take you that long to throw on a pair of shorts.”

“I said I’ll be down in a minute. In the meantime, mom, why don’t you offer Troy refreshment?”

“All right. But don’t be much longer. I have to be at Rachel’s house in twenty minutes.”

***

“I see you remember my mother,” Ashley politely addressed Troy, after finally gracing him with her presence. She had stopped near the foot of the wooden steps.

“Yes,” Troy answered respectfully. “I remember her well.” He seemed enthralled by Ashley’s girl-next-door appeal. “Your mom just showed me your baby. What a cute kid you have, Ashley.”

“Thank you.” Her face flushed with merriment.

“She looks just like you.” Troy wore a red Polo shirt, shorts, and Reebok sneakers. He no longer had a five o’clock shadow; he had shaved.

“Well,” Claire interrupted, “I’d love to stay and chat some more, but Kimberly and I have to get going.”

“You‘re leaving, Miss Whittaker?”

“Yes,” she said, carefully lifting the tired infant from her crib. “I’m going sailing with my friend.”

“Wow! Where do you go boating?”

“The Chelsea River.”

“Lucky you. I‘m jealous.”

“Hey, if you guys want, you could always-”

“Forget it, mom!” Ashley promptly rebuked the idea. “We’re playing tennis.”

“Suit yourself.” With Kimberly clinging to her shoulder, Claire headed for the door. The sweet tang of the flower garden blew in through the screen. “Before you leave, Ash, make sure Albert has a full bowl of water. Okay? It’s going to be hot again today and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“Sure.”

“Who’s Albert?” Troy wanted to know, once Claire had left. Through the living room window, he watched her back her beige minivan out of the driveway.

“Our new puppy. He’s out back. Did my mom offer you something to drink?”

“Yes. I’m fine though. On the way over I stopped at Mc Donald’s.”

“Oh.” Crestfallen, Ashley sighed. “I thought we were going to grab lunch before we go play?”

“We are. Don’t worry. I only had coffee. I didn’t pig out like usual on Egg Mcmuffins.”

“Good. Now that we have that cleared up, are you ready to see my artwork?”

“Ready when you are.”

“All right. Follow me.”

Down in her studio, which again smelled of turpentine, the first thing Ashley did was pour herself a glass of straight vodka. The amount was equivalent to two shots. The liquor scorched her throat like Tabasco sauce.

“I just need a little,” she told Troy, while grimacing. “To take the edge off. I hope you understand. I’m not a lush. I just need this sometimes to get rid of my anxiety.” She was uneasy because she still couldn’t find her gun. This time, Ashley had searched the entire house, including her mother’s room. She had even looked in the garage, and around the yard.

“Unbelievable!” Troy said. “How do you drink vodka without mixing it with orange juice or something?”

“You know what; you’ve given me an idea.” Ashley opened the door to her motel-style icebox. She grabbed the bottle of Mountain Dew that was next to a partially eaten bologna and cheese sandwich. After locating another clean glass, she filled it with soda. Then she downed another shot of booze, and proceeded to chase it down with an equal amount of Mountain Dew. “Ahhh! There, that ought to do the trick!”

“You feel better?”

“Much.”

“Do you also drink when you paint?”

“Sometimes. It depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I’m feeling creative or not. Sometimes when I‘m not feeling imaginative a glass of wine or a few shots of vodka, can really make the canvas come alive.” She laughed. “Believe it or not, alcohol is a useful tool to have in your arsenal. Do research on famous artists and I guarantee you’ll learn that a lot of them, like musicians and poets, had a penchant for liquor. I‘m not advocating it, I‘m just saying facts are facts.”

You’re lying
, a voice in Ashley’s head whispered. This wasn’t a ghost. It was her conscience.
You’re using the booze and pills to escape, not for creative purposes. You’re using the booze and pills because you’re a broken person. You’re not healed. Why don’t you just tell Troy the truth, the booze and pills helps you to cope with your pain. Fills the empty void. And right now, it’s helping you to not think about the missing gun
.

I can’t tell him that
, Ashley thought.
He won’t understand. I don’t know Troy well enough yet to share something so deeply personal
.

This early in the day, Troy was stunned to see Ashley drinking vodka. When he had first arrived, her mother had warned him that, again, this sort of thing might happen.

On a more encouraging note, Claire Whittaker had praised Troy for comforting her daughter. The compliment made him feel good.

“So what do you think?” Ashley asked, indicating the large canvasses that were stacked against the walls.

“You did all these?” Troy asked, allowing his eyes to access everything around him. There were thirteen paintings, including the one on Ashley’s easel, which she claimed she was still putting the finishing touches on.

“Yes. Care to voice an opinion?”

“Whoa! These paintings are unbelievable,” he said, his voice bursting with admiration. “I mean, they’re so bright it’s as if they force you to have to look at them.”

Her use of color, geometric shapes, and the way in which she distorted reality, was truly extraordinary.

Ashley blushed. “I take it then that you like them?”

“How could I not?” He tried not to pay attention to her splashing more vodka into her glass. “What about those paintings in the kitchen and living room, did you do those to?”

“No, no,” She cracked up. “I wish. Those are Picasso prints. And a couple by Salvador Dali. My mom thinks I have an identical style, especially to Picasso.”

“You do. No doubt. That‘s why I thought those might have been your paintings.”

“I admit I am influenced by Picasso and little by Salvador Dali. Though, they’re not the only artists who inspired me. I’m also quite fond of Van Gogh and Monet . . . Van Gogh was brilliant with his mad, swirling brushstrokes. And Monet, what could one say about Claude Monet? The man was a magician.”

“The only artist I’m familiar with,” Troy said, now studying Ashley’s pallet and her wide assortment of brushes. “Is that freaky guy from the 60’s with the white hair who used to paint the soup cans.”

“Andy Warhol,” Ashley pointed out. “Yeah. He was an icon of the psychedelic generation. I never really liked him. I thought he was overrated.”

To Troy the somewhat disturbing thing, at least three of Ashley’s paintings were clearly based on the night of the rape.

One showed a baby lying near a dark forest, apparently dead.

Another depicted a blonde-haired woman, bloody from being beaten, which Troy assumed was supposed to represent Ashley.

Another illustrated a cartoon-like flashlight, with two human shapes following closely behind it.

As Troy stared at this last intricate piece, he thought about when he and Adam had been trudging through the muddy field.

Hmn
?

“I’ve gotta tell you, Ashley, if there’s anything positive that came out of what happened to you, it’s these paintings. I can’t repeat it enough, they really are spectacular . . . How long have you been an artist?”

“I started when I was about six. But up until this year, I really hadn’t picked up a brush since about the age of nineteen or twenty. Though, of late, I’ve been thinking, I might try and see if a gallery will put some of my work on display.”