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Fragments of Ash
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My mind skitters to her face—her beautiful fucking face—and the way she stared at me with those wide eyes and her lips lightly parted. Those lips. She has Angelina Jolie lips. Scarlett Johanssen lips. Liv-fucking-Tyler from the “Crazy” video lips. Except this chick doesn’t look like Liv. She’s got blonde hair and a perfect pout like Alicia Silverstone. I remember the beginning of that video when our girl, Alicia, climbs out a bathroom window in her Catholic school uniform, her skirt riding up to show her black lace panties…and ahhh, yes, I feel my cock twitch just picturing it.
Fuck my life.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She looked to be about Noelle’s age—somewhere between eighteen and twenty, and ridiculously young to suddenly arrive alone in the middle of nowhere, put up in an old farmhouse by a couple of aging queens.
How in the fuck is this her best option?
Who is she?
And what exactly is her deal?
I grimace because the headlines of her story—the easy parts—start materializing as I think about what I know about her. I didn’t do all that training for nothing. Plus, I have good instincts. I could practically smell it on her—the fear, the desperation, the way she wouldn’t meet me eyes except to insist that she was an adult.
God, what a joke. If she’s an adult, I’m a French poodle.
Then something occurs to me: it was Jock’s boyfriend, Gus, who gave away the most important part of her story away.
She has nowhere else to go.
And then something else occurs to me, and I wonder, Is she in hiding?
This girl—what’s her name? Amber? Audrey?—is in trouble. Big trouble. The kind of trouble that gets other people in hot water when they were just trying to live their lives and mind their own business. And she’s been dumped on my doorstep. Literally.
We are a group of authors,