The Evolution of Ivy: Antidote (The Evolution of Ivy, Volume 2)

by Lauren Campbell

  I ask if I can look at her drawing without realizing I’m even talking. I’m not sure if she heard me because I barely heard myself, but then the teacher yells at us to stop talking, so I guess it wasn’t that much of a whisper.

  “Ivy! Brooke!” Mr. Archibald scolds. We’re still bent over the aisle, staring at each other like freaks.

  I start pulling myself back into my seat, page still in hand. “It’s Brooks, sir,” I tell him, turning the paper over to stare at it—a panda mother and her cubs. I can’t believe she drew this. It’s awesome, and the detail is amazing—so realistic. “This is really good. You have talent,” I say to her.

  “Thanks.”

  I ask her why she drew pandas as I give it back to her, because seeing them in Chengdu when my family and I went to China was one of my favorite things I’ve ever gotten to do.

  “I just like them.” She shrugs, my eyes moving to that stain on her shirt again.

  “Me too.” I tell her about the trip we took and how I got to hold them and feed them.

  She smiles again, and this time it’s a real one, because her eyes crinkle at the corners. She says she has only seen them at the zoo and didn’t get to touch them.

  I explain how my parents are starting a coffee shop, and that’s why we travel so much. “But your drawing is really good,” I say. “Will you draw me one sometime?”

  She smiles, her eyes looking surprised since they’re open a little too much. “Sure.”

  Okay, she’s definitely not a jerk. She’s just dealing with stuff … stuff like I used to deal with, too. I know how she feels. I need to help her. And I think I like this girl.

  A lot.

  I’m so impatient, but then again, I’m not. I’m impatient with certain things, like waiting for Brooks to text back. I thought after his “Nice” comment, complete with his little smiley face, that he’d send me another message later in the day, but he didn’t. I’ve just been all What the fuck? ever since.

  Is this what dating is like? Waiting for one person to scream out, “Hey! Hey, you! I like you! DO YOU LIKE ME?”

  It’s a lot of extra work I didn’t anticipate. I mean, how can he resist me? I’m everything a guy like him wants. I’m single, I’m blonde, I have big boobs, a curvy butt, I suck a mean dick, and am open to anal. Getting Eliza away from him was exhausting enough. Now I have to figure out how to make him mine permanently—not just for a night or a week or a year or so. But forever. I have to do what took Eliza ten years in a span of about six months, because that’s all the patience I have left in my Patience Tank.

  Speaking of tanks, I have driven all over town trying to get rid of the gas I had. I’ve been up since five, and it’s now nearly eleven. It’s finally at the point where the needle holds just above E, and the dash indicates I have only twenty miles to empty.

  Perfect.

  I drive roughly, stopping and starting any chance I get. After circling Chastain Park awhile, I get annoyed and throw the SUV in park on the side of the road. Rev my engine until the gas is all gone, and it clunks to empty.

  Yes. Yes. Yes. With as long as that took, I’m not sure how any smart person ever runs out.

  I call Brooks as cars fly past me, the ample shade from the trees a bonus to “being stranded” here. I’m such a genius. Really, I am. I wonder how many women have had the great idea to strand themselves on purpose like this?

  Ring, ring, ring a thousand times, and then freaking voicemail. I want to know why people don’t keep their cells near them? It’s a cell phone, that’s what it’s for, nitwit. I dial again. Leave a message this time, to call me back. Hastily, I text him, too.

  Hey, super embarrassing, but I ran out of gas in the area. Any chance you have a can I can borrow?

  Within minutes, my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, uh … you okay?”

  “Well, not exactly. Did you get my text?”“Yeah, sorry. I was in a meeting.” Hmm … were you really, my sweet Brooks? “Do you still need my help?”

  “If you’re close by, yes. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe I ran out.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. It happens.” Pause. “Hmm, let me think. Actually, I am stuck in this meeting for another half hour. Are you able to call another friend or see if your insurance can get roadside assistance out?”

  My shoulders drop, and I punch my steering wheel. Force the smile back onto my face so he doesn’t hear the disappointment in my voice. “My friends aren’t answering, and insurance said the guys are two hours out from being able to help.” Salt nips at my eyes. Why is he resisting? Why isn’t this working?

  He sighs, and tells me to hold on. Mumbles something to someone nearby. “Okay, where are you? I can leave a little early, I guess.”

  I wiggle in my seat, doing a happy dance of victory, despite his lack of sounding excited. Whatever. He just doesn’t know he should be yet. I give him the cross streets of the shoulder I’m pulled over in, and adjust my tits, because my knight in shining armor is on his way to rescue me!

  “Cool. See you in a bit. Stay in your car.”

  By the time he gets to me, it’s been an hour since we hung up. I am sweating my ass off, my shirt soaked because the AC wasn’t blowing cold enough, and I was killing the battery. I dab the beads of sweat streaming down my face and peppering my upper lip. Wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, and rub in the makeup under my eyes that has separated.

  I watch him from the rearview, his broad shoulders and ripped chest still apparent under his suit, as cars zip by dangerously close to him. Silently, I curse myself for having done this, because it hasn’t gone to plan. He was supposed to be quick, just around the corner. I was supposed to be cute, not melting like a witchcicle.

  His hand rests on the roof of my car. Reluctantly, I look at him, embarrassed with my current disheveled appearance and possible onion smell.

  “Sorry it took me so long. Traffic was ridiculous.”

  “It’s okay.” I turn my head back to the road, my eyes sheepish.

  “You’re soaked!”

  I clear my throat. “AC wasn’t working, and I had to turn off the car.”

  “Yeah, it will kill your battery, but you should have gotten out.”

  I shrug, and then lie. “I did. Just got back in.”

  His thumb motions toward his Audi behind me. “Let me grab the can.”

  Cautiously, I open my door, the passing cars blowing my damp hair, and the breeze a welcome reprieve from the heat. I watch as Brooks rolls up his sleeves, loosens his tie, and fills the gas into my tank. He makes helping a woman on the side of the road look like a photoshoot for GQ.

  When the last of the gas is poured in, he reattaches the lid. Slaps the hood. “You’re good to go.” Then, he walks to his trunk, and sets the can back in.

  I stand there, watching him as he steps back to his car door, astonished that he’s apparently about to … leave?

  He hops in, and starts his car. Rolls down his passenger window. Stupidly, I walk over to it, like I’m following some treasure map, but Brooks is far from being a chest of riches right now with the way he’s fucking leaving me like this.

  “Make sure you can start the engine. Turn the key a few times, but not all the way. Then turn it all the way.”

  After I’m behind the wheel, I follow his orders, the engine cranking to life. I poke my head out of the car. Play the good, grateful lady, and say, “You’re a lifesaver.”

  He smiles, and shouts from behind me, “Glad I could help. Have a good day.”

  The ambiguous smile I give him is like poison wrapped in candy. “You, too.”

  His car pulls out, but then halts next to me so that our cars are parallel. “Emily?”Our eyes meet, and his smile tells me he’s come to his senses. He’s inviting me to dinner. “Yeah?”

  “Drive safe!”

  With that, he’s gone, twisting around the curve like this is a fucking Nascar race, and he must get to the finish line. But the only finish
line he needs is the crack of my ass.

  I shovel broccoli into my mouth as fast as I can between silent cries, because I don’t eat junk food, and not getting what I want is my cold, hard, green reality. Today was a total letdown. Brooks is either stupider than I thought, or he totally brushed me off. Either way, I’m not a happy girl. I’m a depressed, broccoli-murdering girl who’s gonna have some terrible ass gas if I don’t stop.

  Ugh. It sucked to feel like a complete inconvenience to him today. Even though he didn’t seem annoyed or upset to be there, he was indifferent, as if I were some random person on the side of the road instead of his future wife. He has a duty to protect me, to come to my rescue, and actually rescue me, not simply leave me with some goodies and go.

  Lucy tries to sneak a lick of my broccoli, and I shoo her away. “No, Lucy. Not now.”

  She trots over to her bed in one corner of the room, spins around, and lies down. I pull my laptop off the table, turn it on, and start Googling through my chews and ugly-cry sobs.

  I stop chewing. Type in “Emily Jansen,” and click on Images. I’m always random with my Google searches. Sometimes I surprise myself with the things I look up. I can search Brooks Jansen or How to be the best wife or Top honeymoon spots 2017 or Make him love you again, and hours later I’m looking up how many marshmallows someone managed to stuff into their mouths.

  I scroll through all the women lucky enough to have that sacred, holy name—wishing for it, praying for it, wanting to kill them for it and steal it away. To take it for myself. I cry a minute, my shoulders sagging and my tongue clicking as I try to figure out what I’m doing wrong. I sling the broccoli onto the floor and shriek in frustration, the veins in my neck feeling as if they’re about to burst.

  Anger heats my cheeks as I stare at all these Emily Jansens. I am oh so jelly. But … ehh. There are a few pretty ones, but I’ll be the prettiest Emily Jansen on this results page once our wedding announcement is made. And I, and only I, will be married to Brooks.

  I smile to myself. Slap both of my cheeks. Imagine the moment he gets down on one knee. Cheer up, bitch, I think. All in due time.

  This is only the beginning.

  “You’re late,” Deacon says as he opens his door. “And sweaty.”

  “Sorry. Coworker ran out of gas.” I hate lying, but there is no way I can tell him the truth. I am pretty sure now, after knowing he isn’t over Emily, that he would either shoot himself or shoot me. Or Emily. Fuck, maybe all three of us.

  “Whatever, man. It’s cool.”

  I follow him, and collapse on his couch. We are going to be late, and he isn’t even fully dressed for what he says is a surprise.

  “Dude, you’re gonna have to borrow some of my clothes. We’re about the same size. Go find some shit. You can’t go out with giant sweat stains, and you are way overdressed.”

  I roll my eyes, and walk to his bedroom, deciding on a generic black shirt and jeans. When I come out, I request a plastic bag I can put my suit in.

  He tosses me one.

  “You need flip-flops, too.” He walks to his closet, and throws some at me.

  I stuff my shoes into the bag, too, and slip on the flip-flops that are one to two sizes too small. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. I told you.”

  His hand runs through his hair, which is considerably longer than it was a few months ago, and he adjusts his beard in the mirror on the wall. Deacon was always baby-faced, but now he’s on the rough side and has gotten several more tattoos since he and Emily split.

  Speaking of her, I’m half-concerned that he’ll be able to smell her on me, which is part of why I didn’t get near her today and left so quickly, other than feeling like an asshole with no morals. I was happy to help her, but I want to set boundaries at the same time. Not just to protect myself from Deacon, but to protect myself from her. I could easily see myself getting wrapped up in Emily’s looks and charm and losing control of myself. I don’t want that. It wouldn’t be fair for any of us.

  Deacon grabs a shirt, raking his hair back into a bun, and plucking his wallet from the couch. “Let’s go.”

  We parked on a side street in the city. I have followed him two blocks in the insufferable heat of spring, but I am just about done. He is acting so strange, going on about this great “surprise,” but so far, all I am getting is concrete, humidity, and an uneasy feeling.

  “What surprise could possibly have us walking two blocks?”

  He cranes his head around and smiles. “You’ll see.”

  Finally, he stops at a red door, music pulsing through it. He knocks, and it is opened. A giant of a man walks out, his eyes giving us the death glare. “Lorenz sent us.”

  Lorenz?

  We’re nodded through the doors. My hands instantly rise to my ears, protecting them from the loud blasts of bass. Everything is washed in dim, red lighting, and I am not liking the vibe this place gives off. It reminds me of some seedy strip club you would walk in before walking right back out.

  I nudge Deacon. “Where are we?”

  He turns around, smiling, ushering me on. I don’t like how excited he seems. I consider the fact that maybe this is some sort of surprise party for me, but it isn’t my birthday. There is no special occasion. So, what is it?

  We walk down a short hall, a scantily clad woman moving past us, and quickly a scene comes into view that causes me to spin on my heel, intent on heading back to the entrance from which we came.

  His hand grabs my arm. “Come on, dude. We’re just looking.”

  “What the hell, man? What kind of surprise is this? At least give me a warning.”

  “You don’t have to do anything—no pressure, just watch. You need some excitement. You can’t stay cooped up in your house all the time. Come on, give it ten minutes. Don’t be a downer.”

  I hate how he tries to make me out to be some prude, so I give in. “Fine. Whatever.”

  We walk down the hall again, and I am fully able to take in the scene around us. I am awestruck at the amount of people who are fucking in this room, unconcerned with who is watching. Women fucking men, women fucking women. There are easily fifty people banging each other in here. Mentally, it doesn’t turn me on at all, though it is hard to keep my dick down, anyway. The taboo often arouses, even if you don’t want it.

  Deacon leads us to a velvet booth in the corner, and I sit on the opposite side. He has always had a wild streak, but this is going too far for my taste. People like what they like, and that is fine with me. Go to orgy parties if you want, but don’t drag me to them without asking how I feel about it first. I try to avoid looking at anyone, but it is impossible. You can’t help but look. My eyes move between Deacon and the groups of people. He wears a weird, amused smile on his face, like he is seconds from joining in on the fuckery.

  “You’re creeping me out,” I tell him.

  He laughs at me, and leans forward, then motions to a man nearby. The man disappears, but comes back with a tray. There is white powder on it. Deacon pulls a bill from his wallet and rolls it up, then holds it out to me.

  “Really, Deacon?”

  “Come on, just try it. It’s only coke. It’s not gonna kill you.”

  I don’t want to be roped into his issues. I have never done drugs, except for an occasional joint as a teen, and I have no desire to. I thought he had been doing better. He seemed like he was in a happier place for a while, but I was mistaken. I shake my head, refusing to take the bill, and he shrugs, then snorts it all himself.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose briefly before dropping the bill on the tray and motioning to the man who brought it again. He appears with another tray, again holding powder, and sets it down.

  “Send Lorenz to see me,” he yells to the guy.

  A menacing smirk crosses the man’s face before he finally disappears into the dark, a different man returning with him this time.

  Deacon stands and allows the new guy, Lorenz, to sit where he had been. A min
ute or so is spent catching up—fairly normal stuff, I guess.

  “And who is your friend?” Lorenz asks. The words hiss from his mouth with him making no attempt to conceal his distaste.

  I clear my throat, but Deacon answers before I can. “This is my buddy, Brooks.”

  Lorenz’s hand sweeps toward the tray, his eyes staying narrowed on me.

  I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t—” I see his jaw click, so I change course. “Next time,” I nod, then point to my nose. “Got a sinus infection.”

  He stares at me, displeasure filling his eyes, Deacon’s worried glance bothersome until Lorenz bursts into laughter. Deacon mouths “Sorry” to me, and then he forces himself to laugh, too, until it turns into an actual fit of laughter, both cackling and pointing at me.

  “This motherfucker,” Lorenz says, shaking his head, finger pointing my way. “You need Mommy’s permission?”

  I smile thinly in reaction, and Deacon successfully changes the subject to my relief. What follows afterward is painfully watching Deacon exhibit the energy of someone who’s had one too many Red Bulls. He starts off by groping women, then licking women, and eventually fucking women. I am disgusted, but it is the car accident on the side of the road you can’t help but stop and observe. He clearly needs some help.

  At one point, he tries to jump in on two women going down on each other, and he doesn’t leave them alone—stands too closely, egging them on because of the rejection. Eventually Lorenz’s face sours. He snaps at the guy who had brought the trays of cocaine.