Page 87 of Pieces of Ash
He reaches for my cheeks, cupping my face, his mouth falling hot and hungry onto mine. As I flatten my hands on his chest, his tongue traces my lips, first the top, then the bottom. I part them with a soft sigh, wanting to feel his tongue slide against mine again. He obliges me, pulling me closer, his hands sliding down my arms to my hips. As he pulls me against him, I arch my back, and the tips of my breasts rub against his muscles. My nipples are so sensitive, the touch makes me whimper, makes the pulsing between my legs faster and more urgent. He tilts his head the other way, slanting his lips over mine, sealing his mouth over mine, stealing my breath, stealing my heart. My legs are jelly by the time his lips skim gently along my cheek. His teeth nip at the lobe of my ear, sending shivers down my spine, and I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on.
“Ashley.” His voice is breathy, almost drunk, as he speaks close to my ear. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Wait,” I whisper, not positive if I want him to wait a little longer for the rest of my body, or if I want him to wait for Father Joseph to talk to Mosier. Maybe both.
“I hate waiting,” he says gruffly.
This makes me smile. “Please, Julian. I’ll tell you everything. But for now, just wait with me. Okay?”
He tightens his arms around me, and I close my eyes, burying my face in the crook of his neck, and hoping that this new feeling bursting inside me—of finally feeling like I’m not so very alone—will be the new normal for a little while.
Chapter 16
Julian
Ashley likes kissing me, so we kiss a lot over the next couple of days.
I like kissing Ashley too, but I want so much more from her, it hurts to stop. It hurts when she pulls away from me. It hurts all over to make myself wait.
I remind myself not to push her—that we just met and we’re still getting to know each other. Sometimes that helps. Mostly it doesn’t. My body pretty much aches for her all the fucking time.
She still considers the barn my private space, but when I’m alone in there, I stare out the window, thinking about her. I work with more blue glass than usual because it reminds me of her eyes. I count down the minutes it takes to make whatever I’m working on, so I can walk back over to the house and find her.
And when I do? She smells like vanilla and cinnamon when she throws her arms around my neck without asking. I kiss her like the world is ending tomorrow because our time feels fragile and finite…but also because she is so sweet and so beautiful and—right now—so very mine.
Over the past couple of nights, after I kiss her good night and send her upstairs, I head to my room, take out my laptop, and work.
What do I work on?
In the Secret Service, we called it tactical planning.
Sun Tzu would have called it knowledge and strategy.If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.
The enemy is Mosier Raumann, and what I have learned so far chills me to the bone.
Following the death of his first wife, seventeen years ago, Raumann immigrated to the United States from Bucharest with his young sons and settled in Brooklyn for a short time. I couldn’t find much about his first wife. Only that she died in a “tragic accident” at the Raumann vacation home on the island of Crete. She was found face down in the family’s swimming pool, a red rose floating beside her.
Not long after his arrival in the States, Raumann bought a mansion in Westchester County, New York, and, seemingly overnight, outfitted the estate with a high, black, wrought-iron wall around the perimeter, much to the consternation of local planning and zoning, from which he did not obtain the proper permit. After a small dustup and a heavy fine, the matter was settled with Raumann’s promise to plant shrubbery around the exterior of the wall, which effectively hid the ugliness of the eight-foot-high monstrosity.
Not the intent of it, however. It keeps gawkers out and the Raumanns in.
And from what I can gather online, the Raumanns areinto a little of everything. Most notably, drug, weapon, and sex trafficking from various corners of Eastern Europe into the United States. There’s ample chatter on the dark web about the FBI looking into their dealings, but the Raumanns have been clever—they run dozens of legitimate offtrack betting operations across the state of New York that are kept in good standing,though I suspect these are laundering businesses for their more nefarious dealings.
I’m also trying to figure out Raumann’s relationship with his second wife, but while there are thousands of pictures of Tig online, very few of them are of Teagan Ellis Raumann. I am able to find only a couple of paparazzi snapshots of Mosier and Tig together, one of them sitting at a table—at a wedding reception, maybe—with his arm slung possessively over her shoulder, and another of them leaving a funeral in Brooklyn, with Mosier looking over his shoulder while Tig, in a conservative black dress and veil, makes her way down the church stairs behind him.
In both photos, their age difference is obvious, and in neither does Tig look like the feisty model who took the world by storm. She is still beautiful, of course, but in both shots, her shoulders are hunched, and her eyes are haunted. God only knows the messed-up shit she saw behind that high black fence.
Here’s what I know for sure. Both of Raumann’s wives died young and under mysterious circumstances. And I can’t help wondering if it’s a coincidence, though a sickening chill down my spine says it isn’t. And the thought of Ashley being wife number three makes me want to smash my fist through a wall…or kill someone.
This guy? Mosier Raumann? He’s a criminal. A wealthy, powerful, established, international criminal. If he originally set his sights on Ashley, waiting for her to mature to eighteen over the past five years, he’s not going to let her go just because a kindly old priest asks him to. No way. This guy’s a thug and a powermonger. From what Ashley’s told me, her attendance at Catholic school washisidea—he wasgroomingher to be the perfect wife. Frankly I think he’s the kind of man who would prefer to see her dead than with someone else. In fact, I am positive of that.
I slam my laptop closed and wonder how long her whereabouts can remain a secret from Raumann. According to Ashley, the only people who know she’s here are the priest, Gus, Jock, me, and Noelle. Noelle and I are nonissues because there’s nothing to tie us to Ashley. Same with Jock. That leaves 1. the priest, and 2. Gus.
Ashley assures me that the priest would never betray her. Nor would Gus, but Gus isknownto Raumann, and unfortunately, if he tracks down Gus, it could easily lead him to Ashley.
Ashley told me that her stepfather disapproved of Gus and forbade Tig to continue their friendship. It was risky for Gus to attend Tig’s funeral, but Ashley insists that her stepfather never saw them together.
But if he wants to find her, he’s going to start with her mother’s dearest friend. He’s going to start with the friend who made an impression, the friend he hated. Mosier Raumann didn’t get where he is by being stupid. No doubt Tig’s preference for Gus was noted at some point in time. Sooner or later, Raumann will be coming for Gus.
