Page 44 of Daring You

13

Ben

Ash’s placeis what you expect.

Lofty, spacious, lots of pointless industrial tubing on the ceiling, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and no walls.

His bed is laid out on the far corner, near a giant, frosted window that looks like a checkerboard. The vast interior (about 2,000 square feet, which is virtually unobtainable in NYC unless you’re a rich asshole—case in point) is supported by random silver columns, a sign of its past life as a bread factory.

Ash scored a coveted loft in the Meatpacking District, a feat now impossible due to Manhattan’s skyrocketing living expenses and the inability of anyone, except celebrities and trust fund babies, to live in the exclusive clubbing and designer district.

He comes from very old money. Locke knows more about it, but something to do with the railroad days. Essentially, Ash doesn’t have to work a day in his life to support this kind of lifestyle, but he does anyway, and he actually excels at it.

I wasn’t joking when I said he was an excellent pastry chef, and now, apparently, a restauranteur.

When I step into his space Monday evening on an oversized, manually open-and-shut, elevator on the third floor, I’m the first one there.

“Hey,” he says over a cauldron on his stove. His insane amount of tattoos are blurred by the steam billowing out in front of him. “You’re early.”

“I’m always punctual,” I say, and drop my duffel near the entrance. “Also, I was bored after finishing my workout.”

“That sucks,” Ash says while opening his giant, metal fridge and cracking me open a beer. “Not making it past the playoffs, I mean.”

“Your sympathy is noted,” I say dryly, and accept the cold bottle.

Ash jumps up with spirit hands, a sight that would scare kids in Freddy Krueger costumes on Halloween. “There’s always next year!”

“Go back to cooking.” I bend over on the other side of the island, where his stove is, to inspect what’s inside the pot.

“I’m cookin’ up something simple,” Ash says. “Truffle carbonara with pan-seared shrimp in white wine sauce and garlic bread.”

“All I know is it smells good.”

“Fair enough.”

The elevator creaks its descent, and I’m again dumbfounded on why such a ritzy place has such a haunted mode of transportation. I take a seat on a stool I drag out from under the island, watching Ash putter about on his side of things, chopping green stuff and carving bread in half.

“Everybody coming?” I ask him after tipping the beer to my mouth.

“Yep. Even East.”

“Wow.” I lift my brows. “You’re so popular.”

The elevator shakes and rattles, and before you know it, the man himself steps out.

“Hey y’all,” Easton says, clad in his usual attire of a black leather jacket and black, ripped denim. He’s kept his longish hair down, straight jet black to his shoulders, and digs his fingers into the mane to shove it out of his face as he greets us.

“My man!” Ash says, smacking a wooden spoon on the marble countertop. “Did you get mobbed on the way over?”

“Nah,” Easton says, and fist-bumps me when he comes closer. “I’ve learned to keep a low profile these days.”

“Do you even own social media?” Ash asks.

“Nope. But my manager does, I guess, because apparently I have an official account.”

“Beer?” Ash heads back to the fridge.

“Yeah, man. That’d be great. Sorry to hear about you being booted from the playoffs,” East says as he takes the seat next to me.

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