CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IVY
I f I ignore my embarrassment for practically throwing myself at Wells, my broken heart from his rejection, and the reality that I am mixed up in something seriously fucked up, life is pretty fantastic right now.
Training is actually fun. The constant hustling keeps my mind from drifting, so I feel more present than I have in months.
We’re only getting started. I know they’re simply building up my stamina because Ty mentioned adding knife throwing, fighting, and the obstacle course next week. They clearly enjoy torturing me.
But then again, these guys are also incredibly sweet. Even Wells—or maybe especially him. The wedding, the books, all my favorite foods stocked. That hotter-than-hell massage. He might not want me, but he is considerate about caring for me.
The biggest demonstration of that has been with my father.
Somehow, he convinced Theresa to sneak us in the back door for our visits on Wednesdays because he isn’t comfortable with me signing in.
He’s on edge when we’re there, keeping my father’s door closed and nervously checking the hallway.
But it’s the one thing he hasn’t suggested I give up.
Maybe because he knows it would end in an all-out war.
That isn’t all Wells did concerning my father though.
Yesterday, he snuck him a bottle of Macallan 18, covertly pouring him a small glass.
My father isn’t a scotch drinker, like Wells—or wasn’t before his stroke.
His preferred cocktail was an old-fashioned when he was at home, but whenever he was with someone else, he matched their taste.
He claimed it was a bonding technique. So, not only was the Macallan the ideal drink to share with Wells, but I could also tell it made him feel less broken and a bit more like himself even though he needed assistance to drink it.
That small glass of scotch had my heart jumping out of my chest.
Unfortunately, Wells has made it clear he isn’t interested in catching it.
Tonight, I’m out with Ty and Gage, getting ice cream.
Since they insisted we could only use the drive-through, they elongated our outing by speeding and doing donuts like lunatics down a desolate dirt road in the 1970 Plymouth Road Runner.
The dusty wind whips through the open windows, slapping the three of us with an enlivening sting as we hurtle toward nothing but our own adrenaline rushes.
Every time I scream, they look at each other and laugh.
So, I’ve taken to yelling far more than necessary just to see their faces erupt.
The air is suffused with exhaust and waffle cones, crisp apples and burned rubber.
Nostalgic belonging.
We pull into the garage, and I give them each a kiss on the cheek with a, “Thanks, boys,” before hopping out of the back seat.
As weird as this all is, there’s something so satisfying about being welcomed into their universe. It seems like a far more exclusive invite than La Lune Noire did.
Liam is on the couch when I make it inside, working on his laptop.
I dangle the bag of treats. “I got you a hot fudge sundae. Want it now?”
“Nah. I’ll save it for later or tomorrow. Thanks.”
After setting his sundae, some ice cream sandwiches, and some Popsicles for Wells in the freezer, I saunter into the room and plop down beside him on the couch with my frozen lemon cup.
Ty and Gage pass through, motioning to the patio bar, but Liam jerks his head toward me.
Looks like he’s on guard duty until I go to bed.
“What ya working on?” I ask.
He smirks. “Money management.”
“Yeah?” I shovel a spoonful of the frozen lemon into my mouth, letting it melt. “You guys have a PNC account you’re balancing?”
“Something like that.” He chuckles. “A few on the corner of Switzerland.”
“A few?” My eyebrows reach for the two-story ceiling.
He hammers away at the keys. “Ten. Twelve. Who’s counting?”
“Ahh. That explains the twelve luxury cars and four sporty motorcycles in the garage.” Another spoonful of my dessert to hide my smile.
His fingers don’t slow down, but he spares me a quick sidelong glance. “Listen here, High Society. We’ve earned it. Some might even say we paid with our lives, sold our souls .”
I fake an exaggerated shiver. “So ominous. Is there some soul-selling happening on there right now?”
“You could say that. I’m manipulating a pulse point.” He grins, and it is in every way a grin of someone who would willingly work for the Grim Reaper.
“How so?”
“Someone pissed us off. They’re trying to take something that’s ours. So, I found some accounts connected to their organization and emptied them.” His fingers pause as his eyes find mine with a twinkle. “Into ours.”
An astounded breath puffs out of my lungs. “Wow. That’s impressive pulse-point manipulation. Lucrative too. Can all of you do that type of hacking?”
“Yes. All four of us can do anything needed, but we each have a role we fit into best. I’m the best at hacking.
” He says that like I’ve insulted him somehow.
“Although I prefer tech genius, or God is fine.” I laugh while he continues, “Wells leads and keeps everything—big picture down to the microscopic details—in line. Ty helps Wells with in-person dealings and leads our pro bono work. And Gage is our enforcer.”
Enforcer. My stomach knots. I think I’ll skate on past that for now. I’m coming to love the Big Guy and don’t want to think about what being an enforcer entails. Or the fact that all four of them can step into any of those positions.
“Will you teach me?” I ask. “Some of your godlike tech genius?”
He stills, his hazel eyes lit up and concentrated on me. “You want to learn this?”
“Yeah. My father had me take some coding and programming classes in college, so I know the basics, even some amateur hacking tricks. And I’m fascinated that with a few swipes of computer keys, you can decimate someone’s life.”
His brow line furrows, as though what I said confounds him.
“Assuming they deserve it,” I add.
He laughs. Actually, he cackles. “Of course. Since you’ve got your priorities straight, High Society, I’ll teach you. The basement is where my elaborate setup is. We’ll start after training tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I chirp, scooping the last bit of lemon ice into my mouth and setting the empty container and spoon on the coffee table.
As I sit back, Liam scoots closer, wrapping his arm around me, and I can’t tell what the intent is. He’s talking about something on the screen—computer jargon, like I requested. But his clingy arm and the thumb casually dusting my skin aren’t in teaching mode.
When his instructing lulls—him probably noticing I’m preoccupied—I wrench myself out of his embrace but turn toward him and prop my elbow on the back of the couch, my fist supporting my temple. We’re a bit closer now, and I connect my eyes to his.
“This is all really strange, isn’t it? Me here with all of you?”
“Not so strange,” he says. “You fit.”
“You think so?” That comes out strained, my lungs and voice box and pounding heart betraying me with complete confusion .
Wells ignited a blaze inside me, a desperation that hadn’t been there before. He’s the one I crave romantic overtures and assurance from, and yet Liam’s the one bestowing it—the assurance anyway.
“I know so, Ivy.”
“Where do I fit? Because I’m finding everything confusing. I wish he …” My eyes flit toward the hallway, where Wells’s door can be seen. The sight makes me both hungry and nauseous, and I feel my heart bleeding out right here on this couch. “I mean, I wish things were clear.”
Liam studies me for a beat, his lips curling into a pensive frown as he moves his laptop onto the coffee table, like there’s nothing that could pull him away. “What things?”
“Things like …” My voice shakes. “The specifics don’t matter.” I wave my hand with an unconvincing flop. “Where do I fit exactly?” I press. I’m not sure what I’m looking for—maybe that Liam can decode Wells’s mixed signals.
He drops his forehead against mine with a heavy sigh that smells of foresty spice and smoke and beer.
The nicotine musk is still not a favorite scent, but because it’s Liam’s, I don’t detest it anymore.
When he finally leans back, there’s a contemplative divot between his eyes.
“As much as I wish this answer could be different, you fit with him.” He kicks his chin toward Wells’s bedroom.
My heart leaps. I want that to be true, but I don’t believe it. “He doesn’t seem to share that opinion. We may be married, and he’s been really good to me, but he doesn’t want me. He’s made that clear.”
“Then, he’s full of shit. You’ll have to trust me on this one. You’re his, in every sense, even if he isn’t saying it.” He tucks a stray piece of my hair behind my ear. “And like I said, I wish, more than anything, that I could answer you differently, change the past or the rules, whatever, but—”
Wells swings his door open with a whoosh and swaggers out. Hair wet, gray joggers resting low on his hips—showcasing both his V and his flaccid, bulging cock below it—shirtless, laddered eight-pack abs on full display. Dreamy, as always, with his divinely sculpted golden-bronze physique.
Sweet baby Jesus.
His eyes land on us, detonating like an atomic bomb for a split second before flattening. Yummy but expressionless.
Guilt pangs my sternum. Although I have no idea why.
We aren’t real, and no matter how many moments we’ve had, Liam exhibited more interest with that brief admission than Wells has lately.
If I want to decimate Liam’s resolve and explore that attraction, why shouldn’t I?
Maybe because it wouldn’t be fair to Liam.
I’m married to one of his best friends, and despite this being an arrangement for my inheritance, I’ve never desired anyone more than Wells.
We never said we’d adhere to any faithful rule, but pursuing something that could sever the possibility of Wells someday being mine isn’t a risk I can handle.