by Max Monroe
“Just get in the car, and I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t want to go home. And I sure as fucking fuckity fuck don’t want to go with you!” she shouted and shoved at my chest with two wobbly hands.
Her intentions of putting space between us did the exact opposite. With her unsteady legs, the tip of her boot got stuck in the gravel, and she tumbled toward me. Luckily, I caught her with ease and settled her back on her feet with a strong hand steadying her back.
The urge to give in to frustration was strong. I wanted to tell her she was way too fucking drunk. I wanted to tell her she was being reckless. I wanted to pick her cute, slurring ass up and toss her into my truck.
But I didn’t. Somehow, someway, I maintained my control.
“Ivy, I need to get you home.”
She closed her eyes, leaned her head back toward the sky, and sighed. “I don’t like you.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Odd as it was, I had to bite my lip to hold back a smile. Even drunk as a skunk, she was a feisty little thing.
“I like kissing you, but I don’t fucking like you,” she whispered, and her eyes popped open, their hazy depths locking with mine.
I had no idea how to respond.
But it didn’t matter.
With alcohol flowing like a river in her veins and zero inhibitions holding her back, Ivy moved like a rocket, hopping into my unsuspecting arms and wrapping herself around me like actual ivy. Lips to mine, she kissed me.
Hard.
Deep.
And before I could stop her, her tongue slipped into my mouth and urged a moan from my lungs.
Emotion tightened my throat, and I nearly wanted to cry.
She felt so good. Tasted so fucking good. And I couldn’t stop myself from kissing her back, from sliding my hands under her curvy little ass and pulling her tight against me.
We kissed.
And then, we kept kissing.
In the deep recesses of my mind, I knew I needed to stop it.
But God, I’d missed her.
She all but clawed at my clothes as she ground those sexy hips against me. My cock grew hard and impatient at the feel of her, and I knew, I fucking knew, I had to stop before things went any further.
It took every ounce of strength I had to pull back, to slowly disentangle us until her boots were back on the ground.
Her green eyes were on fire when they met mine. Not with lust or want or need, but with anger. And maybe even hate.
“I get it now,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm and steady. “Feeling like fucking and actually feeling something are two different things. I get it now, assface,” she said. “And guess what? I don’t feel shit for you.”
They were like a knife straight to my heart, and all I could do was let her cruel words sink in and settle into my chest. But, the worst part of all, I deserved it.
With a deep inhale through my nose and an exhale from my lungs, I focused on my priority. Getting Ivy home safely.
“Let me take you home.” I opened the passenger door to my truck and gestured for her to get inside.
She didn’t respond, but she listened.
Thank fuck.
Albeit, she complied while simultaneously refusing any help from me as she awkwardly climbed inside, but it was a step in the right direction.
By the time I slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine, I glanced over to find Ivy’s eyes closed, her head resting against the window, and her mouth slack and parted.
Out like a fucking light.
I guessed it was better than her awake and drunkenly spewing hate toward me.
As I pulled out of Ruby Jane’s and onto the main road toward Grace’s house, I looked down at the clock to find it was a quarter after two.
Fucking hell. What a long fucking day.
The aching in my skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain was a strong, unwanted constant. I felt like the blackest of clouds hung thick and heavy over my head with no intention of clearing any time soon.
Ow. Fuck.
With a groan and a turn, I shifted onto my side only to find I was on the couch in the living room. Camilla stood over me, her eyes filled with equal parts amusement and concern.
“Rough night?” she asked, and I groaned again.
“What time is it?”
“A little after two.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Yep,” she responded, popping her p with a satisfying press of her lips.
Holy shit. I’d slept the whole fucking day away?
“Jesus. I feel like there is a tiny man inside my skull with a drill and an ice pick.”
“I’m pretty sure what you’re feeling right now is what most people would call a hangover.”
God, how much had I drunk last night?
I searched my brain for answers.
I remembered going to the bar.
I remembered talking to Lou.
I remembered drinking beer.
A lot of beer, actually. And liquor.
The memories grew hazy, and I couldn’t remember much after I’d asked Lou for a shot of tequila.
Shit. No wonder I felt like death warmed over.
Wait…how did I get home last night?
“Tell me I didn’t drive home last night,” I said, but my voice was too fucking loud for my own ears, and a sharp sting of pain radiated across my entire face. I grimaced and groaned some more as I angled up to a sitting position.
The room moved and spun, and nausea clenched my gut from the sudden motion. With my elbows resting on my knees, which were still clad in last night’s clothes, I shut my eyes and put my head in my hands.
The couch shifted beside me as Camilla sat down, and I had the irrational urge to smack her for moving around so much.
I peeked one eye open and peered at her from beneath my hands, and she offered a comforting smile.
“You didn’t drive home last night.”
Thank God.
But before I could ask her any more questions, my stomach rolled and swirled with nausea, and I knew that the illustrious time anyone with a hangover dreads was about to occur.
“Oh God,” I muttered, lifting my head off my knees and slapping a hand over my mouth.
“You okay?” Camilla asked, but there was no time to respond.
Quick and unsteady, I hopped to my feet, damn near tripping over the afghan in my lap as I did. As fast as my legs could take me, I made a mad dash for the bathroom. Vomit slid up my throat, and I barely made it to the toilet in time for the painful purge of anything and everything I’d poured into my body last night.
Heave after heave, I prayed to the porcelain gods, my body shaking from the assault.
Good Lord, why did I drink so much last night?
It felt like hours, even though it was probably only a few minutes.
Eventually, my stomach settled enough for me to lift my head away from the toilet and swipe a shaky hand across my face, brushing away the rogue tears running down my cheeks. Drained, sweaty, and too weak to stand, I sat on the cool tile of the bathroom floor and mentally berated myself for overdoing it so much.
This hangover felt like a goddamn balloon beneath my skull, slowly being inflated until the pressure mounted to a near intolerable ache.
Never again, I told myself the same lie everyone told themselves after a drunken night. I will never drink that much again.
My joints creaked and popped like an old wooden chair as I pushed to my feet.
I swished the bile out of my mouth and splashed cold water onto the clammy skin of my face just to feel something refreshing, and instantly, I wished I could wash my brain free of the toxins too.
One glance in the mirror and the woman staring back at me was a sad, pathetic shell of herself. Her normally bright eyes were a lattice of pink and bloodshot, and the normally smooth skin of her cheeks appeared ruddy and devoid of life.
I cleared my throat, and it felt like sandpaper scra
ping together.
Basically, everything hurt.
It hurt to move. It hurt to swallow. It hurt to blink.
It was like the flu, only self-inflicted. Which meant I deserved no sympathy from anyone. Not even myself.
“You okay?” Camilla called from the living room just as I found the strength to step out of the bathroom.
“I’ve been better,” I muttered and shuffled my feet across the hardwood floor until I could plop my pitiful self back onto the couch.
Just as I sat down, my ass vibrated, and I startled at the feel before realizing it was my phone. I moaned my discomfort as I lazily tilted to the side and pulled it from my pocket.
With one glance at the screen, I found a text notification from an unknown number. A lazy tap of my index finger and I pulled up my inbox and had to blink almost three times just to focus my eyes to read the message.
Two messages, in fact.
Unknown: Just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay today.
Unknown: This is Levi, by the way.
Shock consumed me. Of all the people I expected or wanted to see a text from, this man was at the very bottom of my fucking list.
How had he gotten my phone number?
Confused, I looked toward Camilla and held the screen of my phone so she could read it.
“Did you give Levi my phone number?” I asked. “And why is he asking me if I’m okay?”
“No, I didn’t, but…” She paused for a moment as her eyes searched mine. Eventually, she lifted her brows in surprise. “You really don’t remember?”
“Don’t remember what?”
“Levi is the one who picked you up from the bar last night and drove you home.”
Hold the fucking phone.
“What?” I questioned, even though I understood every word that’d left her lips.
“He brought you home last night, Ivy,” she said, her voice a little too soft for my liking.
“Was he at Ruby Jane’s too?”
“No.” She shook her head, and her red locks slid across her shoulders. “Well, he wasn’t there drinking with you. He only went down there to pick you up and make sure you got home safely.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How in the hell did he know I was there?”
“The bartender called him.”
God, how drunk had I gotten last night?
I searched and searched the recesses of my brain, but it all felt like a muddled mess locked tight inside a black hole.
“It was actually pretty sweet, Ivy,” Camilla added, but before she could say anything else I most likely did not want to hear, three knocks to the door gave her pause.
She rose to her feet, and with a turn of her wrist, she opened the front door. A vision of red and white roses filled the view, until a man dressed in an FTD uniform lowered the floral arrangement to his waist, revealing his face and chest.
“Uh…can I help you with something?” Camilla asked, and he offered a full-toothed, friendly smile.
“I have a delivery for an Ivy Stone.”
Too surprised to question, I stood and walked over to the door, stopping once I was shoulder-to-shoulder with my sister.
“Mind signing here for me?” he asked, and simply at a loss for words, I nodded and grabbed the stylus from his hands.
Sloppy and quick, I signed my name, and before I knew it, the front door was closed, and Camilla and I were staring at one huge fucking bouquet of roses sitting on the dining room table.
She snagged a small white card tucked inside the bouquet and read it aloud.
“Ivy, your beauty takes my breath away. I crave to look into your eyes. I crave to kiss your perfect lips. Love, Me.”
“Me?” I furrowed my brow. “Who the fuck is me? And more than that, not many people know that I’m in Cold, Montana right now.”
Crave to look into my eyes?
It sure as fuck didn’t ring any bells.
Crave to kiss my perfect lips?
Until it did.
Kiss. That four-letter word spurred an onslaught of memories to flood my brain like a goddamn hurricane.
I’d kissed Levi last night.
I’d thrown myself into his arms, and I’d kissed him until he wouldn’t let me kiss him anymore.
Oh, fuck.
I organized the details inside my head.
I’d kissed him last night.
He’d driven me home from the bar.
He’d somehow gotten my phone number and texted me this morning.
Like cold water was being tossed at my face, I startled from the surprise of it all.
Had he sent me fucking flowers too?
The wheels of my truck slowed to a stop as I pulled into the driveway of my not so humble abode. Instantly, I pulled my phone out of the cupholder and checked it once again for messages.
Well, a message from one person in particular.
Ivy.
Her number had been in my phone for what felt like ages, but not because she’d willingly handed it over to me.
To be honest, I’d illegally obtained it when I’d written her a speeding ticket that fateful day she’d driven into town with a heavy lead foot and those mesmerizing emerald eyes that could bring any man to his knees. Especially me.
Don’t ask me why I’d thought it was a good idea to program that number into my phone. But I’d done it. And that day, for reasons I hadn’t understood, it had just felt like something I had to do.
God, last night had been one for the history books. Between her sassy fucking mouth and the way she’d kissed my lips and pressed herself against me, I still didn’t know which way was up or down.
But I knew, despite her harsh words and all of the anger she glared my way, she still felt something.
Who would’ve thought her drunken outburst and irrational behavior had only given me hope?
Talk about a fucking paradox.
I’d texted her early this morning, before I’d started my patrol shift, just to see how she was feeling, but I’d yet to receive a response.
With one tap to the green icon, I scrolled through my messages to find a text from Jeremy asking me to babysit the girls next weekend, and I made a mental reminder to call him later.
I scrolled some more, even though I knew it was a completely lost cause.
But I couldn’t stop myself. No matter how absurd the behavior.
It was like, subconsciously, I thought by checking for a text from her every fifteen minutes, I’d somehow will one to be there. Obviously, that wasn’t how things worked.
Empty-handed and not a single peep from Ivy, I hated how melancholy that realization made me feel.
Fuck, this is exactly why I enjoyed being numb all the time, I mused, but I quickly pushed that toxic thought out of my head.
Even feeling like this, being inside this dark space of unknowns and anxiety and mental anguish of not yet fixing things with Ivy, was still better than feeling nothing at all.
With squinting eyes, I peered through the windshield and took in the clean and rustic lines of the far-too-large residence.
Every time I took a moment to actually look at my house, I thought the same thing.
Too fucking big.
Five bedrooms and three bathrooms on five acres of Montana land, it was too much space for one person.
After my father died, I should’ve sold it off, but something inside me just couldn’t let go. I knew with every ounce of my being this house had been built with my mother in mind. Every aspect of the design itself had her taste and style and, basically, everything she had dreamed of when she had still been a part of our lives.
Lazarus Fox had built this home several years after my mother had left us to find greener and more successful pastures in Hollywood. She’d left when I was young and my father barely had two dimes to rub together.
She’d left when we’d needed her the most.
When I’d needed her the most.
Once she’d become a mere ghost of our past, my father had
changed, and his priorities shifted from a man who just wanted to provide for his family to a man who wanted to obtain as much money as humanly possible. And he’d more than achieved that goal by the time he’d taken his last, dying breath.
But at what cost?
Our relationship, father and son, had been rife with turmoil and misunderstanding and a constant back-and-forth of rage and anger. And now, looking back on things through an adult’s eyes, I realized my rebellious streak had just been a kid trying to get his dad’s attention.
Bitter to the core, the reminiscence of my past always left an awful aftertaste in my mouth.
With a quick shake of my head and a hard swallow, I pushed the painful reminders out of my mind and shut off the engine with a quick turn of my wrist. Although this house didn’t feel much like a home to me, it was still my house, my only place of refuge from the outside world.
Eight and half hours in the trenches of police work and I was more than ready to withdraw from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and savor some peace and quiet.
My boots to the ground, I slipped out of the driver’s seat and shut the door behind me. As I walked toward the house, I paused to take in the pristine landscape that was my home state of Montana.
The house faced away from the center of the city, and for as far as the eye could see, green pastures, rolling skies, and lush mountains created a breathtaking view. A little slice of serenity wrapped up in a big, beautiful nature bow.
Once I stepped into the foyer, I quickly decided I needed to bask in that delicious fresh air. It’d been a while since I’d chopped some logs for the fireplace, and since the temperatures were still bottoming out in the low teens at night, firewood replenishment was a grand idea.
Plus, my head felt all fucking muddled. I needed a distraction.
Ten minutes later and I was out of my police uniform and standing outside in a pair of boots, jeans, and a thermal flannel shirt.
Ax in hand and fresh wood set up and ready near my feet, I got to work.
Forward momentum coming straight from my core, I swung the ax until the first satisfying slice and chop of wood reverberated through the cool air.
Internally, I smiled.
Hell, I might’ve been smiling externally too.
