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IVY
Celeste 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 aroundCeleste’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 muchthat 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.
