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

by Lauren Campbell

  He gets out, and I follow, our bodies leaning against the hood of his car. Brooks is chipper and chatty, and I am an erupting volcano. I never thought there would be a time where I wanted him to shut up, but I was wrong, and that time has presented itself. That I must stand here and pretend I don’t know he was talking to some whore is like having a yeast infection and no fingernails and no Monistat.

  He checks his watch. “Should be starting soon. You want popcorn or anything?”

  Ordinarily I’d say no to eating butter-laced corn, drinking a large bomb of carbs and sugar, and popping Raisinets like my crazy pills, but fuck it. I’ve deprived myself such small indulgences for so long, and for what? To reel in Brooks? Attract him? Because obviously he’s just as attracted to someone else, and I’ll bet she doesn’t deprive herself one bit.

  “Popcorn, extra butter. Large Coke. Raisinets.” My voice is flat, so I add, “Please,” and throw a little smile his way.

  He disappears behind the car, and the minutes he’s gone give me time to think. I’m disappointed. I’m discouraged. I’m tired. But it’s not over, and the book can work. It does work. Hundreds of reviews say it does!

  I won’t give up.

  I consider the facts, rolling them over in my mind. Four months of no contact with me while he licked his wounds and mended his ego only to have fate thrust us back together. He must be so confused. At least I know he isn’t sleeping with her. Brooks may be a liar, but he’s not a scumbag. Scumbags don’t care if you’re sick.

  I imagine Brooks as a lion, the whore he might be seeing as an injured hog, and, of course, I am a beautiful, racing zebra. Who would he choose? The easy meal he could sink his teeth right into, or the racing thrill, knowing that if he fails he can go back to his subpar fast food?

  Yes, in my growing impatience, I had dreams of us growing closer tonight. Of wild love-making and confessions of secret, forbidden love. But I have to be realistic. The book says this. It works, but it takes time.

  So tonight, I’ll be the zebra. Tonight, I’ll live the book as if it is my Bible. Tonight, I’ll drive Brooks Jansen fucking mad.

  Tonight, I’ll reject him, and it will officially be Day One of our journey to the chapel.

  Gravel crunches behind me, and I know he’s near. I let my head drop back, faking a neck stretch. A simple, seductive move to kick off the madness of the night as the previews drag on.

  “Popcorn, extra butter.”

  “Thanks.” I take in the smell, my fingertips greasy as I grab a handful and plunge the salty goodness in my mouth. I notice there’s only one drink and one straw. As much as I love the idea of drinking after Brooks, of licking that straw after it touches that glorious tongue, I decide to be a pain in the ass. “Where’s my drink?”

  “I got a large. Figured we could share.”

  “Hmm. I think I’d rather have my own. I’m kind of a germaphobe. Was the line long? I’ll go grab another.”

  A short laugh of disbelief escapes him until he realizes I’m serious. “You take this one. I’m good.”

  I place the popcorn tub on the hood of the car, and take the drink. Suck in the sweet carbonation that hasn’t passed between my lips since I made the choice to change my life for him. For us.

  He crosses his arms and clears his throat yet again. “So, how’s work been?”

  “Shh!” I say, pointing to the screen and tossing a kernel into my mouth. “Movie is starting.”

  Peripherally, I see his mouth half-drop as I stare ahead, the credits flashing as kids who shouldn’t be watching this shit run back to their cars occupied by their shitty parents.

  “Can’t hear it. Guess we’d better get in.” I scoop up the popcorn and Coke, leaving the Raisinets for him to carry. I’m in the car before he is. He holds out the Raisinets to me, and I take them. I unwrap their paper, and pour some in my mouth. My favorite movie snack, mmm mmm mmm. I haven’t had these in ages, it seems. Our hands bump as we both reach to turn up the volume. His immediately retreats to his leg. My eyes flit to his jeans. The dream of getting to see what’s beneath them will have to wait. I’m harnessing my inner zebra, giving him a thrill he may not know he wants, and a level of control I may need.

  My eyes stay fixed on this weird fucking movie. I’ll never feel the same way about St. Jude’s commercials again. I’m dismayed half the popcorn is gone, entirely courtesy of me. Brooks hasn’t eaten so much as one piece. It’s not surprising since I voiced my distaste for his terrible germs, which is, of course, a downright lie.

  I’d lick his ass after a week of food poisoning.

  Gloomy background music begins to play, increasing in volume and beat. I don’t watch flicks like this often. Can’t stand the shit. I always jump when the bogeyman comes out. Faster. Scarier. It plays on, and I decide to let it work to my advantage. I brace myself, put on my best actor’s suit.

  FUCK, that’s cold! My whole body jerks, and I gasp—giving one great performance, if I must say. I allowed the lid to pop off on purpose, icy soda now spilling over the sides, covering the console. Drenching the leather and me.

  “Jesus!” Brooks says, his hand snatching the cup before dropping it out the window.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  He shuts off the stereo, the only sounds of the movie now a watery version from cars next to us. He gets out, shuts the door, and leans in the window. His face is red, but he looks oddly calm about the wet stickiness covering his immaculate and expensive toy. By now, he must expect that I’m an accident waiting to happen.

  “See if you have anything in your purse to clean around the gear shift. I’m going to get some paper towels.”

  He jogs away, and I’m such a good actress that I’m even hating myself. Wanting to die. My borrowed jeans are soaked, and Coke is literally everywhere. I grab my purse, and pretend to dig through it, knowing there’s nothing, not even a single, solitary tampon with which to soak up a few drops. I laugh hysterically. He must think I’m the stupidest, clumsiest bitch he’s ever had the misfortune of seeing a movie with. But it won’t last long. He’ll be begging to lick my pussy before I know it, because the book says so. I just need to keep being an unavailable bitch, and he’ll be putty in my hands and balls slapping against my ass.

  I execute the rest of the plan. Pull off Eliza’s shirt, not giving a shit what anyone who might see thinks, because I’m getting my man! I soak up some Coke, pressing the fabric into the crevices with my fingernails. Wring it out through the window. Repeat.

  The door opens, and he gets inside—an entire roll of paper towels in his hand, along with a spray bottle of what looks like water. I look at him. His gaze trails from the wet shirt in my lap up to my breasts. My bra is wet. Tits nearly bursting from it. His eyes are stuck, so I break the ice.

  My shoulders lift in a shrug. “I didn’t have anything in my purse.”

  He blinks a few times, and then looks straight ahead. Pulls off his own, his abs perfectly stacked and tight above his belt. He tosses it to me, and I slip it on, enjoying his scent as it slides over my face.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Flatly, he says, “It’s fine. I’ll get it cleaned tomorrow.”

  Sweat rolls down his temples, as if he’s trying his best to hold back a physical punch. He sprays some more. Hands the paper towels to me, and leaves to return the spray bottle to the concession stand.

  He’s mad, but obviously not too mad. I’m meticulous with my wiping of the console. I find a splash on the glove compartment, and wipe that, too. There. That’s better. All clean. Poor Brooks, and poor car, but you know … that’s what he gets for brushing me off.

  And just as I wiped this mess, I can wipe Brooks of his. The progression of a relationship during the dating period is about control—who has the upper hand. I can be that person. I can take on that honorable duty of always leaving him wanting more, of helping us.

  Once he’s back, he shines his phone’s flashlight around the interior, the light casting shadows over eve
ry line of his muscles before he puts his phone away.

  “Guess we’d better look for a room before they’re all gone,” he says, starting up the car.

  “Actually, do you think we could see if it cleared up? I’d rather at least try.” But secretly I’m praying it hasn’t.

  “Right. Good idea.”

  He follows the directions of his GPS until we’re met with bumper-to-bumper tail lights, flashes of blue dotting far in the distance.

  Brooks sighs. “Who knows how long this will take.”

  I spot the lodge the driver had mentioned up on the hill behind a Taco Bell—a hotel resembling a large cabin. “I suppose we could try there.”

  “You sure? We can wait it out if that’s what you want.”

  “If we can get two beds, I’m fine with it.”

  I turn my head straight to the road again, and I swear I see his throat clench like he doesn’t know what to think.

  Like I’m exactly where I fucking need to be.

  In control.

  The hotel clerk’s hair is piled on top of her head in a tight bun. Her fingernails click rapidly on the keyboard, her intermittent smacking and googly eyes over my lack of shirt driving me insane.

  “I have three rooms available. One is smoke-friendly, one king-sized bed, and the last has two doubles.”

  “I’ll take the two d—” I pause, replaying Emily’s insistence on two beds. “The king. I’ll take the king.”

  “You got it.” Her arm reaches across the desk to hand me the entry key. “And just so you’re aware, we have free continental breakfast, and checkout is at eleven.”

  “Thanks.”

  Back in the parking lot, I open Emily’s door and tell her to follow me. When we find room 119, we fumble into the blackness of it, until I find a light switch.

  “Um, where’s the other bed?” She spins on her heel, annoyance on her face.

  “It was either this or a smoking room.”

  She huffs. “I really wanted my own bed.”

  “Okay, what would you like to do? I guess we can leave and sit in traffic until God knows when. Or … we can get some sleep.”

  A long sigh. “Fine, but I get the wall side. If someone breaks in in the middle of the night, they’ll kill you first.”

  I laugh, but she doesn’t so much as crack a grin. What is her deal? She is being such a bitch. I have never seen this side of her. I rarely even saw this side of Eliza. Maybe she has a boyfriend. Could be that Jared guy. He did call her ‘babe’ on the phone.

  But … no, she wouldn’t be here with me if she did. I hope not, anyway.

  She stands between the window and her side of the bed. I can’t help but stare as she tugs my shirt from her body, and then … and then unbuttons her jeans, quickly working them down her hips and toned legs.

  “See something you like?” she asks with raised brows. “I can’t sleep in these clothes. Hence the two beds.”

  I turn away from her to face the dresser. That makes sense, I guess. I pull my wallet from my pocket, followed by my phone, and then take off my own jeans.

  When I turn around, she is still standing up—staring at me, her expression blank. Her breasts are too big for her bra, threatening to spill from the fabric, her thong tight across her hips, barely covering the top of her pussy. The fact that I am right here in nothing but my briefs, and she is right there in nothing but lingerie has me thinking thoughts I shouldn’t. We could fuck, right here, right now, and no one would know. Not Deacon, not Eliza, not anyone.

  Or could we? She is an enigma. The bite in her words says she is annoyed with me, like she would bolt from this room if a cab were out front and the road were clear. Yet something in her eyes, the way she is staring at me right now, says she wants me.

  And even though I know it is a terrible idea, I think I want her to want me. Because I think I want her.

  Dammit. I don’t want to want her. You can’t build a house with someone else’s bricks.

  She pulls back the covers before tucking her body under them and rolling over to face the wall. I crawl into the bed, too, but I stay on my back, staring at the ceiling. All I can think of is the fact that her ass is literally two feet across the bed. An urge overwhelms me—a voice telling me to simply lift the blanket a little bit and peek at what’s underneath. But I can’t do that. She would know what I was doing, and I have apparently already done enough to bother her, because her attitude has completely changed from Nelly’s. Hell, from early this morning, even.

  Women are complicated. I could be wrong, but I am pretty sure Emily was giving me signals before today, never mind the kiss months ago. So why is she, now that we are alone, shying away? How can we be here in this room with no one knowing about this, and she actually … sleep? The only conclusion I can come to is she isn’t interested in me anymore, that any interest she did have has evaporated.

  And that will eat at me. It will drive me crazy, because as egotistical as it sounds, I have never been rejected. Even with Eliza’s lies and infidelity, she still wanted to be with me in the end. This sudden coldness blowing from Emily is stirring up things I have never felt. I feel … almost insecure for the first time ever, and I don’t like it.

  I want to make her want me, whether it is right or wrong.

  “Emily?” I whisper. I’m not sure what I want to ask her, but she has been so quiet since she got into bed. I raise my voice louder, place my hand gently on her shoulder. “Emily?”

  She doesn’t move or respond. I wait a few minutes, and then I do something I should be ashamed of. I reach over, my hand flipping the switch on the lamp to take it from dim to bright. I hesitate, then lift the blanket. Her ass is perfect—round and tight. The way it is jutted toward my side of the bed. How the light falls onto it. The shadow where her thong disappears. I fight myself, vowing not to reach out and touch it. Forcing my eyes to look elsewhere, I trail them upward—the curve of her back just as sexy.

  Letting out a soft, deep breath, I set the blanket back down. I wonder if she felt that, even in her sleep—the movement of air as I stole a peek at something that doesn’t belong to me. I reach under the the coverlet and adjust myself, the hardness of my cock a testament to how irresistible I find her. When I first met her, after the obvious physical attraction and familiarity of having met her before, I think I was drawn to her sweetness, her tears over a relationship that failed, her commitment to Eliza, her sadness over Deacon. Maybe I was drawn to the damsel in distress. Now she is stronger, more jaded, and her sudden indifference toward me is driving me crazy.

  “Emily?” I ask once more for good measure. No response. I get up quietly, looking back at her to make sure she’s asleep. The lamp goes black with the flick of my thumb, and then I head to the bathroom. I want to be inside her, no matter how fucked up it is. I lock the door and turn on the water. I could leave it cold. Could get in and clear my thoughts, let my arousal freeze away. The curvature of her ass flashes through my mind, and I turn the water to hot. As hot as I can take. I step in, pulling the curtain shut.

  I let the water run over my body as I tear open the bar of soap—Emily’s perfect, smooth ass all I see while I lather it between my hands. My hand grips my cock. It is harder than it has been in recent memory, and I am half-afraid I will come before I get to enjoy it. My fist squeezes hard around it, stroking back and forth, my eyes closed, imagining everything I would do to her. She is on all fours, my face between her sweet ass before licking my way down to her pussy. The thought brings me closer, threatening to push me over. I slow my rhythm, not wanting to come yet, when a knock sounds on the door.

  “Brooks?”

  Oh God, just the sound of her voice nearly makes me blow.

  “Brooks? I have to pee!”

  “Uh … just a minute.” I open the curtain, water spraying everywhere as I search for a towel and yank one off the bar. Wrapping it around me, I turn the lock on the door before turning off the water and stepping back to the shower.

  The door op
ens before I can close the curtain, and the connection of our eyes is maddening. A smirk crosses her face while she nonchalantly turns, pulls down her fucking thong, revealing only a glimpse of her shaved pussy, and proceeds to pee right in front of me.

  Holy. Fuck.

  “Your um...” Her finger points, stalling in the air before she looks away.

  My eyes look down at the towel, the bulge unmistakable. I start to speak, but nothing comes out, so I close the curtain as quickly as possible.

  Dammit, I mouth to myself, punching the air.

  The toilet flushes. Water runs for a minute. The door closes. My breathing is rapid and deep. She knows. She knows I was thinking about her. How embarrassing. I step out of the shower, the towel still around me. I am prepared for my walk of shame back to the bed after I open the door, but the door to the room slams.

  What the fuck?

  “Emily?” I don’t know why I call her name, because I know she is gone.

  I put my jeans back on, careful not to zip up part of my dick, stuff my feet into my shoes, and grab the key to the room. The hall is empty, the orange glow of fire coming from outside a door that leads to a garden area.

  When I reach it, I see her out there wearing only her jeans and bra, leaning against the cabin wood, eyes staring at the fire pit. She is fearless. Eliza would have never gone out like that.

  I step outside, stuff the key in my back pocket, and look around. We are the only ones out here.

  “Come here.” Her arms cross over her chest, bringing her tits closer and higher.

  Hesitantly, I approach her, wondering what she will say. She must think I am some sort of pervert. She has to know I looked at her ass.

  I stop in front of her, my heart dropping at the sight of her eyes. The fire dances in them, and I see a brokenness in her that I can relate to.

  “What is it?” My voice is gruff. I am simultaneously nervous and excited.