Chapter 9
nine
Mateo
“Fine, I’ll read the assignment,” I say while flipping open the textbook-thick binder on the coffee table.
Prudence Cleary still owns the tea and tarot shop.
Meanwhile, the Salvatores, rumored mafia family, own the salon, Curl Up photo of business list
Lee:
Both, but Seth is attached. Pip does a bunch of traveling. But I’d include her in emails if I were you.
Mateo:
Sweet. Anything else I should know about?
Lee:
Aren’t you getting the Peacock Springer text chain of town gossip?
It has been quiet. Did they take me off because we moved?
Mateo:
Did they take you off? How will you survive without your gossip texts?
Lee:
eyes emoji
Mateo:
eyes emoji
I knock out the entire list of returning vendors with hours to spare before Nessa gets out of work, so I figure I’ll surprise her by getting proactive.
I follow the socials of several counties surrounding Peacock Springs as well as small businesses and groups, checking for connections.
I’m working on finding an in with my favorite local garage band, Ishtar’s Temple, when my phone rings.
I straighten and stretch my back, then pick up the device, grinning when Poison Ivy flashes on the screen. It’s only four. I figured I wouldn’t hear from her for at least another hour. It’s probably a pocket dial. Regardless, I pick up.
As I raise the phone to my ear, she’s grumbling.
“I can’t believe I’m fucking calling him for help, but”—she gasps—“ugh, oh fuck. Hello.”
“Hello there, killer. What can I do for you?” I tease.
“My car. It’s dead. It’s a million years old, the windows still have to actually be rolled down by hand, and it’s got a cassette tape player, but it’s mine, dammit.
And it’s dead. Gone. And I’m stranded at the stupid clinic in Pennsylvania.
I haven’t had luck with a rideshare, and I…
” She clears her throat, and her next words come out quickly and quietly, as if they’re painful. “I need help.”
Grinning, I pocket my wallet and keys, though I can’t help but tease her.
“Sorry, what was that last part? I couldn’t quite hear you.” I suppress a chuckle as I step into my motorcycle boots. Once I’ve slipped on my favorite royal blue bomber jacket and coordinating baseball cap, I step out and close the door quietly.
“I. Need. Help,” she grits through her teeth.
“Oh, Ivy. Why didn’t you just say so? Do you want me to look up the bus schedule for you?” I slide into the driver’s seat and thank my remote start for not giving anything away.
“You’re the worst,” she grumbles.
A thrill zips up my spine. “Don’t stress, gorgeous. I’m on my way,” I say as the phone switches to Bluetooth and the plinking of the turn signal gives away that I’m in the car. There’s a tense silence when the perfect distraction hits me.
“Is that my name in your phone? The worst?”
“No.”
“Is it Best I Ever Had?”
“Ugh, gross. No.”
“Number One Pussy-Eater with a trophy emoji?”
She snorts, the sound making the phone line crackle. “Yep. How did you know? But it’s written in emojis. So it’s the weird laughing cat face, a tongue, and the trophy. A few gold medals too.”
I can’t help but laugh along. It’s true that my tongue does not disappoint.
“But really,” she says, “it’s just a picture of the desert, because when I think of you, I dry up.”
Her snappy retort is missing its usual heat, betraying her increased anxiety, so I switch to a soothing tone.
“Hey, Nessie, I’m already on the way. Just tell me what name you saved me under in your contacts. Since you know you’re Ivy in mine. Are just as creative for yourself?”
She exhales, then mumbles in a language I don’t understand. Finally, she says, “Brain emoji, trash can emoji.”
“That’s not it. You don’t actually think I’m stupid. Don’t do that.” What others think of my intellect may be an insecurity of mine, but I know better. “No, you want to call me a man whore. Or some other sex-positive passive-aggressive term.”
“You’re right. It’s the…” Her hesitation gives enough space for my heartbeat to skyrocket.
“It’s what?” The question nudges her along and she rushes out a reply.
“I was going for a germs emoji joke, and then I couldn’t do it. Doesn’t feel right to tease about STIs?—”
“Something I am regularly tested for and currently do not have, and I’ve shown you the paperwork. Don’t forget,” I interject before this can linger.
“Even if you did, plenty of folks do and they care for their health and that of their partner.”
I chuckle. “Anyhow, I’m clear. So it must have been another guy you ran out on after you smothered him with that tight little cunt of yours.”
If it wasn’t for the call display on the dashboard, I’d have thought we’d been disconnected. Is she hurt? Is someone there?
Finally, she whispers, “Fuck you, asshole. I’d only ever been with two guys before you and your fancy tequila. My reputation is based on what I do without even a shred of the truth, and yet in comparison to your body count, I’m still considered a dirty little slut.”
My stomach twists at the anger in her voice. “Looks like I struck a nerve. But while we’re on the subject, since when do you judge someone’s body count?”
“Not someone’s. Yours. Only yours,” she grits between her teeth.
“Aw. I like when you’re jealous. I also like when you’re with me, and since I’m here, which level are you on?”
“You can’t get in. It’s staff only.”
“Do you want to head down to the street level? Or do you want to keep chatting from here?” I tease, swallowing back how angry I am.
The anger is because of her admission. I’m pissed that no matter what she has done, it’s what she appears to do that causes folks to talk. The anger comes from knowing that the first time someone centered her pleasure was during our night together.
Well, it’s also a little focused on how she could walk away from that night and still compare me to her ex. I scrub a hand down my face and play with the radio dials until I find a good song.
My heartbeat thumps to the beat of a rock song and my fingers tap in time on the steering wheel while I impatiently watch the pedestrian doorway. Two minutes later, her mass of blond hair appears, flying in the wind.
Nessa’s adorable light pink boucle jacket stands out in angry contrast to the black leather heeled boots and bag. Sort of like how the anger across her face is the polar opposite of the halo of light around her head.
As she approaches, I step out to open her door, flooded with a mix of emotions I can’t follow.
I can only assume the feeling is mutual when Nessa slams into me with a very uncharacteristic hug. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her tight, relishing the palpable electric current between us. After another second, her tensed muscles relax and something resets between us.
She blinks back emotion as she pulls away.
I cup her cheeks, swiping my thumbs over her silken skin. Nessa is not one for crying, jealousy, or fear. Yet she appears to be combating all of those when I look into her amber eyes.
“Ivy, breathe with me. It’s just a car. You’ll fix it.”
She gives me a terse nod. “I’m fine. I don’t know why I’m overreacting. I must be tired.” She moves my hands from her face and heads toward the passenger door.
“I owe you. Thank you for coming to get me.” She slumps against the seat as I close the door behind her. When I climb into my own seat, she looks relieved enough that I aim for the bleachers.
“Then be my girlfriend.” I flash her my most charismatic smile. It causes her to tense, so I soften my face, hoping to convey my sincerity and concern. “Publicly at least? Until the Reynolds Group leaves town? I’ll feel better. An assumed relationship will give you another layer of protection.”
As she adjusts the seat belt, she huffs out, “Fine, but there will be rules.”