Chapter 12
Abby Granger was a solid six. Tall, thin by design—she spent more time in the gym than anyone else Ivy had ever known—with platinum blond hair.
Face more oval than round, a nose that was just a little too long.
Abby was a six the way she was now. By the time they were ready to head out, however, that would change.
“Damn, you look terrible.” Abby gave Ivy a hug, crinkled her nose. “Smell bad, too.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Hey, if I can’t tell it to you real, who can? Anyways, you only smell this way when you’re stressed. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you inside.”
“Oh, it’s one of those.” Ivy unlocked the door. “One of those, I’m going to need a glass of wine first.” Abby grinned as she produced said bottle of wine from her purse. “Don’t worry—I’ve got you covered.”
They stepped inside, and Abby popped the bottle of red and poured two glasses. More than two thirds of the contents gone.
“So?” Abby handed her a glass. “What’s up?”
Ivy took a healthy gulp of wine and Abby did the same.
She didn’t feel like sharing, but this was Abs. She told Abs everything. The only person in the world she could fully trust, no questions asked.
Ivy told her about the call from assisted living. About the upcoming anniversary of the fire—but this, of course, Abby already knew. She was one of the few people left who had known Gene before the accident. They’d both gone through undergrad together—met in first year, instantly became friends.
Opposites attract and all that.
Ivy doing a math degree, Abby social sciences. Still, Abby wasn’t an airhead—despite how she came across. Abby was smart, strong. Loyal. Incredibly skilled with computers.
Their lives had diverged dramatically since those first few years, with Ivy continuing her education while Abby had gone directly into the workforce.
Abby had made some connections in school, had gotten a job at a beauty clinic, one that specialized in Botox and plastic surgery.
Took advantage of the employee discount.
Her lips were plumped, falling just shy of the duck look that seemed to be all the rage these days.
She’d gotten her breasts done, too, going from a large A to a small C—something that Abby had never admitted to, but having seen her in the shower countless times, Ivy would have to have been brain dead not to notice.
Botox, for sure—Abs didn’t have a single crease on her face.
“Shit, Ivy. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Ivy hopped in the shower while Abs occupied the mirror and used some sort of Dyson wand to turn her thin blond hair into something spectacular.
“How about you, Abs?” Ivy asked, allowing the cool water to wash over her.
“Oh, you know, living the dream. Listening to rich New Jersey housewives bitch about their old-ass husbands.”
In a way, Ivy envied her friend’s simple life. But, hey, this is what you get when your father is a math prodigy and you become the blah, blah, blah.
“Hey, Ivy?” Abby was serious now, and she was rarely serious.
Ivy shut off the water and reached through the curtain for a towel. Wrapped it around herself, tucked it beneath her armpits.
“Yeah?”
“You know, he’s no longer your responsibility. It’s been three years since—”
“Almost three. And he is my responsibility,” Ivy said flatly, putting an abrupt end to the discussion.
Abs read the room, changed the subject.
“We’re going to have some fun tonight, Ivy—forget about all that stuff. Find you a man.”
Ivy rolled her eyes.
“That’s all I need. More trouble in my life.”
“Wow.”
Ivy pushed back on the fake eyelashes, ignoring Abby’s comment that it would help accentuate her bright blue eyes, but other than that, she let her do her thing.
Ivy knew her limits and, when it came to gussying up, they quickly approached zero.
Honestly? Not bad. Her curly hair typically tied up in a ponytail was straight now, flowing down just past her shoulders. She was wearing a mini dress. Black. Sheer. Low cut up top, came to about midthigh.
“You ready?” Abs asked, squeezing Ivy around the waist.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Abs had free rein—almost—on Ivy’s outfit and makeup. She also had free rein on where they were going. But Abby knew Ivy.
No neon club for them tonight.
Instead, Abby chose a bar just outside the campus sphere. Classic Celtic decor, thick all wood bar, loud Irish music.
Ivy snagged a small standing table that two men had just abandoned while Abby fetched the drinks—martini glasses filled to the brim with a clear liquid. Lemon slices adorned the rims.
“Did you get some water?”
Abby rolled her eyes.
“You and your water.”
She signaled toward the bar, and a young man in a black t-shirt arrived with a pitcher of water. Ivy thanked him, then wet her lips with the martini only to immediately pull back as if she’d just gotten a whiff of ammonia.
“What is this?”
“Martini with a twist.”
“What’s the twist? Kerosene?”
Abs laughed.
“Shut up and drink it.”
Ivy did, alternating with sips of water.
“Hey.” Abs gave her a nudge.
A duo of men—businessmen, judging by their suits, top buttons of their dress shirts undone—were not so subtly staring in their direction. One of them, handsome, blue eyes, saw her looking.
Ivy averted her gaze.
“Let’s go talk to them,” Abs urged.
“Yeahhh, I’m going to pass.”
“The blond guy with the Giga Chad jaw is cute. You take the one on the left, I get right.”
Abby started to move.
“What are you doing?” Ivy hissed.
“What do you mean? I’m going to talk to them.”
“Abs . . .”
“What?
“I—”
“You what, Ivy? C’mon—you promised to have some fun.”
Ivy’s idea of fun wasn’t talking to horny drunk men at the bar.
“Sorry, Abs. Just not in the mood.”
“Fine, but I’m dry.” Abby slurped down the rest of her drink. “You want another?”
“Sure.”
Ivy finished her own drink, chased it with water. She figured the martini had three shots in it, and she made sure to down a full glass of water, her third.
Someone laughed loudly in the corner of the bar, drawing Ivy’s gaze.
Oh, shit.
It was Zeke Godfrey with two buddies she didn’t recognize. Their eyes met. Ivy wasn’t sure if Zeke had laughed—but he wasn’t laughing now.
She whipped around. Abs was returning, drinks in hand.
“We have to go,” Ivy said quickly.
“What? Why?”
“One of my students is here.”
The left half of Abby’s upper lip curled. Just a little. Too plump for an actual whimsical grin.
“So? It’s not a crime for a professor to go out and have a few drinks.”
“No, it’s not that. This guy, he’s—”
“You gotta live a little.”
Ivy glanced behind her nervously. Zeke was approaching.
“I get that, okay? But can we go somewhere else? Please?”
“I paid sixteen bucks for these drinks—each! I’m finishing my martini.”
To emphasize her words, Abby slammed half her drink in one gulp. Grimaced.
“You’ve made your point, Abs. I—”
“Hey.”
It was too late. Zeke’s face was red, his eyes bloodshot.
“You ratted me out.” Slurred words, minimal consonants. “You know who my father is?”
“Zeke, please. I’m just—”
“What’s your problem?” Abby said, coming to Ivy’s aid.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Abby shot back.
Zeke snarled.
“I’m Zeke fucking Godfrey, that’s who.”