“Why are you helping him? Letting him live with you? Do you feel responsible for him? Because you’re not! You’ve done more than enough.”
Dad was partly right. I did feel responsible for Ash. I’d brought him to Chicago and involved him in my life. It had started with me simply wanting to help him—charity, I guess. But charity is usually faceless, impersonal—you make a donation, write a check, and that’s it. But with Ash, I’d seen his face and I’d seen the abuse firsthand. That made it personal.
And as we’d shared my apartment, shared time together, I’d come to appreciate him for the man he was, or the man he was trying to be.
He was kind and thoughtful. He helped me but he let me breathe. He was decent and honorable. And I hated to see him crushed, so every smile of his felt like an achievement.
I took a breath and tried to explain as rationally as I could—which wasn’t easy, because when it came to Ash, I wasn’t sure that reason and logic could be applied.
“Because someone should. Because I can. Because since he came to this country, his world has been shattered—in America—land of the free. In our country, he was made a slave! This is real, Dad. This is happening, and what Ash has told us is just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve been looking into it: do you know how many slaves there are here today? Right now, in Chicago? Hundreds! Thousands! Tens of thousands every year across the whole country. Drug trafficking, prostitution, forced labor. You’re the police officer, Dad, you tell me.”
His hard expression softened. “I know, Laney, love. What I’m asking is why him?”
“I’ve told you,” I said as my cheeks turned red.
“That’s what I thought,” sighed Dad, shaking his head.
We ate the rest of our lunch without mentioning Ash’s name again.
Ash was late getting home that night. And as soon as he was inside the apartment, he strode into the kitchen and started scrubbing at his hands. He’d been much moodier since the last police interview. Each day that went by without news of his friends, his spirits sank lower. He looked tired all the time, and I knew he wasn’t sleeping well because I heard him at night. He’d changed physically in the last three weeks, as well. His lean body was even harder, his biceps bigger. I suppose it was inevitable, working in construction. I’d never seen a body as good as his except on TV.
When he’d washed his hands four times, he dried them carefully. I’d noticed that they’d become callused. It made me smile when I saw him pump some of my rose-scented lotion onto his hands.
“Ash is a gi-rl!” I sang, thoughtlessly teasing him into a lighter mood.
A strange expression shadowed his face and his eyes glittered dangerously. Then he shoved away from me and left the room.
Uh-oh.
I followed slowly and found him sitting on the couch with his head in his hands.
“Ash . . .”
“I’m not a girl,” he growled. “But I cannot be a man to you!”
“What?”
“You feed me, give me a roof, a place to stay. But I can’t pay you enough. I can’t work without fear. I can’t even dance. I am nothing!”
He strode out of the apartment, disappearing into the night.
Stupid, stupid Laney!
I was sitting on the edge of my bed, summoning up the nerve to push the short needle into my thigh. It wasn’t particularly painful, but it did sting. I just hated, hated doing it.
Tears gathered in my eyes, and I cursed myself for weakness, for my stupid body that needed chemicals to keep it working, keep it moving. I hated to be so dependent.
I heard Ash arrive home, concentrating on the quiet sounds as he moved around the kitchen: the tap running, the coffee machine. Two soft thuds as he kicked off his heavy boots. The sounds were fainter now as he padded around in his socks. Then I heard music start—he’d found my iPhone and was listening to Bruno Mars.
He tapped on my door and poked his head around.
“Laney, can I . . . ?”
His words cut off and he stared at me. I flushed, covering up my bare legs, even though it was nothing he hadn’t seen before.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice pitched higher than usual.
“Drug addict, remember?” I laughed awkwardly.
His eyes widened and then he gave a short nod of understanding.
“Your medicine.”
“Yes, I’m just trying to get up the nerve. I do it every week, but I just . . . I’m being stupid, I know.”
He took a step closer, moving into the room.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, not really,” I sighed. “It’s more the idea of it. I told you it was stupid.”
He sat down on the bed next to me, his large body radiating heat and comfort.
“I’ll do it for you—if you want.”
I think my eyes nearly jumped out of my head. If I waved a needle around Collin, he looked like he was going to faint.
I stared at him in disbelief.
Ash shrugged. “I’ve done it before. My mother was diabetic. I used to help her.”
“I don’t know . . .”