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“Why is love always such a fucking disaster?” She asks in exasperation. She reaches around me to pull open the door, but I shove it closed before she can escape. Her gaze rises to meet mine. “That was a rhetorical question.”
“Do you want an answer?” I offer, watching her carefully.
She shakes her head. “No. I want to leave this tiny room and get away from you before I forget why I’m here.” Her eyes search my face, pausing on my lips. Electricity arcs in the space between us as every cell in my body aches to touch her. My hand fists at my side to keep from reaching out, and I take a breath to steady myself before I say something I’ll regret.
I open the door. “Then go.”
She brushes past me and leaves without another word. I walk down the hallway and pause at the entrance to the main room, leaning against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest. She gathers her things and strides over to the dartboard, grabbing Evan by the arm. He glances up, tries to convince her to stay, then reluctantly tells the rest of the crew goodnight as she drags him to the exit.
Ivy glances back as the door opens, and our eyes collide across the room. I can feel the heat in her gaze, wound up in an anxious mixture of aggravation and anticipation and something I can’t quite define. Fear? Her hand falls as she turns to the parking lot, and the door slowly swings closed.
Rejection sits heavy inside me, ripping me apart as I take a deep breath and press my back against the wall. It’s over.Whatever this was, whatever I thought it could be, was only in my head.
“Are you okay?” I glance over to see Mia standing beside me, her expression soft with understanding. It drives the dagger of rejection further into my soul, but I love her for caring. I run a hand through my hair and shove off the wall, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer.
“Fine should be a drink,” she adds. “A stiff one that burns, with a killer hangover.”
I nod. “I’ll take two.”
Chapter 22
Ivy
Icross the parking lot of Marleigh’s in quick, frustrated strides, leaving Evan to scamper behind me like a trailing toddler. When I hear him pull his keys out of his pocket, I turn back to him, my gaze meeting his. I reach out my hand expectantly.
“I’ll drive,” I offer, struggling to keep my emotions buried beneath the surface where he can’t see.
“I’m fine to drive,” he says dismissively with a shake of his head.
I pluck the keys from his hand with a smile. “I saw your game back there. The closest thing to a circle your darts just hit was a beer coaster on the next table.”
He laughs. “Really, I’m fine. Do you have any idea who my father is in this town?” He asks, taking his keys back from me. “I don’t get pulled over. It just doesn’t happen.”
“Fine,” I say, snatching his keys back. “Then they won’t pull me over either.” I know I shouldn’t be driving, but my head isswimming in a toxic mix of thoughts and feelings and anxious, nervous energy. Answers. Tonight he needs to give me answers, because this is all I have.
Time’s up.
I slide into the driver’s seat as Evan opens the passenger door, then glances over at me, cursing softly.
“I forgot to pay the tab,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” He pats his pockets until he locates his wallet, then walks back toward the bar. I note the missteps in his stride, the stagger and near trip at the steps near the door. He’s pretty wasted. At least something about this night has been a success so far.
I lean back against the leather seat of the Tahoe, mentally inventorying the interior. I watch Evan enter the bar through the rearview, then flip on the dome light. I pull open the glove box and rifle through the random pieces of mail and booklets. Cyrus Jacobson’s name is on all the papers. This is his father’s truck. I slam it shut and move on to the center console. Nothing there either.
I reach over the console and into the backseat, feeling my hand deep inside the leather seat pockets on either side. Garbage in one. But the other… I pause as my hand wraps around the unmistakable textured grip of a handgun. I pull it out curiously, examining the black metal stamped with Smith & Wesson on the side. I check the safety, then eject the magazine. It’s loaded with 9mm rounds, and one in the chamber. Fuck me. Why does Evan have a gun?
I slide the bullets out of the magazine, and dump the chambered round into my lap, then toss them all out the open door into the gravel. I can’t worry about that shit right now. I pound the magazine back into place and return the gun to the seatpocket, glancing up at the rearview, but still no Evan. I look around the truck for anything out of place, but it’s clean.
As I sink back into the driver’s seat, I catch a glimmer of something shiny between the seat and the console. I lean closer, struggling to see what it might be. I slide my hand down into the crack and grab it with my fingertips, holding it up to the light. A gasp lodges in my throat, my heart hammering against my chest as my hand begins to tremble.
It’s a silver necklace of yellow roses, just like the one Rose wore in the photo displayed at the Rose Garden memorial.
Fuck. FUCK. It was Evan. Or Cyrus. This is his truck. One of them was involved that night. Maybe more. I don’t know. Cyrus could have used his authority to cover it up. To blame it all on Paige. She’s undoubtedly the one who ran into the police officer, but Rose… there’s more to that story.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel lot approaching the Tahoe, and I shake myself back to reality, sliding the necklace into my pocket as I flip off the dome light. Evan climbs into the passenger side and shuts the door as I crank the engine. He glances over at me with a smile, winding his fingers through mine. I can still feel the tremble in my hand, and pull it back, placing it on the steering wheel.
“Okay, where are we headed?” He asks, his words slurring together as he lounges back comfortably, stretching his long legs out into the floorboard and crossing his feet at the ankles. My gaze travels over him, so calm and relaxed despite the things he’s done. He probably believes that he’s gotten away with it. That he’s untouchable, just like the traffic citations. I have to show him he’s wrong.
