She’d forgotten he had the tracking app until his third message. If she was a different kind of person, she would’ve ignored that text too, but she had a feeling he really would march his ass down to Arnold’s to see if she was there, and the last thing she wanted was a confrontation in a public place.
Ashlyn wanted to see him. To see for herself that he was all right. Only after knowing for certain that he was truly uninjured would she explain that she thought it’d be better if they were just friends. It would hurt…absolutely kill…but she had to do it.
So she’d replied to his text. Reassuring him that she was fine. She’d planned to leave it at that, but Stupid Ashlyn couldn’t not ask how he was feeling.
Instead of responding to her question, he’d asked what she was doing at Arnold’s. She should’ve said she was at a work thing, but she’d been vague…it was too hard to type with tears in her eyes. He hadn’t replied back. Which was another blow. But whatever. She was steeling herself to move on.
Ashlyn hadn’t realized how lost in her head she’d been until the driver said, “Here you go. Have a nice rest of the day.”
Opening her eyes, Ashlyn saw that they were in the parking lot of her apartment complex. She thanked the woman and climbed out of the back seat. She slowly entered her building and walked up the stairs. She was digging in her purse for her key when something caught her eye.
Looking up, she paused halfway down the hall and stared at a frowning Slate, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against her door.
Ashlyn drank in the sight of him. He looked good. A few scratches on his face. A little pale, but in one piece. The overwhelming relief swept through her so fast, it made her knees weak, and she had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself.
Slate pushed off her door and stalked toward her. He reached for her elbow, clasping it gently. “Are you drunk?” he asked.
Blinking in surprise, Ashlyn shook her head. “No.”
“Good. Because for the conversation we’re about to have, I need you to be stone-cold sober.”
“I didn’t have anything to drink.”
Slate jerked his chin down in a short nod and pulled on her arm, getting her to walk once more. Not protesting, and hating herself for how her stomach fluttered at his touch, Ashlyn walked next to him without a word. When they got to her door, she fumbled once more for her key. He took it from her as soon as she pulled it out of her purse and unlocked her door.
She dumped her purse on the small table in the foyer and walked into her apartment. She winced at the condition it was in. Dirty dishes piled in the sink, her trash needed to be taken out. She’d slept on her couch the last two nights, not wanting to go into her bedroom because it reminded her too much of Slate, and the blanket she’d used was on the floor. That, and her pillow on the end of the couch made it very clear she’d slept in her living room.
Used cups were on the coffee table, and she hadn’t bothered to pick up the many crumbled and used tissues on the end table and floor before she’d left for Arnold’s.
When she glanced at Slate, his gaze was locked on her, not on the shape of her apartment.
“You look tired,” he said gently.
Ashlyn shrugged. She wasn’t about to admit that she’d slept like shit, too busy worrying about him and crying her eyes out.
The stern look on Slate’s face faded away, and Ashlyn could’ve sworn she saw nervousness take its place.
“You look good. Glad you’re okay,” she told him.
“Me too. Although my head still feels kind of fuzzy. If what I just went through was even half of what you felt when you had that migraine, I don’t know how you got through it.”
“I didn’t really have a choice,” she told him.
“True. Can we talk?” he asked.
Ashlyn’s brows furrowed. “We are talking.”
“I mean…I need to apologize. Explain what happened.”
“It’s fine. I understand.”
“I don’t think you do,” he countered. “I need to go back to Wednesday and Thursday in Afghanistan. Explain what led up to me calling you Friday night.”
“I didn’t think you were allowed to talk about your missions,” Ashlyn said in confusion.
“I’m not.”
Her mind was spinning. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear details about what happened to him, because it would scare the shit out of her, but at the same time she was desperate for more information. “Okay.”
Slate gestured to the living room. “Can we sit? I hate to admit it, but I’m still really shaky.”
Ashlyn immediately nodded. God, she was a horrible person. While she hadn’t been ready to see Slate at her door, and she definitely wasn’t looking forward to breaking up with him, she didn’t want to cause him any pain.
He followed her into the living area, and she was glad he didn’t comment on the tissues and general disarray. She sat on one end of the couch, further relieved when Slate didn’t sit right next to her. He gave her space, sitting on the other end.
“Things went to shit right when we arrived in Afghanistan. The insurgents were targeting the base, and everyone was on edge. We headed out into the city a couple nights in, trying to track down the leader of a group of Taliban fighters. We got intel about where he lived and went to check it out. Long story short, he wasn’t there, but while we were inside his house, he, or one of his followers, shot an RPG at it, hoping to kill my entire team.”
Ashlyn gasped.
Slate continued. “But whoever it was, they were a shit shot, or maybe they weren’t prepared for the kickback of the weapon, because instead of hitting the building dead center, the shot went wide. The shitty construction of the house also probably saved me.
“I remember kind of trying to surf a bunch of bricks and boards as they slid under my feet…but that’s all. I was knocked unconscious. I woke up at the base. The guys had dug me out of the rubble and got me to the base clinic. I guessed I was super aggressive—I don’t really remember—and refused to stay there, and got really pissed when they suggested sending me to Germany. I don’t know how he did it, but Mustang talked the doctors into releasing me into his care, and we left to come home.
“I don’t remember calling you, babe,” Slate said quietly. “I don’t remember getting off the plane, into Mustang’s car, or to my house. I don’t remember anything but bits and pieces until around noon today, when I woke up a little more clear-headed. I just know I hurt you—and that kills me.”
Ashlyn stared at the man she loved more than anyone she’d ever dated…and shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Slate said firmly. “You should’ve been there.”
“And I would’ve,” Ashlyn said, hurt and anger rising a bit at his words. “But you made it clear that Mustang could take care of you just fine. It doesn’t really matter that you don’t remember saying it, Slate. It might actually mean more that you don’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that maybe your subconscious was saying what you were truly thinking.”
Slate shook his head. “No, you’re wrong.”