Page 110 of Pieces of Ash
The water swishes around us as I face him. “What do you mean?”
His eyes are haunted, and he staresthroughme, but then he blinks, shaking his head like he needs to clear it.
His voice is normal when he says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. You were talking about your mom.”
“I was finished.” I’m anxious that he not shy away from this topic now that he’s actually broached it. “You said it was a woman—that you lost your job over a woman?”
He sighs. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“But you did,” I press. I turn my body around so I’m facing him, kneeling in front of him, so I can look squarely into his eyes. “You can trust me, Julian. Tell me what happened. What woman? When?”
He takes a deep breath and holds it, reaching for my shoulders as he exhales. For a moment I think he’s going to pull me forward for a kiss, but then I realize that he’s moving me back to where I was. He turns me around so that I’m sitting in the V of his spread legs with my back against his front.
“I’ll tell you,” he says, resting his arms on the sides of the tub. “But it’ll be easier like this.”
I lean back against him, my head on his shoulder. He turns his head just slightly so that his lips are near my ear.
“I wanted to be in the Secret Service all my life,” he begins. “At Halloween, the other boys would dress up like zombies and superheroes. I’d put on a black suit, black tie, white shirt, and sunglasses, and place a fake com in my ear.” He chuckles softly. “My dad used to have this picture on his desk. It was Noelle on a tricycle and me running behind her in full gear, pretending she was the president, and I was part of the motorcade security. I even taped an American flag to her handlebars. She was called Madam President quite a lot in those days.”
I smile at his memory, reaching for his hands and putting them on my stomach under my breasts. I keep mine on top of his so we’re holding each other.
“I studied criminal justice at Granite State College. I was accepted into the Secret Service program and went down to Georgia for training the August after I graduated. Ten weeks of basic criminal investigation down there and eighteen weeks ofspecial agent training outside DC. By March, I was sworn in as an active agent and assigned to the L Street office in DC. All my instructors called me promising. I was on my way.”
“Go on,” I say, caressing his hands under the water.
“You have to understand. For most agents, working in the field for a few years is standard. It’s investigative work, working with more seasoned agents. Actually, it’s pretty humdrum stuff, but it’s almost like on-the-job training. You learn the culture of the agency, the way things work. You might not get your first protective assignment for years. Youshouldn’tget your first protective assignment for years. I learned that the hard way.” He takes a deep breath and pulls his hands away. “Are you getting cold? The water’s cooling off.”
“I can add some hot,” I say.
“Nah,” he answers. “Let’s go back to bed, huh?”
As he pushes me away gently, I feel him stand up behind me and hear him step out of the tub. His hand appears before my face, and I take it, letting him help me out of the deep tub. He smiles down at me in the candlelight, his eyes tender but sad. “You’re so beautiful, Ash.”
I let my eyes trail down his glistening body—the muscles of his chest, the deep V of muscle that leads to his penis, and his long, strong legs. When I look back up at him, I smile back. “You are too.”
“Make love to me,” he says, his hands landing on my hips. He pulls me closer so that my breasts press against his chest and his growing erection pulses against the triangle of soft, blonde curly hair between my legs.
I lean back. “Tell me the rest first.”
He groans, letting me go. Reaching over my head for two fluffy white towels, he hands me one, then wraps the other around his waist, tucking the loose end in.
“Come on, then,” he says, taking my hand as I secure my own towel under my arms. “You sit. I’ll light the fire, okay?”
I sit down on the couch, curling up in a corner and watching the muscles in his back ripple as he leans down, removes the screen, and strikes a match to the newspaper under the grate. It catches quickly as he starts talking again.
“Typhoid is spread through contaminated food so agents on assignment in South America are not supposed to eat the same things at the same place, but in May, two months after I finished training, typhoid ran through a detail of agents in Cartagena, just before the VP was supposed to arrive on a diplomatic visit. Eight agents down at once. They called the DC field office in a panic, and eight guys were sent down. Among them? Me. How? Because the guy I was assigned to work with—Javier Fuentes—was fluent in Spanish. He was chosen to go down there right away and decided I should go too. He said it would be a great experience for me. He essentially got me on the transport at the last minute.
“I had stars in my eyes. I mean, I was probably two years out from an international posting and four more from a protective detail. And there I was, going down to Colombia with guys way more experienced than me. I was hot shit that day. I was on top of the world.”
He stops poking at the fire and turns to look at me. “Move over.”
I do, and he takes my place in the corner of the couch, resting his legs on the coffee table and pulling me back against his chest. He kisses the top of my head. “I had no business being down there.”
“For the record?” I say, snuggling against him as he takes a blanket off the back of the couch and pulls it over us. “I think you’re still pretty hot shit.”
“Is that right?”
“Absolutely.”
