“Yeah. He’s always hated the name Lucifer, and his family calls him Trey, for Lucifer the third. He’s not a fan of that either. So he’s Luke now, except from his mom, who calls him Lucy.” Katelyn giggles a bit. “He totally hates it, but he’s got a real soft spot for his mom.”
Lucy. I hold back a scoff. What would he do if I called him Lucy? But I’ll behave myself.
“What about his last name?” I ask.
“He wanted to keep Johnson, but his father talked him into taking Ashton back.”
I don’t respond.
We head through the large house, which includes a foyer, a huge living area with a grand piano—does anyone even play the damned thing?—a dining area off to the side fit for royalty, and then a massive kitchen and family room. Finally we get to the French doors leading outside to a giant redwood deck, and then, about a hundred feet away, the goddamned Pacific Ocean.
I sigh as I walk out.
Will I ever own a house like this? The Wolfes pay me pretty well. Damned well actually, but not enough to afford this kind of house.
No, this is old money. Ashton money that’s been around for at least a century. Lucifer Junior, Luke’s father, is a B-movie producer. He does okay, probably rakes in a million or two a year, but not enough to set his son up in a house like this.
All of Luke’s drug money was confiscated by the Feds, so this is Ashton money. An Ashton house.
The house where he—
“Buck,” Aspen says.
“Yeah?”
“I know this is difficult for you,” she whispers, “but please… For me.”
Damn, those are fighting words.
44
ASPEN
Something niggles at me all through dinner. I smile and talk and eat my hamburger, but something feels off. Not with Luke or Katelyn, or even with Buck, even though it’s clear he’d rather be just about anywhere other than Luke’s house.
I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, so I ignore it as I tell Katelyn and Luke about Gloria and our meeting with her.
“That’s great that Gloria’s going to help you,” Katelyn says.
Buck hasn’t said much all evening, though he has put away three burgers, two helpings of potato salad, and three helpings of baked beans.
Not sure I want to sleep with him tonight.
“Something still doesn’t sit well with me,” I say. “She claims she didn’t know anything about it—about my abduction—but something just doesn’t feel right. Especially now that we know about the conversation she overheard in the locker room.”
“You need to trust your instincts,” Buck says.
I raise my eyebrows. “He speaks!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“So far all you’ve done tonight is feed your face,” I say.
That gets a laugh out of Katelyn and, to my surprise, out of Luke as well.
Buck shoots flaming darts with his eyes.
I sympathize. I truly do. It can’t be easy having to make nice with the man who wronged his sister. And he’s doing this for me. I won’t forget that.
“Not true.”
“I’m really glad you’re here, Buck.” This from Katelyn, who’s feeding Jed scraps from her plate.
Buck softens a bit. He clearly has a soft spot for Katelyn, and I understand why. She’s a strong woman, but her blond beauty and fair skin connote a kind of fragility. She’s not fragile. Not by any means. Her looks totally deceive.
Buck clears his throat. “I’m pretty sure Luke will agree with me on this. Trust your instincts.”
Luke nods. “I do agree. Wholeheartedly.”
“On my tours, I learned to depend on my instincts, and very rarely did they let me down.”
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“When you’re in a situation where you’re going to be killed either way, you have to make a choice. You either walk into a fire or walk into water with a freaking concrete block strapped to yourself. Which choice do you make? You’re going to die either way, so you have to depend on your instincts. Your instinct will tell you which path to take. Follow it. That’s what I did, and even though I walked into fire many times, I came out alive. I owe that to my instinct.”
“You’re using fire as a metaphor, right?” I swallow down the image of Buck actually being consumed by a fire.
“In the general sense, yes. Though there was one time when I literally did walk into fire.”
“But you don’t have any—” I stop.
“I don’t have any burn scars? I have a few. I’ve had some surgeries to make them less noticeable. But I didn’t say I stayed in the fire long.”
“It’s true,” Luke agrees. “Your instincts will save you more often than not. I’m not saying it’s a guarantee. Nothing is.”
I twist my lips. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t trust Gloria, then.”
“I’m saying,” Luke says, “if something is telling you not to, don’t.”
“You don’t think it’s just me being paranoid?”