His Little Runaway Read Free Page B

doubted whether saving Ashley Lewis would be anything near as straightforward.

Chapter Three
     
     
    Ashley woke up to find that someone was rubbing her shoulder. No bell. No faint smell of sewage covered by the stronger, harsher smell of disinfectant. A warm comforter, not a scratchy blanket.
    She opened her eyes to look into the face of a man whose name it took her a moment to remember. Wes. She felt like she had been asleep for days. Her whole body hurt, but she also felt like a fuzziness that had descended more and more upon her, ever since the warden had made it clear she would service him or pay the consequences of refusal, had lifted, and she could think straight.
    What had she told him? The abusive boyfriend story she had concocted, she felt almost certain. And he had said that she could use his cell phone at the top of his driveway. She felt her eyes go wide as the memories came flooding back. She knew she couldn’t let down her guard, but despite what seemed a rather stern expression in Wes’ eyes Ashley felt a rush of gratitude toward him.
    “Thanks,” she said. “I mean, thanks for picking me up, and…” She remembered about her hands and lifted them up to see the bandages wrapped around them. They hurt terribly, but he must have put some kind of salve on that made them feel more like a dull ache than a burning fire.
    “You’re welcome,” Wes said gravely. “I’ve put your clothes on top of the dresser.”
    Ashley remembered suddenly that, unsure of whether to do so or not, she had taken off her panties and put them in with the jeans and shirt and bra. Now she suddenly wished she had kept the underwear on—she could have washed them herself by hand or something, rather than feel first like Wes had handled her panties and second like she now didn’t have any on underneath the big red t-shirt he had loaned her.
    Now she started to wonder what her face looked like, and her hair. She must look beyond awful, and she realized that with the Vaseline on her face she must have ruined his pillowcase. She propped herself up on her elbow to look, and saw that Wes had put a soft towel down under her cheek, where she could see a little bit of gory mess.
    “Oh,” she said.
    Wes must have followed her look, since he said, “I hope the towel wasn’t uncomfortable.”
    Ashley searched her mind for any memory of the sleep she’d just had, but found an utter blank. “Nope,” she said.
    “Alright, then. I’ve got breakfast almost ready. When you get dressed, come on into the kitchen.”
    For the first time Ashley realized then that instead of the smells of Tall Oaks she could make out the heavenly scent of real bacon.
    “Can I call my parents first?”
    “Nope,” Wes replied. “I need to be sure you’re steady on your feet, and for that I need to get some food into you.
    What was it about the way he spoke to her, with such decision, that seemed to make her trust him? When one was a juvenile offender, men often addressed you as if they were in charge of you—because of course they were. Most recently, the warden had done that. Ashley should be used to—if not resisting the will of big men who ordered her around—at least maintaining her Westchester pride. Why did she feel like contradicting Wes would be different? Like she wanted to contradict him, but not so that she wouldn’t have to obey him; rather, so that he would make it clear to her that he would give her breakfast, now , whether she liked it or not?
    “Okay,” she said, and started to climb out of bed.
    “Bathroom’s next door,” he informed her, once she was on her feet and he could look her up and down. To her annoyance, Ashley blushed, thinking again about her panties—about Wes touching them and her currently not having them on, under the t-shirt. “Don’t take a shower, though. You can do that after breakfast. I need to take a look at your wounds and clean them before you get in the shower.”
    “Okay,” Ashley said again, still