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I wish Ivy a happy life, and I hope to never see her again.
For as long as I live.
THIRTY-EIGHT
ivy
The carI booked finally showed up. I get into the backseat, glad that Mercer didn’t come after me. That he’s not in the car or camped out—like he’d do that—to stop me from leaving.
I lied when I said I just didn’t like him.
In that moment, I hated him so much I could have spent hours fighting with him. I wanted him to take me and be my master and break me down into submission, make me admit I loved him.
But it wouldn’t have worked.
For that it would mean a battle that wasn’t sex or wills. Just words and time and love. And finding the trust.
Mercer Vale is many things.
He’s dark, strong, dangerous. He’s thrilling, masterful, dominating. He’s kinky as fuck, and opened up that part of me that has always been there, waiting for like to see like.
He’s a killer. And he’s killed for me.
He’s smart, intuitive, a master at the art of love. He can cook, and he has a funny side, when he decides to let it out. He’s a hero for my sister. And he saved me.
The one thing I need from him, the one thing he’s not?
Mercer Vale’s not in love with me.
Lust? Yes. Love. He isn’t about love. It’s why I had to go.
What I want needs love. I want an us. I want me and Mercer and a future. That can’t happen if I’m the only one in love. I’m still mad at him, I’m mad at my brother. That will pass, I know that.
Things like that pass, but love? Apparently not. It just stays.
At least the overwhelming, crushing, paralyzing kind of love I have for him.
For us to have a future, he needs to love me. I need him to give me that part of himself no one else sees. That thing that shows me he isn’t just in it for the kink; he wants me to know him. Unconditionally.
I love him like he’s the sun. I love him like he’s a precious jewel. I love him like I found a worn, sea-washed pebble on the beach and I can see the utter beauty of something so precious, not because it’s big like the sun or priceless like a jewel, but because I found him in his natural state and see the perfection of every gouge and cut that made him that way.
That, and he…he likes tying me up and fucking me. Owning me.
I want that. I want that pebble to see me the same way. I feel I’ve stood vulnerable and exposed and naked beyond a mere lack of clothes over and over, and he never once took off a piece of his armor.
I gaze out the window, then frown.
“This isn’t the way to the airport.”
“Traffic,” says the driver. “I’m taking a shortcut.”
I furrow my brow, still staring at the passing scenery. We pass a stop for the A/C trains. Nostrand Avenue, so we’re heading toward JFK and?—
The driver turns down a street in a way that’s notfollowing the train line. If anything, he’s going in the opposite direction. Are we in…I pull up a subway map…Bedford-Stuyvesant?
“This is not the way. Hello?”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he pulls up to the curb and the car stops. The next thing I know, he’s out of the car. He takes my bag from the trunk and then opens my door.
