Where the Ivy Hides (11 page)

“And kids?” he asks, smiling.

The fuck?

“No. No kids.” I swat at him before linking our fingers together and pulling him into the house. “Jesus, Reese. Are you kidding me? We both hate kids!”

When we barely make it into his living room, I pull him down to the couch before straddling his waist and leaning into him as he jokingly says, “I like them okay. Once they’re older and able to use their motor skills and clean up after themselves, I like kids just fine.”

“Oh yeah?” I chuckle as my hands slide my skirt up and reveal I went commando today. “I like you, just fine. And you can have me. All of me, just no kids.” I nibble on his ear, then lick the sting away as I run my hands up his strong shoulders, and dive my fingers into his hair in order to gain deeper access to our kiss. His hands run from my knees up my thighs, and when they stop and settle on my waist, they do so with bite.

“Can I, Ivy? Just that simple, and after all this time, can I have you?” he growls before deepening the kiss and raking his blunt nails up my skin under my shirt.

“Yes,” I moan and tear my top off the rest of the way before kissing him again more eagerly.

His words are like a bucket of icy watered down piss on anyone’s parade, but especially mine. Ours. Especially, our parade.

“But can I have you the way, Ryker did? Because, Ivy, what I’m saying, is I want more.”

Blue-ish red, would be the color I see if you were asking.

After fifteen seconds and a fuck ton of defense reconstructing, I abruptly stand grabbing my flimsy top and snatching it back over my head on my way towards his room.

“Reese, go fuck yourself, you vain asshole.”

“So mature of you, and yet, why am I surprised?” His tone is condescending and I don’t appreciate it. Not at all. “Ivy, don’t leave because I’m finally calling you out on your shit, it’s a game for you, you got caught. You had to know it would catch up to you.”

In the hallway I stop before deciding fuck it, and I make an unplanned detour towards the front door. Before I slam the door behind me, I spit out over my shoulder, “I’m not a fucking game. And that’ll be your downfall, if you keep playing that way. You’ve been duly noted, go fuck yourself, again. Goodnight, Reese.”

His yelled out words sting more than the truth does, “Nothing left to fuck, honey, you already finished the job!”

Adapt. Adapt. Adapt.

Move forward.

Shit, move forward. Please.

I pause.

I breathe.

I move forward.

Chapter 14

Adapting is funny. It’s hard at first, usually, but it always makes it easier in the long run. Adapt. Evolve. Move forward.

Unfortunately, no matter how much
you
are trying to adapt, someone
else
can drag you back and prevent you from it.

Adaptation can be a tricky and delicate process. And it sometimes requires a lot more finesse than you’re willing give.

“Was he fucking high?” Rome bursts after I retell the story of why I’m home for the second time.

His fingers comb through his inky, black hair. “Jesus, I’m not even banging you, and I know not to go there or mention Ryker. Dude had to be high. I’m just saying.”

I jerk the blanket on top of his comforter up and huff out a breath. “What the fuck? Mentioning Ryker isn’t forbidden, Rome. Why do you say it that way?”

“What way?” he quips.

“That way. That fucking way you just did, like his name is Satan’s being said in church, that way.”

His head tilts to the side, “Because, it is,” he says point blankly.

“No, it isn’t.” I shout as I shoot to my feet and storm towards the door.

“Winter Ivy.” His stern voice halts my steps. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. Reese isn’t the problem here and you know it. Ryker is. And if you can’t get over Ryker for Reese, ya gotta tell him. Reese deserves to know.”

The silence is loud enough to split the room and my emotions choke off the oxygen to my brain. When I finally feel blessed air rush into my lungs, I gasp and hear my own voice whispering, “I know. I know, little brother. I know.”

As the sun rises, I toss and turn in my sleep as dreams of Ryker pull me closer and closer towards finding an excuse to use. Any excuse, at all.

The false present tense dreams, I can deal with. I can deal with watching a nightmare unfold, as long as I know what it is. No, what breaks away the fragile pieces left in Ryker’s wake are the nightmares of memories…good memories.

Memories of Ryker reaching out for me in the dead of night and pulling me to him. Him mumbling, ‘
I love ya, me Ivy, love,’
in the dark. Memories of the way the sun shone through his brown hair, and the way he smiled. Memories of the feeling we both felt every single time he sank into me all the way on every first thrust. The way our eyes shot and held on to each other’s, speaking, and saying so much more than our mouths ever would. Nightmares of the good memories…those are the ones that hurt the most.

My painting projects for school take a turn for the darker in the months after. My stomach doesn’t allow me to keep anything down, and I rarely try and force it, so I’m not surprised when my hair starts falling out and I weigh less than ninety pounds. I would prefer my mother to stop worrying my father about it, but I don’t foresee that happening anytime soon, either. Other than work, if I’m not home I can be found at school in the studio with ‘In This Moment’ playing full blast past midnight.

As depression and melancholy settle around me, I trudge forward, making progress in my life where I can, and muttering, ‘
Fuck it.’
when I can’t.

Reese left Seattle for Holley, Florida, the day after Christmas and then made himself invisible where I was concerned from that day forward aside from the flowers that start arriving weekly around Valentine’s Day. He never leaves a note in the bouquet arrangement. It’s just the flowers—white Lily’s.

I wish I could care enough to call and thank him. Or call and check up on him. Or just call and say, ‘Hi.’, but I don’t.

It’s Friday and I’ve just returned to work when Livvy, the new accountant comes strolling into my office after lunch, “Hey, I know you like to keep to yourself mostly…” She looks behind her and closes the office door. “But sometimes you get friends you don’t ask for.” When she looks back to me, she smiles and forces a hand forward. “I’m Livvy.” Her smile widens and immediately she reminds me of Delilah.

I extend my arm to shake her hand and return her smile before explaining, “I’m not a bitch. I swear, I know it seems that way. I’m Ivy—I like shit easy. Nice to meet ya, Livvy.” We shake hands as her excited smile slides into a smirk and she winks.

“I’m easy. I promise.” She turns to leave, but stops as she gets to the door, “I missed you at lunch, let me take you out for dinner tonight? My treat?” she asks.

And without missing a beat the words fall out of my mouth, “Eating pussy isn’t easy, I’ve tried, but if you’re just offering Mexican, sure, I’ll bite.”

Jesus, what happened to my social skills in the last two months?

“Oh, no, there’s no way you’re getting any on the first date, it’s just Mexican tonight.” She laughs. “Plus, I’m engaged.” Her left hand comes up and reveals the pretty good sized diamond ring I must have missed until just now.

“Perfect.” Suddenly my quick wit and easy comebacks completely abandon me and I would be embarrassed, but I don’t have the decency.

“Meet you out front around six?”

“Perfect.” I repeat myself as she leaves.

Thankfully the accounts I’m in charge of are financially secure enough that I don’t have to be great at my job to get ahead. Just consistent.

And I can produce consistency.

Hand over fist.

By the time I’ve finished sending marketing projections for this quarter to my newest account, Indian Motorcycles, I look at my watch and see it’s already a quarter till six.

“Shit,” I mutter before finishing up and powering off my computer.

Just as I step out of the building, the wind and rain whip past, and I gasp in shock at the decrease in the temperature.

“Holy—!” I yelp as Livvy from accounting interrupts.

“I swear it dropped fifty degrees! Shiiiiat! I guess Joe wasn’t lying.” Her long auburn hair is whipping around her smiling face. “We still on for Mexican?” she asks as a car’s headlights streak across the wet parking lot and spot light towards our direction.

“Sure. Who’s Joe?” I hold up my hand and wave like a freaking dork. “Let me grab something out of my car, I’ll be right back.”

She laughs, answering my question about Joe as I walk the three parking spots from her car to mine, “Joe, the meteorologist from channel three.”

Okay, I don’t really need to get anything out of my car. It was probably a procrastination measure. To be honest—I just need a sec. One sec to catch my breath and squelch this social anxiety attack.

Fuck, I wish I had some coke. Or a shot of Patron. Ohhhh, or a molly.

No. No. No.

After I get myself together and I feel like I can possibly walk across the parking lot, I close the door and click the automatic lock on the fob and head in Livvy’s direction.

Only to freaking trip and break a damn heel when I see another car pulled up next to Livvy’s,—a ’67 SS Black Chevy Camaro. Two guys lean casually against the muscle car as they’re chatting it up with my,
my
new bestie.
Fuck me to Sunday, they are two fine as
hell
guys. But that man bun, though.

The taller one has brown hair long enough to barely brush the tops of his shoulders, but it’s pulled up. I know men. Oh, I know men. I know the good ones, I love the bad ones, and I’ve met the sick and demented ones. This one though…this one is a different breed of fine.

Hell, he’s a different breed of man.

When he turns around I see his perfect profile flash before his eyes land on mine and I take my time taking him in for the first time.

But before I can marinate in how incredibly gorgeous he is, I realize I’m in pain. So much pain, that the side of my brain that hasn’t gone stupid for this guy, is actually yelling out in pain.

I watch as concern furrows handsome’s brow a second before he glances at my ankle.

And one second after that, he’s holding me—sprawled out in the parking lot, sans shoe.

I know his type.

He’s fucking chaos.

“Name’s Bowen. Let me wrap this ankle and buy you a drink. That’s all I ask.”

Fucking accents! Seriously?

It’s not an Irish accent, but it might as well be. Fucking brit. Without even realizing it, my mouth is spouting shit, it shouldn’t, “Why? Why do you have to be British?” I whine.

His head tilts at the same time his huge warm hand cups my swollen tender ankle and his smile reveals dimples. “You know what? Fuck you.” I grunt, planting my palms on the asphalt before shoving myself up, one footed.

Bad ass bitch. Ya’ll don’t know.

Thankfully Livvy and hot guy number two are right there to break up the newly developed tension caused by my last retort and assist my handicapped-ness out of Bowen’s
reach.

“Damn, Ivy, you okay?” Livvy laughs but the concern across her face is enough to save her. She looks over her shoulder before turning back to help me hobble towards her car, “Well, I guess you met Bowen, that’s my fiancée, Brian. Brian, this is Ivy. Ivy, Brian.”

I give a halfhearted wave as he helps Bowen up and scoops up my broken heel before handing it to Bowen.

“Here’s your Cinderella’s shoe, chap,” Brian says before poking his hand out awkwardly. “Ivy, I’m Brian. You’ll have to excuse my friend here; he’s not used to the game rules on this side of the pond.” He chuckles as we shake hands.

His comment rattles my defense for some reason and I spit out, “I promise, there’s no need for rules. There’s no games to play here. I’m just trying to get a bite to eat.” I smile at Livvy and honestly consider bailing for the third time in three minutes.

After re-shaking Brian’s hand, I force myself to shake Bowen’s, and then somehow force my wobble walk to Livvy’s car where I sit in the front seat. I proceed to remove the four-inch heel from my other shoe and then slip both shoes on my feet. Drivers and riders are delegated their assignments and five minutes later I’m being escorted away from my bail-mobile, or mini cooper parked in Seattle Motorcycle, Inc. parking lot.

“Sorry about Bowen. He’s…not very polished. He has a heart of gold, he does, it’s just buried under that hard shell of his.”

I dust my hands across the top of my pencil skirt and reach for my cigarettes in my bag. After packing them in silence, I light one, pull a drag from it, and exhale, blowing smoke out of the opening passenger window.

After counting to twenty, I speak, “Livvy, if this is some set up attempt, pull the plug. I was iffy about the friends and dinner thing, but this… this, ‘let’s get a new friend and boyfriend all in the same day for Ivy bullshit’ is not happening. Do you understand?” Point blank. To the point. I see no reason why not to be.

Her shock seems genuine enough to save her, again. “Wha—? Ivy, no. That is not at all what I was trying to do. Brian and I just moved here, Bowen is letting us stay with him until Brian can officially start his job after he graduates, then we’ll get our own place. I didn’t know Brian would drag Bowen along. I guess I should have asked you, or just told him not to bring Bowen. Shit.” She glances at me and the concern is pure, “Ivy, I’m so sorry. You want to bail? I’ll drive you back…”

Dammit.

Dammit. Dammit.

I sigh, “No, it’s okay. Look. I’m sorry, I lied. I am a bitch. Let’s get that straight right now. It’s my fault. We’re fine.” I nod, trying to convince myself of my words.