CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
IVY
C eleste grins with a devious reverence. “Holy fuck, bestie, I’m speechless. And we know how rarely that happens without a cock involved.”
She’s referring to the plan I laid out and the canvas piece I spent twenty hours on. The art is my most impressive work thus far. Although I’ve got something in mind for later that will definitely smoke this one.
And the plan. It’s like a knife cutting through all my thoughts and feelings.
Jagged enough to release me from the fusion my heart still clings to—a fusion that binds more like a shackling now.
If I’m honest with myself, I know nothing can ever completely sever that connection.
That bond—like those men—pumps through my veins like an awakening. A rebirth.
A venom.
No matter how cold my blood runs, the warmth of those days will be a haunting.
Gavin Wells isn’t my hero or my villain.
He’s my ghost.
There’s a sleekness to the knife-like plan though. The cool touch of the steel blade. The empowerment that drips from gripping the hilt. The reflection of all that lies before me.
An acceptance of what I must do, swallowing and emancipating me in a harrowing guzzle.
I laugh, hooking my arms around Celeste’s shoulders. “I’m going to miss you something fierce, Lettie, but I know you’re always with me.”
“Always,” she agrees. “If you’re going nowhere, I’m coming with you.”
“Right back at ya,” I say, choking down the crashing finality our childhood promise brings. “Are you good to go?”
She pulls back and winks one of her misty eyes on a choppy breath. “All set and so honored.”
That’s where we part. Goodbyes have always been rough for me.
Perhaps my subconscious always recognized the shadowy silhouettes of my fate—the people and love and stability that could be no more than temporary blessings.
Fleeting. Maybe that’s why my mind insists on skipping away to foreign places while the present world drones on.
Those escapes are mine to keep. You can’t imprison someone who has another world in their mind.
On the way to my destination, I drop by the Victoria Shops. I haven’t been to The Art Garden—my favorite local gallery—since the day I pummeled into Wells and Ty, but I choose not to dwell on the remembrance. Instead, I proudly tote my painting inside and look for the owner, Suzanna.
At the tinkling of the bell, she emerges from the back, and a smile instantly splits her face.
She’s fabulous in a way that can’t be ignored.
Early forties with a face refusing to age.
Rich brown skin and springy curls complement her artsy-meets-cottagecore style that only she can pull off.
A vibrant yellow-and-violet scarf wraps around her head, but it’s her expressions that are always the loudest.
“Ivy Kingston!” she squeals. “Where have you been, girl? I’ve called. You’ve ghosted.” She smooshes her lips into an embellished pout. “I need a fix from my favorite artist.”
She’s called. I tamp down the irritation that comment swells, knowing the outlet for it is imminent.
Toeing her amplified mannerisms, I cock my hip and bat my lashes. “Well, I’m here now, and I’ve missed you too. So much that I spent the last two days creating something for you. ”
She claps her hands in rapid succession before swirling her arm impatiently. “Let me see it, girl.”
Flipping the portrait around, I regard the brief flicker of recognition sailing through her eyes. At least one of my guys is familiar—probably Wells. A parting gift. She schools her features and studies the four men on the canvas.
Wells and Liam tower in the center as the tallest. Wells rises formidably as the dominant chief, dressed to the nines in his charcoal-gray three-piece Armani suit and crisp white button-up, his eyes a commanding emerald, the crinkles at the corners a subtle hint of what lies beneath.
Liam sports a maroon button-up, no tie, no jacket.
The deep crimson highlights his golden locks so they shine like a touch of Heaven.
Flanking them are Ty and Gage. Ty is on Wells’s side, like the day we met.
Suit, but no tie. His tawny-brown skin, soft curls, and kind eyes shimmer—a beacon of authenticity.
Finally, Gage—the shortest of the four while still over six feet, but also the most muscular—borders Liam.
He’s in a black button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows to showcase his thick, corded forearms, one too many buttons undone, ink visible, and a skeptical glower squinting his amber eyes.
And yet, squinting back, a twinkle lies in wait.
But the most telling elements in this portrait are their smiles. Subtle and knowing. Wicked with secrets.
Their lips broadcast their conceit. Their billowing god complex hissing in warning that these are men who take pride in speaking lives into existence or whispering them to ashes.
A simple nod.
A blink of an eye.
The twitch of a boastful grin.
No matter the circumstances. No matter the intent. They breathe life and death. Light and dark. Heaven and Hell.
Suzanna peers back at me, a sharp awareness paining her eyes with the rise and fall of her chest. She’s been selling my art for years. My paintings read like a teen girl’s diary to her, and while she doesn’t know why, she recognizes anguish .
“It’s phenomenal.” Her hand crawls to her throat. “Really, Ivy, are you sure you want to part with this one?”
My eyes scan over their faces, and I choke down the urge to brush my fingers over the texture of their features. “I already have. You know who it belongs to.”
She nods, her typically joyful lips tightened into a brittle smile, but she doesn’t ask any questions. She was discreet after my dad got sick, too, when all my paintings were tinged with death. It delights me that she sees this is the same.
Two hours later, I’m standing at the kitchen island with my realtor, Simone.
“That’s about it for the tour,” she says. “Although I can’t imagine what else one home could offer. What do you think?”
Not interested in senseless fluff, I give it to her straight.
“I’ll take it.” I whip a folder out of my bag with everything she needs, handing her a huge stack of papers.
“This is your signed copy of the home purchase. All the necessary documents have been filed with the county and state.” Her brows crease as she stammers, but I plow on through.
“The cash is being transferred as we speak.”
She scrunches her forehead with the tilt of her head, her ponytail swishing through the air. Apparently, my taking initiative and doing her work have unmoored her. “I’m sorry. I don’t … that’s not how home sales work.”
Here’s the thing about Simone, the reason she’s my realtor: At only twenty-one years old, she’s over one hundred thousand dollars in debt.
Poor girl. She recently applied at four strip clubs but is dreading the idea.
Sick about it. She cried through the first two interviews. Today, I’m Simone’s fucking savior.
I offer my best mollifying smile, hoping the girl has better sense now than she did when racking up credit card debt. “It does for this one.”
Moving us forward, I show her the documents again so she can see the signatures are in all the right places. Seller’s. Buyer’s—I’m using one of the aliases my father provided me. It’s all there. Title and taxes and all the red tape sealed, signed, and delivered. She’ll barely need to lift a finger.
“I paid three hundred thousand over asking for good measure. The owners certainly won’t have a problem with that,” I assure her. “And here’s the best part, Simone: in addition to your commission, I’ve transferred five hundred thousand dollars into your account.”
She murmurs unintelligible mutterings through a slicing exhale, her lips opening and closing without coherent words. It’s like she’s broken.
Toughen up, girl.
“All you have to do, Simone, is take the paperwork, drive into town, and wait about an hour. I’ll email you a video and a phone number to pass on to the owners. Once you’ve completed that, the money is yours.”
The briefest shadow of conflict envelops her like octopus tentacles snaring prey, but I squash that, freeing her to take the plunge.
“Go ahead and check your account. The funds are pending,” I tell her.
She does, and when my claim is confirmed, she comes to her senses, shrieking, bouncing, and hugging me, her clipboard and purse crashing to the ceramic tile with a clatter.
After she exits, I mosey down to the basement—scents of sugar and citrus, leather and smoke engulfing me with every step—and rip off the baseboard that was going to be my cheesy five-year anniversary gift. Evidence of too many rom-com movies and romance novels.
Within these walls, I am traveling an epic journey, mining a piece of my soul that I never knew was missing—all because of the love of one astounding man, whose heart is the shooting star I caught, and the comfort of a family of men who offered the net to catch it.
I am forever yours, Gavin Wells. Thank you for this life.
Good God, I was a sappy fool.
Back upstairs, I cram it into my bag and head outside to the empty grounds.
The drained pool is still here—a lifeless monument paying homage to the vacant home.
But the obstacle course, shooting range, and firepit have all vanished.
The glassy pond mirrors the loss. An empty palette is always easiest though.
Even in the desolation, I can see the frayed edges of what was, worn and tattered and tinged by hazy golden dust, almost as if I’d dreamed it.
And yet, standing here, heart torn between the tethering it longs for and the adoption of the justice it’s steering toward, I can’t help but reach out and brush it.
My fingertips tingle, cheeks flushing with the heat of what was once real and mine.