Page 40 of Pieces of Ash
“Actually,” says Jock, his cheeks coloring just a touch, “four generations of Mishkins. I was born Jonathan Mishkin.”
“Mishkin?”
“It means ‘mouse’ in Russian.”
“And Souris?”
“‘Mouse’ in French,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“P.C. wanted to be sophisticated in his wasted youth,” says Gus, staring adoringly at his handsome boyfriend.
Jock clears his throat. “Come upstairs. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
We walk through the large front room to a doorway leading to a curved staircase up to the second floor. The upstairs landing is painted white and has been converted into a lovely sitting area. A plush aqua and white striped couch sits invitingly in front of a working fireplace, with a coffee table in the middle of the room, and a pristine sheepskin rug on the floor.
I can barely admire the charm of the small space before Jock ducks through a dark wood door and leads me into a robin’s-egg-blue bedroom with white portrait molding on the walls, several windows framed with gauzy white curtains, and a big white bed, positioned like a cloud, in the center of the room.
“Heaven?” I whisper.
Jock shrugs, his expression pleased. “Ithink so.”
“Me too,” says Gus wistfully, and I’m wondering if he’s rethinking their move to town.
“It’s yours,” Jock tells me. “Behind the sitting room is your own bathroom too.”
Tears prick my eyes as my gaze lands on the matted prints of angels, framed in white, adorning the walls. “It’s beautiful.”
“You deserve it,” whispers Gus, placing an arm around my shoulders. “Rest here, lil’ Ash. We’ll help you figure out the rest.”
I spin, burying my face in Gus’s neck and bawling like a baby.
I know this is only temporary.
I know that this is notmyhouse,myroom,mysacred space.
I know that my housemate, short of hating my guts, does not want me there.
But after a lifetime of wandering, it finally feels as though I am home.
Chapter 8
Julian
Beautiful.
Without a doubt, without any caveats or clauses or reservations, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.
Ever.
Which is a massive fucking problem.
Her bright blue eyes, all hurt and wide and vulnerable, and her pillowed lips, perfect for every debauched thing I want to do to them, promise nothing but trouble. And it pisses me off because I moved here to escape that particular brand of chaos.
I do not want her here.
But I am a tenant at Jock Souris’s house, and I read my agreement five times before signing it. There was nothing in it prohibiting him renting vacant parts of his property to other tenants, and in fact, there was something about him and his partner having exclusive use of the second floor at any time without notice. So if he wants to let someone stay here, I really don’t have the right to say anything.
Fuck.
