He clicked on her name once more and quickly typed out a text.
Slate: Hey, I need to talk to you. See you. Will you come by?
He waited a full minute, but the gray check mark didn’t turn green, meaning she hadn’t opened his message.
Worried now, Slate sent another text.
Slate: I fucked up. It’s not an excuse, but I had a concussion. I don’t remember calling you. Please let me know you’re all right, if nothing else.
Nothing. No three dots telling him she was responding to his text and no indication that she’d even read it.
Panicking, thinking the worst, Slate finally remembered the tracking app. He could see where she was. She might be at home, injured or sick with a migraine again, and not able to get to the phone. He clicked on the app…and couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing at first.
Ashlyn wasn’t home. If the app was correct, she was currently down in Waikiki at a place called Arnold’s Beach Bar. It wasn’t far from Duke’s.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Ashlyn was at a bar? What the absolute fuck was going on?
Slate: If you don’t answer me and let me know that you’re okay, I’m gonna head down to Arnold’s to check for myself that it’s actually you down there, and not someone who’s kidnapped you and stolen your phone and is using your credit cards to get shitfaced.
He held his breath, praying that she answered, but at the same time knowing if she did, it meant she was avoiding him…which would suck.
The gray check marks flicked to green on his screen and the three dots he’d prayed to see finally appeared.
Shit.
Ashlyn: I’m fine. I hope you’re feeling better.
The words were polite but distant. And Slate wanted to fucking throw his phone across the room. Goose bumps broke out on his arms.
He wasn’t ready to lose her.
Slate: What are you doing at a bar?
Ashlyn: Having lunch with a friend.
Every muscle in Slate’s body froze as he stared down at the words on his screen. She was out to lunch while he was recuperating from almost dying? Yes, he’d apparently told her not to come over, but still. He wasn’t being dramatic by thinking he could’ve been killed. In fact, he knew how close he’d come to being blown into a thousand pieces in that house. It was a miracle that he was still alive and kicking.
And his girlfriend was in a bar? With a “friend”? Her friends were his friends, and he was pretty damn sure she wasn’t out with Elodie, Lexie, or any of the others.
Was she out with a guy?
The thought made him nauseous.
And furious.
And disappointed.
And insanely fucking jealous.
In a moment of blazing clarity…Slate realized he’d been kidding himself for the last three months.
He’d agreed to Ashlyn’s ridiculous friends-with-benefits suggestion because he wanted her any way he could get her. Maybe at first he’d done his best to not let her get under his skin, keeping their relationship mostly about sex, not staying the night, calling only periodically…but as the weeks passed, things had changed. She was his.
His, dammit! And he wasn’t going to let this misunderstanding—okay, his colossal fuck-up—break them apart.
Casual be damned. There wasn’t a single casual thing about their relationship. And he was going to make sure Ashlyn knew it. He was changing things up, big time, and she was just going to have to accept it.
He was being irrational, but Slate didn’t give a shit.
He loved Ashlyn Taylor. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Smart and sexy and kind and loyal. She was his. Just as he was hers.
Thinking back over the last month or so, Slate had no doubt that Ashlyn loved him just as much. They were both desperately ignoring what was right under their noses.
She was hurt right now, and he couldn’t blame her, but if she thought she could go out with another guy and just forget about him that easily, she was kidding herself.
Slate didn’t bother responding to her message. He was too mad. Too jealous. Too upset. Hurting too badly. Besides, he wasn’t going to say what he needed to say in a text. He wanted to be face-to-face in order to apologize properly. He needed to be able to read her expression, to see if his unintentionally callous actions had destroyed everything they’d been building for the last year.
Determination rising within him, Slate headed back out to his living room.
Mustang, Midas, and Aleck all turned their heads to look at him when he appeared.
“I need someone to drive me to Ashlyn’s house.”
Mustang grinned slowly.
Midas nodded in approval.
Aleck said, “Not until you eat something.”
The last thing Slate wanted to do was eat, but he also didn’t want to fall flat on his face when he was convincing Ashlyn to forgive him for being an inconsiderate asshole…and when he told her that he wanted to renegotiate the terms of their relationship.
Clicking on the app in his phone, Slate saw that Ashlyn was still in Waikiki at that fucking bar. He had time to eat. He nodded at Aleck.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ashlyn sighed in relief when she closed the door of the Uber she’d called to pick her up from the bar. It was Jack’s birthday, another full-time employee who worked at Food For All, and a group of people had gotten together to celebrate at Arnold’s.
Natalie, the manager of the downtown location, had texted, asking Ashlyn if she would come. She didn’t want to. Had wanted to wallow in her misery all alone. But she’d forced herself to shower, change, and leave the apartment. Sitting around waiting for Slate to call wasn’t on the top of her list of fun things to do. In fact, it was torture.
Mustang had called, as had some of the others, but she didn’t feel strong enough yet to endure the pity in their voices while they tried to explain why Slate hadn’t wanted her help when he wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t know exactly what had happened on his mission—not that she’d given anyone a chance to explain—but Slate telling her in no uncertain terms that his friends would be there for him, instead of asking her to come over, repeated in her head like a broken record.
She’d waited all day Saturday for his call, with no luck, and with every hour that passed, she got more and more depressed. It sucked to be head over heels in love with a man, then have it made very clear that he didn’t feel the same. But she’d be okay. She always was.
The first step was staying busy and not moping around her apartment. So she’d told Natalie she’d be there. Not sure if she was going to drink anything or not, she’d called for an Uber. The afternoon had been fun…as fun as it could be when she was so damn heartbroken…but now Ashlyn was more than ready to go home.
Admittedly, she’d been relieved to finally hear from Slate. She didn’t hate him. Could never hate him. And despite everything, she’d been crazy worried. So getting that first text made the stress and worry dissipate a bit.
He claimed he didn’t remember calling her, and she supposed that could be the case. But he’d gotten home Friday. And it was now Sunday. Knowing he’d been home for almost two days, and he hadn’t reached out to her, was a reminder of where she stood in his life.