Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
IVY
I’m hellbent on finding an outlet before I trip and land on a Jameson dick. Can’t decide which brother would be worse.
Actually… it’s still Asher.
Slipping out of my bedroom, I try to remember where Atlas said the gym was as I tiptoe through the kitchen.
Ah, outside. That’s right.
I slide open the doors that lead onto the patio and step out into the cold snap of a Veilarath morning. Warmer clothes would have been ideal, sure, but I’d be lying if I said my blood wasn’t still hot from last night.
I’ve never lacked verbal stamina and can spar with about anyone, but who I decide to step into the ring with is the real question.
For one? I have to care about you, or about what the conversation is about, or, on the rare occasion, I’m starved of endorphins from not being put out on a job in a while. All but one was true last night.
Toward the landing of the slope, a smaller building of glass sits almost buried beneath snow. There. That has to be what Atlas was talking about.
I crack the door open. It’s bigger than it looks from the outside, treadmills lining one wall, weight machines crowding the other. A punching bag hangs in the corner by itself, and I drop my phone and water beside the nearest table, climbing onto the treadmill.
Opening Spotify, I hit play on whatever song and start with a jog, goosebumps breaking over my skin as my body warms into its rhythm.
I showed too many cards last night. Too much emotion. Emeric would be disgusted. I jack the treadmill up to ten and run like I’m being hunted, sweat gathering at my collarbone before dripping onto the belt.
The miles fall away into the nothingness, and I let the music swallow me whole until it’s just stride, warmth, and that deep burn in my lungs. When my muscles start to wobble with fatigue, I hit the red button, and the machine eases down into silence.
I jump off, snatch up my phone, and stalk toward the bag, an old D12 track pounding through my ears as I work the glove over one hand.
My phone lights with an Instagram notification.
I stop cold.
My Instagram has never been private, but I only turned notifications back on this morning after Khloe tagged me in every photo from last night.
I tap the screen and the app opens.
Punk handled my social media in those first years with Asher.
We were never that worried. Even if people went digging, they wouldn’t get far.
Not that I ever hid who I was, because that’s not how Playhouse works.
You’re yourself the whole time. It’s the foundation life that gets the fake name. Your so-called real life.
I close the app after I lose track of the comments.
I need research. I need to be Punk, Leon, and Luce crammed into one body if I’m going to survive whatever the hell I’ve landed in.
If I didn’t have family, I probably wouldn’t care.
I took out Parker. That was my mission, the single thing my whole life had narrowed to.
But I can’t let the people I love get buried in the fallout because my stupid heart ran after a boy with a pretty smile and eyes that see into my soul.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and pause. May as well play the game.
I’ll feed the fandom since they’ve probably seen the crazy party photos, the wild dinner from last night, and whatever else Camille has planted there.
ASHVY is over. I swear it.
Anyone see that reel of dude being tossed onto a balcony?
She is fucking Atlas not Asher.
With a smirk, I lift my hand and snap a shot.
I study the photo. It’ll do. My hair’s pulled into a high ponytail, dark waves spilling down my back. My tanned skin is slick with sweat, and the lighting above cuts enough shadow beneath my cheekbones to hide the lack of sleep.
What was the last thing I ate? God. Probably the small slice of lamb last night before I lost my fucking appetite.
I type out a caption but then scrub it. It doesn’t need one.
I hit post, shove the glove on, and turn back to the bag.
An hour later, I fall to the ground, dragging in heavy breaths as the morning sun pours through the glass.
My ringtone cuts through Eminem and Dr. Dre rapping about Guns Blazing.
I hit answer. “What?”
“Damn. Cranky, much?” Lucinda slurs from sleep.
“Sorry.” I wince, staring up at the glass ceiling. Snow drifts down outside, whitening my view. “I’ve had a rough... night.”
“Mmhmm. Which brother?” She flips a light switch with a yawn.
“None. Just restlessness.” I almost spill everything, from Elea telling me about Parker to the drama last night that nearly ended in murder, but I can’t pull them any deeper into something that’s starting to feel personal.
If Parker is their father, then Asher showing up in my life was never coincidence.
Same as the thing he started to say on my birthday before I fucking shot him.
“None?” She answers, disappointment heavy in her tone. “Not even from the only man who’s ever caressed the soul of the famous Mariée de la Mort?”
“I’m not even going to entertain that comment with an answer.” I miss her. I miss all of them, and it’s only been a couple of days.
“I called to let you know Punk and Leon picked up new jobs.” She pauses, sheets shifting softly on her end. “I think we’re all just trying to keep busy, and the only way any of us knows how is to bury ourselves in work.”
Unfortunately…
“And you?” I ask, after she’s finished cussing at her fitted sheet.
“I think, for now, I’m sticking to our good old mundane-ass life. No bullets. No death.”
I chuckle. “Sounds nice.”
She goes quiet. “Because I want to be with you. Create me as you wish, but I need in, Ivy. I can’t have you sitting there alone. That’s not how this works. There’s just something... off with him. Both of them.”
Lucinda is Lucinda for a reason. She hears what people don’t say. Listens to the silence, watches the flinch, the pause, the delayed reaction, and picks away at it all until she’s left with whatever it is you’re hiding underneath. And she’s good at it.
“If you jump into this, you don’t get our foundation life yet.
” Home base is the foundation life. We all built something outside the blood and bullets.
It’s the lives waiting for us when we finally hang our holsters and sheath’s.
Mine is the publishing house and Chicago.
I’ve never had the guts to open my inner circle wider than my PA, but it’s there when I need to reset, or when I finally decide I’m done.
There’s only one absolute, and that’s that our jobs never leak into that life.
This one is getting too fucking close. Parker was too close.
She holds her breath. “Then I won’t.”
There’s no way I’m winning this fight, not with all the time she now has to argue. “Fine!”
“Yes!” I can just see the triumph. “Also, hot Insta shots. Both last night, and now.”
I groan. “Last night was his sister’s doing.”
“Sounds like I’ll like her.” As if it’s hard to get Luce to like you.
She would. Too much…
“I’ll call you back. I need to go shower before Camille finds me and I put a matching bullet in her too.” I push up off the ground and head back through the main house. Without my pal rage keeping me warm, the cold feels a lot like ice melting in my lungs.
Stepping through the door, I try to shake my shivering when awareness prickles the back of my neck.
“Good workout?” His voice stops me, and I carefully slide the door closed.
I turn to face him. “Yes, actually.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Does he have to walk around shirtless, every line of ink on full display? Doesn’t help that I know what each one looks like from every angle.
He leans forward, abs tensing as he places a shaker on the coffee table. “How was the rest of your night?”
I shrug, doing my best to avert my gaze. “I slept.”
His legs widen as he sinks back into his chair.
I spent so much time trying to prove to him that he wasn’t my target, that he was real to me, that I missed the most important detail of all. He may be my exception, but what if I’m not his?
The thought leaves a coat of acid on my tongue, and I continue for my bedroom, putting as much distance between us as I can when I pass him.
His fingers catch mine, igniting a riptide of heat that travels right to my toes.
“Hey.” The gentleness in his tone gives me whiplash.
I tense, and his mouth snaps closed. He noticed.
“You think I fucking like this?” He tugs my finger, forcing me to look down at him.
I rip my hand free, but he catches it again, eyes narrowing.
Seconds crawl between us.
“And what exactly is this?” I snap, emotional intelligence bottoming out.
He doesn’t answer.
Words die in my throat, and every second his hand holds mine the burn only deepens.
I pull away again, and this time he lets me. Before he can say something that’ll leave me purring in his lap like a pathetic fucking house cat, I rush down the hall and shoulder past Atlas. The bedroom door clicks shut behind me as my back hits the wood.
My head thumps against it, once, twice.
I hate this. I want out.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I start counting backward from twenty.
With one step left between me and the door, it flies open. Asher kicks it shut behind him. The slam drowns out whatever Atlas was shouting down the hall.
Coming closer, he tilts his head. “I know why I’m mad, but why the fuck are you mad?”
“Why am I mad?” Fire rushes through my veins. I dig my fingers into my palms before I finally fucking swing. “Maybe because why the fuck am I here, Asher?”
He leans back against the door with a low exhale, his gaze never leaving me. “You know why.”
I spread my arms wide, sarcasm coating every word. “Oh, because you want revenge?” I hold them there. “Then here. Have at it. Get your revenge, but make it fucking quick.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking along it. Taking its time, his gaze travels over me as warmth licks across every inch it touches.
My voice breaks. “I can’t do this, Asher.” I swallow. “I told you. I wasn’t pretending. It was all real. Parker was my job, has been since I was a fucking child.”