27. Ivy
IVY
T he moment I open the front door, Marlo pushes through it, carrying a grocery bag in one hand and raising a bottle of wine in the other. “I brought wine, chocolate, and cheese. This sounded urgent.”
I roll my eyes as she moves straight toward the kitchen with her haul. My hand tightens on the knob, and though I have every intent to close the door, my eyes lock on the street—the empty street.
It’s only been a few hours since we parted ways so he could go to his meeting, and I came home alone, but I’m twitchy.
Restless.
Unable to stop waiting for the rumble of his motorcycle’s engine that will announce his presence.
Get your shit together…
I force myself to tear my eyes off the street, close the door, and follow Marlo into the kitchen, where she’s already pulled out a box of crackers, three different types of cheese, and a container of truffles.
Standing at the end of the counter, I drum my fingers on it, drawing Marlo’s sharp gaze.
She spreads her hands wide over what she brought. “All the essentials.”
Any night before Drew died, I would have been thrilled with her bringing our typical snacks and settling in for a night of crappy TV or a cheesy movie, but tonight, the tension I’ve been holding in my body, along with everything I have to tell her, makes the thought of eating anything twist my stomach.
Still, I force a smile.
She tugs open the drawer under her and pulls out the wine opener, twisting it into the pinot noir as she glances at me. “Now, spill . You were very mysterious on the phone.”
For a reason.
A very good one.
With thick, almost black hair…
Blue eyes the color of the Caribbean that darken to an almost navy…
Calloused hands that can create such beauty and pleasure…
A beautiful mind so tortured by his guilt…
And a heart strained under the weight of secrets…
I chew on my bottom lip as Marlo struggles with the cork. Her brow furrows in frustration, her teeth clenched as she tugs on it. Rolling my eyes, I snatch it from her, pop it off, and hand it back to her.
“Thanks”—she narrows her gaze on me—“but you still haven’t answered my question. All you said was, ‘We need to talk. Come after work.’ So here I am. After work.” She spreads her hands again. “Prepared to listen.”
“And not judge.”
Her brows fly up. “ Okay …and not judge.”
She says it tentatively, like she isn’t sure she should be making that agreement, but even if she can’t commit to keeping her judgment out of this conversation, I can’t not tell her.
Not when she’s the only person I really trust to give it to me straight.
Yet, I already dread her possible response.
Because deep down, I know all of this is…
Really.
Really.
Fucked up.
Marlo pulls out two wineglasses, then snags the cutting board from beneath her and a knife and sets all the cheese and truffles on it before ushering me toward the living room and the couch.
“Take the wine and the glasses and go. I’ve got the snacks.”
I do what she asks, a strange icy tingle rippling across my skin and turning my stomach again as I set everything on the table and settle into the corner of the couch.
It’s just nerves.
And guilt.
And all the other things that have been filling my head all day.
But when Marlo settles next to me and watches me expectantly, I suddenly feel like I’m a criminal suspect in an interrogation room with a skilled detective who will stop at nothing to get to whatever I’m trying to hide.
I thought this would be easier.
That as soon as I saw her, everything that I’ve learned and that happened would come pouring out of me like a tidal wave.
Instead, my throat feels tight.
Like something is clamped around it, making it hard to breathe and impossible to speak.
Marlo sighs and leans forward, pours the wine into our glasses, and shoves one into my hand. “Drink. Then spill.”
Shit.
I take a sip of the sharp, tannin-heavy wine and clutch the glass in my hands so tightly I’m afraid I’ll snap the delicate stem. “So, you told me to go talk to Cam yesterday…”
She nods. “Yeah…” Her brows rise. “Did you find him?”
Normally, she would have been all over me last night, texting and calling for updates after she basically encouraged me to stalk the man again. Only sheer luck and her own romantic distraction prevented her from doing just that.
I bite my lip, glancing down at the red liquid I should be enjoying.
Kissing you tasted like red.
Cam’s words ring in my ears, igniting that scorching heat throughout my body that keeps coming every time I remember last night.
I clear my throat. “Yep. We…talked.”
Then fucked like wild animals and fell asleep with his cock still buried inside me…
“And?” She motions to me expectantly. “Don’t leave me hanging, girl.”
Cam would never do that—leave me hanging.
While he certainly seemed to enjoy dragging out my pleasure to torturous lengths, he was also crazed in his focus on ensuring I came hard—and often.
My pussy clenches, heat rushing between my legs at the memories, and I shift my position on the couch so I can try to alleviate the ache. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Marlo sips her wine and cuts off a piece of cheese to pop into her mouth. “At the beginning.”
“I followed him after his meeting?—”
“Well, aren’t you becoming the perfect little stalker…”
I snort, burying my face in my free hand, cheeks heating with absolute mortification. “Please don’t say that. It’s embarrassing enough.” Releasing a sigh, I look back up at her. “I don’t need you making fun of me for it, especially when you are the one who encouraged me to do it.”
“Okay, okay.” She holds up a hand defensively, then snags a truffle and bites into it with a little groan, chewing slowly. “God, these are good.” She swallows. “So, you followed him and…?”
“And he went to his studio.”
Her eyes widen, and she grins. “Ohhh.”
Curiosity piqued, she leans closer, waiting for me to expand, but something stops me.
All those beautiful paintings flash through my head.
So filled with everything that Cam is—beauty, tension, darkness, light, life .
But he keeps his identity hidden for a reason.
He doesn’t want the fame. He doesn’t need accolades. He just wants to paint .
And revealing his secret feels like a betrayal of the trust he put in me by exposing everything he did last night.
I take another sip of wine, but it almost instantly sours in my stomach, so I set my glass on the coffee table and swipe my sweaty palms across my leggings.
Not only am I a shitty liar, I’m apparently also awful at keeping secrets—my own or other people’s—because I don’t know how I can explain everything without telling Marlo who he really is.
So much of Cam’s identity is wrapped up in his art.
To understand him you have to understand it.
“I need you to promise me you’re not going to tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”
Her blond brows draw low over her eyes. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out…”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing bad, just…something that has to stay private.”
Marlo scoffs. “Who do you think I talk to you besides you?”
“Trina? Everyone else who works at the shop.”
“Oh, pu-lease.” She rolls her eyes. “I keep the good stuff to myself, and you know it. I’m fucking Fort Knox.”
She’s far from that, but I do trust Marlo more than anyone else in my life, so if anyone can keep this secret, it’s her. Especially now that she knows how important it is for her to keep her lips sealed.
“You’re not going to believe this but”—I lock gazes with her so I can watch her reaction—“he’s Cush.”
Her eyes widen, brows rising comically high. “That street artist who does all the murals on buildings and has his paintings auctioned for millions of dollars?”
I nod. “Camden Usher. C. Ush. Cush .”
Once I saw it, I don’t know how it never clicked, why I never made the connection between his name and the one scrawled at the bottom of all the art I’ve seen from him on the internet over the years.
Maybe because Nancy and Drew so casually brushed off talk of his art as if he were barely scraping by in London, working at some small gallery, selling other artists’ works instead of his own without anyone knowing.
“Ho. Ly. Shit.” Marlo’s jaw drops. “Drew knew, didn’t he?”
I nod, my stomach continuing to knot with yet another thing he kept hidden from me over the years. “Yes.”
“But he never told you?”
“Cam asked Nancy and Drew not to tell anyone.”
She gapes. “Why would he keep that a secret?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but it isn’t one to me anymore because I walked into his studio while he was painting and saw dozens of them lined up along the walls.”
“Oh, my God.” She takes a gulp of her wine like she needs it to fortify herself for the rest of the conversation. “What did he say?”
I clear my throat, imagining the way he looked in those jeans and nothing else, bent over the canvas, applying such smooth strokes with the hands he then used on me.
“Holy shit, you’re blushing.”
“What?” I glance up. “Uhh, it’s the wine.”
Marlo purses her lips. “You’ve literally had two sips. What happened?”
Shit.
Too much.
Far too much.
I run my hand over my face but can’t look up at her when I make the confession. “I saw a painting of me.”
“The man painted you?”
“He did.” I draw a deep breath and force myself not to hide. “And it was from that night.”
Her eyes narrow on me. “What night?”
“Remember Nancy’s birthday party? The first time Drew and I…you know?”
“Oh. You mean when you finally fucked?”
I cringe. “Jesus, Marlo, do you have to say it like that?”
She barks out a laugh and takes a sip of her wine. “How else am I supposed to say it? That’s what happened, isn’t it?”
“Sort of…”
Her body stiffens. “What do you mean, ‘sort of?’”
This is where it’s going to hurt because this means exposing the great lie—the one Cam and Drew both kept from me for so long.
“Well, I discovered why Drew and Cam stopped talking…”
She keeps watching me, waiting for me to continue.