Page 72 of Wasted Lust

Because if we get salvation after we’re dead, then what’s the purpose of living?

“Sasha, stay where you are. I’m forty-five minutes away.”

If we can’t find salvation in life, then why should we be rewarded in death?

“Do you hear me?”

“I’m dying, Jax.”

“What? Sasha?”

“We’re all dying. Me, Nick, James, Harper. There’s no saving us. Ever. Because those people will never let us go. And it’s not fair. OK? I never asked to be born. It’s not fucking fair!”

“Are you inside?”

“Yes,” I sniffle out. And then I realize there’s a tear streaming down my cheek. “Oh, God,” I sob, drawing in a hitched breath. “I’m dead.”

And then I end the call, throw the phone down on the couch as I run past, and take the stairs two at a time as I race to the bathroom. I turn the shower on and step inside fully dressed. I wash away those tears under the cold water as I hug my body.

Make them go away, I say to myself over and over. Make them go away.

My teeth start chattering and before I know it, my whole body is shaking. I slump to the bottom of the shower and pull my knees up to my chest.

It’s over.

I can feel it. Everything that’s happened in the past two days feels like the trumpets of Revelation for Sasha Cherlin. My life is over and I failed. Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how fast I run, how many times I change my name, or how many degrees I get to make myself legitimate… I still belong to them.

I am property.

Ford Aston’s front door is unlocked, and knowing that Sasha learned everything he knows about security, this concerns me.

“Sasha?” I call out as I enter. “Sasha?” I have a very bad feeling as I move through the front room and into the kitchen. She sounded very distressed on the phone. “Sasha?” I ask again, making my way towards the back of the house. I stop at the bottom of the stairs and listen as I identify the sound of water coming from upstairs. I take the stairs quietly, not sure what to expect.

The bathroom door is open, and for a moment I come to terms with the worst-case scenario.

She killed herself.

No, my rational mind says. Sasha is not a girl who gives up. She’s a fighter. If she wanted to kill herself, she’d throw herself in front of a bullet to save someone else. She would not slit her wrists in a bathroom.

But that fear takes over again as I approach the shower. She’s fully dressed in clothes I recognize as my own, slumped on the tiled floor.

“Sasha,” I whisper.

Her head raises, just enough for her thundercloud eyes to peer up at me through her wet and stringy hair.

“Sasha,” I say, opening the glass door and reaching for her. The water is freezing cold, and when I touch her arm, it’s ice.

She tilts her head all the way up to me and whispers, “I already died, Jax. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop crying and it scares me.”

I pull her up out of the puddle of water on the floor. She doesn’t resist, but she doesn’t help much either. “Come here,” I say, lifting her off her feet and cradling her in my arms. “Let’s get you out of these clothes.”

She buries her head in my chest and the sobs start. Long, hitching breaths of sadness.

“It’s OK, killer. You can cry if you want.” I need to know what happened, but she needs me to take care of her first. So I carry her into the hallway and she points to a room.

I take her in there and stand her up in the center of a black rug that covers most of the dark hardwood floor. It’s her childhood room, I realize, and just the fact that I have an opportunity to get a little glimpse of this part of her life makes things just a little better. “Lift your arms,” I say as I tug her wet shirt off. I have her lift each leg so I can take off her shoes, and then I tug the wet sweatpants over her hips.

She stands there in the black boxer briefs I gave her last night, shivering uncontrollably. “He left me, Jax.” Her teeth chatter to the rhythm of her shaking body. “He left me.”