Page 9 of Lone Spy

I pass the gym, a glass box cantilevered over the beach with a magnificent view of the ocean. I pass the closed bedroom door of my housekeeper, Madeline, and push into Ash's room without knocking.

He's standing by the bed with the shimmering ocean and cloud-crowded sky behind him. Ash is wearing workout clothing, a black pair of loose shorts with spandex peeking out underneath. Tattoos snake from the tight material, drifting down his thick thighs.

His tank top is made of the same shimmering moisture-wicking material as his shorts. Ash's bulging shoulders are also patterned with tattoos that twine down and around his massive biceps. The man is an inked, muscled giant.

My breath is coming fast, and I take a moment to let it settle. We both wait in the silence. His expression is blank. The sound of the ocean pounds against the closed windows at his back.

"I understand that Temperance is your boss," I begin.

Ash doesn't move. No agreement. Not a nod, not a flick of his eyes. He just stares at me with that cold, cobalt gaze.

"But if I ever find him in my home again without warning," I take a pause, take a breath, drop my gaze to Ash's chest rising and falling. I wait for a slow inhale, a measured exhale. Time stretches. He still doesn't speak.

I meet his gaze again. "I will kill you." The promise comes from my gut, from my heart. It is a promise from my very fucking soul. I take another breath. He does the same.

And on the exhale, Ash replies, "Understood."

ChapterFive

I storminto my bedroom on the far side of the house, slamming the door. It doesn't make enough noise. Some kind of pneumatic stop turns the crack I want into a gentle thud.

Fuck.

A lump of emotion threatens to choke me. Dropping into a plush armchair, I unzip my boots and kick them off. Soft brown leather with a heel designed to kill, the pair sink into the pale lilac shag rug. They look like strange animals in an alien land.

Beyond them my bed is a temple of pillows and puff. I wish I could climb into it and cry.

But I'm way past sad. Crying won’t cut it.

I'm enraged.

And the only way to break myself free is to run. I need to pump my arms and legs, feel my muscles burn, really let my lungs breathe.

I take the two steps down from the lounge area—all on my own, imagine that—to where my king-size bed faces the turmoil of the sea. Grabbing the clicker from the bedside table, I turn on the TV. Then I continue toward my closet as the 24-hour news channel sparks to life. The anchor’s voice follows me.

"Rebecca Levi, noted billionaire philanthropist and social entrepreneur, has officially entered the race for president. Levi, who made her fortune through pioneering social ventures in housing, healthcare, and clean energy, is the first…"

I don’t know why I torture myself like this. The news will only feed the yearning inside me. This painful urge to do something when there is nothing to do. No way to escape.

My closet is huge, almost as big as my first apartment when I moved to LA. The clothing hanging in here probably cost more than the house I grew up in. The house I still own.

My grandmother died a year and a half ago, but the modest three-bedroom with its haunting memories and meticulously maintained front yard is still in probate.

The homeowners’ association, taking advantage of new religious freedom laws, has decided to enforce "Biblical male headship" principles. Those bastards claim it is essential to preserve their community’s values.Such bullshit.

Memories of the men who now reside on that board salivating over my teenage body—their eyes roaming over it like I was a landscape to be admired instead of a child to be protected—roils the nausea in my gut.Values.Fuck them.

The new religious exception laws allow the HOA to override state inheritance rules, arguing that property within the community mustremainunder male stewardship to align with their faith-based covenants.

The fact that my grandmother wasn’t a male doesn’t seem to be penetrating their religion-addled brains. So it’s not aboutremaining, it’s about taking. They are trying tomovethe property under a man’s power.

My grandmother lived there because it was the house she could afford, and we attended the local church because it was what everyone did. I never felt my grandmother felt a closeness to God—more that she followed religious rules because she didn’t want to be punished.

The community I grew up in didn’t want women having abortions and was suspicious of any kind of birth control; didn’t think speech should be so free that rappers could say whatever they wanted; and viewed gay marriage as an abomination. They claimed not to hate the sinner, but rather the sin.

And yes, the community believed women should be submissive to men, but the idea of taking their property? No.

But now. Now. My legal right to inherit my grandmother’s house is being challenged. The HOA insists the title must pass to a male family member or be held in trust by the association itself until an acceptable male heir can be identified.

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