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

by Lauren Campbell

  But she says nothing. Her eyes are on my lips, her tongue passing over her own before her bottom lip drags under her teeth. She looks at me again, the heat in her eyes saying enough.

  She wants something. There is no mistaking it. And I can’t help but give it to her.

  This is happening. Is this happening?

  Yes. Yes, it is.

  His left hand comes to rest on the wall next to my head, his right guiding my chin as his lips travel to mine. When they connect, they tremble, and my heart instantly feels more alive than it ever has, more whole than it ever was. He parts my lips with his, the silkiness of his tongue slipping against my own. It’s beautiful and hurried, both of us eager and selfish. I kiss him as if to make up for all our lost years, and he kisses me like it’s the apology he doesn’t know I deserve.

  My hands reach his neck. Fingers run through his hair. He presses himself into me, a moan escaping me that interrupts our kiss. This is bad, so very bad. I’m too weak. The peek he stole of my ass and the melody of him jerking off was too much to bear. I came outside to get some air. Talk myself out of jumping his bones—of letting him fuck me in his favorite place. Seeing him here in the moonlight reminded me of Colorado, of never having gotten to thank him.

  Thank him so good.

  And then he appeared—a mythical god ready and willing to fulfill my wish, and what better place than here in the firelight and not in the dingy confines of the room. It’s a story worthy of our grandkids’ ears someday.

  His lips work their way down to my throat, and I moan again. Oh, God, this is exactly what I’ve been waiting for all these years—this hungry passion he’s so freely giving me right this moment. I reach down and nearly gasp as I rub him over his jeans. Jesus, he’s so hard, and I’m so wet. With my other hand, I guide him back to my mouth, our tongues moving together, every swipe better than the last. He slows down, panting, and I bite his bottom lip. His fingers fumble with the button to my jeans until they’re open. He unzips them, the warmth of his hand moving into my thong, finding his heaven.

  “Fuck, you are so wet,” he breathes into my ear.

  “Mmm.” It’s all I can manage.

  “I want to fuck you, Emily.”

  Hallelujah! I never thought I would hear those words! “You can fuck me with your fingers,” I whisper against his mouth.

  With that, he pushes two inside my virgin-tight space, moving them against my G-spot, the heel of his palm applying even pressure across my clit as he moves. Oh my God, this feels better than I ever imagined it could. I’m losing control. I can feel it. I have to hold on to it. But fuck, I need him. I need this. I need to feel him. Touch him. Taste him a little. And then I can take back the reins.

  “Touch me,” he orders. He unbuttons his jeans with one hand, the other still working on me.

  I reach into them, and am surprised to find he isn’t wearing underwear. His cock is so warm and smooth and hard. My heart skips, and I begin to work him forward and backward. I have dreamed of this day, of touching him like this. Of fulfilling his needs better than anyone can.

  “Fuck,” he breathes, his hand slowing its rhythm inside me. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

  I move fluidly, gaining in speed as his hand catches up in speed again. Suddenly, voices come from inside the hotel. We both pause, but I almost don’t care if someone walks through those doors. I just want to come. I just want him to feel what he does to me as I clench around him. He pulls his hand from my panties. Leads me around the corner, to the back of the hotel, and puts his fingers inside me again—my hand following suit to find its way around him once more. I have a fleeting thought of whether he’ll do this with whoever was on the phone earlier, but I push it out of my mind because I won’t let that happen. I refuse. Instead, I kiss him deeply, my mind focused only on us as he brings me strokes away from orgasm, him hardening even more between my grasp.

  Before I can stop myself, I’m coming around his fingers, wet heat tensing around him in pulses. I’d planned to pull away my hand, deprive him of the sorcery of my cock-jacking skills. But I was so lost in my own pleasure that I didn’t realize we were coming together until it was too late. His divine cum washes over my hand as he moans in my ear. He pulls back from my neck. We stare at each other, his fingers still working slowly inside me, making sure to finish me off. I see it in his eyes, that primal need and adoration. He’s totally falling head-over-heels in love with me, if not already there.

  My head tilts upward. He allows me to taste him once more—those full, sugary lips that have shown me how great his need for me is. He breaks away, hands tightly gripping my ass, eyes burning holes into my soul. His forehead presses to mine, our lips touching again, mouths open, breathing against each other, but not kissing.

  And then he says words that spoil the moment and make him an asshole. “That was fucking sexy.”

  A wave of apprehension cripples me, anxiety tearing every thread of faith I’ve kept. My ears feel rotted, my brain not wanting to believe he would put it down to such a callous and simple interpretation. What just happened was more than sexy, more than fingers, ruffled hair, and a hard dick. It was me, it was him—us falling in love as Brooks and Emily—a perfect sum of the desires of my heart for the last decade.

  It was everything.

  What was the good in him fingering my heart back together if I was so willing to allow him to destroy it? I should have made him wait, should have made him crawl on his knees and beg for me to let him come, because letting him get off so soon is showing him I’m just another whore emerging from the woodwork.

  He smiles at me. “You are so tight,” he whispers against my lips. My teeth grit in annoyance, and I roll my eyes at his stupid abs. Kissing him, feeling him, all of it was amazing, but sexy fingering and tight pussy isn’t quite the “I love you forever, let’s get married and have twenty babies” speech that I had in mind. His cock should never have been in my hand to begin with, not yet. But this is what us women do—get caught up in feelings and throbbing pussies, thinking the man is in the same place. Then, they spread their legs, expecting some euphoric unification of glittering hearts complete with marching band.

  But it’s okay. I can’t change it now. He got his taste, and he will dream of this. Of what it will feel like to be inside me, because I won’t lend him a hand again until he’s earned it by chasing me like I deserve.

  I rub most of the leftover cum that’s drying on my hand against my jeans as he’s zipping up his. Suck the rest from my pinkie when he isn’t looking, so his DNA is part of me. Cum tastes gross, but I’d eat a bowl of his. Mmm.

  “I’m kind of hungry again. Wanna grab something at Taco Bell or something?”

  As much as I want to say yes, as much as I want to confess my undying, ever-growing love for him over a black bean burrito and a farting contest, I shake my head. “You go ahead. I’m pretty tired. I have this thing tomorrow...”

  We round the corner toward the fire pit, and he’s quiet before finally saying, “A thing?”

  “Yeah, you know, it’s nothing really. But I need sleep.”

  “Do you need to be back at a certain time? I mean, is it a date or something?”

  The insecurity folded into his words prompts my answer. “Well, it’s not quite a date. Not really.” A short laugh leaves me.

  “Seriously?”

  I spin on my heel to face him. Shrug. “What?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. Forget it. Just would have been nice to know.”

  I shrug.

  The drop of his mouth says it all, but his lack of response says even more. He’s perplexed, I win, and maybe I haven’t lost control after all.

  Score: Bitch 1, Brooks 0.

  Trying to sleep last night while he’d been out doing God knows what was anxiety-inducing. He’d thrown on his T-shirt and headed out. I’d just laid there, thoughts swimming about our physical encounter, smiling ear-to-ear, yet still feeling terrified about it. At some point, I’d fallen asleep an
d opened my eyes to him making coffee—still in that pitiful, damp shirt. My first thought had been how I could stay there for the rest of my life if it meant opening my eyes to him. While he was checking out, I had found cum-soaked tissues in the trash can next to the bed, sniffed them, kept them, and touched them to my pussy.

  Since then, we’ve barely said a word. The only question he’s asked me today was what kind of biscuit I wanted when we rolled through the drive-thru.

  After a brief exchange about road work a block from my house, we finally reach my driveway. He doesn’t even pull in. He puts the car in park. Props an elbow on the door and faces me.

  “Thanks for coming along. Sorry we got stuck.” He smiles, but it’s one of caution. Now I feel worried. Am I turning him off? I really hope I’m not fucking up everything, but I must stay strong. Backpedaling from my bitchiness completely seems riskier than staying the course. Maybe I’ll give him a little something good. I can’t be an unavailable bitch all the time. The book stressed that, too. When they pull, you push. But as soon as they push, you pull again.

  “Yeah. It wasn’t too bad. I hope things work out with the house.”

  “Well, call me … you know, if you start to feel sick or anything again.”

  “I will.” I smile, my hand poised on the door handle.

  I turn to him, smelling of flat Coke after putting on my damp shirt. I lean into him without thinking, my lips pressing against his cheek, wanting so badly to travel to his mouth, but keeping the rope on my side. He smiles faintly as I exit the car. I don’t look back as he drives away. I’m sure a year from now I’ll look back on this journey of mine and see the value in all my patience.

  The hum of his engine disappears as I turn my key.

  When I step into my living room, I’m ready to give Lucy away—drive her to the shelter, fry up some Poodle burgers. The place is a goddamn mess. Every book on my bookshelf is on the floor. The cushions are off the couch. Papers strewn about. Then I see the most horrifying thing of all. Mom and Dad … a pile of body dust on the floor, broken chunks of glass scattered about. Lucy. Could she have—

  My thoughts are interrupted by the scratches in the bedroom. Lucy was locked up. She couldn’t have.

  The question is…

  Who?

  But more importantly...

  Why?

  It is said a man thinks about sex every seven seconds. Mostly, that is bullshit, but for me today, it isn’t. I got Emily off. The feel of her pussy around my fingers is cemented in my mind. Her pleasure echoes in my ears, eagerness sweet on my tongue. The passion I felt when I looked into her eyes—that familiarity again, like we have always been a thing. Except we aren’t a thing, because the last thing I need now is commitment, and apparently, she was only interested in getting off.

  Sex is all Kate wants, too, but I’m not worried about Kate and me. Things don’t have to get complicated between us, because we are both on the same page. With Emily, I am questioning whether we are even in the same book. My mind alternates between losing her number and sending her flowers. Asking how she feels about what happened, and maybe asking her on a real date. But I try to shut down all the analyzing, because there is one thing I don’t question, and that is the domino effect a relationship with Emily would cause.

  “Dude, are you listening?”

  My attention jolts back to Deacon, grasping for pieces of what he said to construct a generic response. “Yeah, man. Sounds like it was a difficult case.”

  His head shakes, the following silence indication he has given up on the topic. When he asked me to meet him at his parents, I figured it was for leisure—shoot some pool, get in some lifting. Instead, he has bombarded me with the intricacies of a current case, and I am lacking the energy and focus to care, and feeling guilty about what I have done.

  “Anyway,” he says, “What do you think about the house?”

  “I think it’s the one. You need to go check it out yourself, but yeah. If you like it, it’s a go for me.”

  “Did you ask the realtor about the house next door? Probably don’t want to make an offer if they don’t have a plan to rebuild. How much would that suck—looking at a burned-down house out your bedroom.”

  “I’ll call her tomorrow and ask. I am sure there is a plan.”

  He reaches across the table, swiping his phone, fingers tapping on the screen. “Shit. You’d be surprised how many dumbfucks with nice houses don’t have insurance. I’m calling her. I don’t want to lose out on this deal if you think it’s the one.”

  Words threaten to spill from my mouth, to ask him to hold off. It’s good that Emily was smart enough to offer an alias, but any mention of a female with me that day will have Deacon wondering why I have never mentioned her.

  “Nancy!” he beams. “Deacon Sanders.”

  Thoughts cloud me as he moves through small talk before jumping to the house concerns.

  “... Yes, yes … That’s great news … How about tomorrow?” Quickly, his eyes cut to me, and I know she has opened her big, enthusiastic mouth about my girlfriend … my pretend girlfriend, that is. “Yeah, I’ll tell him … Sounds good … Talk to you soon.”

  “Tell me what?”

  His stare is incredulous before a slow grin takes over, and he punches me in the shoulder. “That you have a fucking girlfriend, dude! That’s fucking great. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? Who is she?”

  I swallow, a lump of guilt tacked to the wall of my throat. “It’s nothing. No big deal, anyway.”

  “Nothing?” He dismisses me, his hand slapping me on the back, the sting burning in more ways than one.

  Deacon and I have been friends since high school, despite him not going to J. Stewart. He has never done me wrong, and yet I haven’t paid him the same respect. I have fucked around with the girl he once loved, and probably still does. Our hands all over each other’s skin, tongues in each other’s mouths. And why? Because we have a connection and refuse to control it? Is that worth the betrayal?

  “Dude, I wanna meet her. I don’t care if it’s nothing. I wanna meet the girl who was able to pull you out of your funk.”

  He stands, his chair screeching across the tile as his parents walk in. His parents have always treated me like family, too.

  “How are you, Brooks?” his mother asks. “How was Easter? We missed you.”

  “Turns out,” Deacon says, closing the fridge, bowl of what looks like pasta salad in hand, “Brooks was, uh … preoccupied yesterday.”

  “Ohhh,” Mr. Sanders says, pulling a piece of paper from a drawer and checking his wallet. “Good on you, son.” His smile is big, his expensive veneers bright in the kitchen light.

  I lift a shoulder in nonchalance, my skin turning hot, and feel a mist of sweat above my upper lip. I can’t live like this. “I doubt I’ll see her again. It was just a … well, you know.”

  A smile spreads across Dr. Sanders’s face. She smooths the fabric of her blouse before retrieving her purse from the counter and shrugging. “Sometimes a good lay is all you need.”

  “Mom!” Deacon hisses.

  My jaw drops in shock, the candidness of her contribution akin to comic relief.

  “Forgive me,” she smiles. “We’ll be on our way. Meetings until seven, then entertaining until the wee hours.”

  Mr. Sanders moves behind his wife, his palm resting on her shoulder, smile apologetic. “Have fun, kids.”

  When they’re gone, Deacon pushes a spoon toward me and hungrily dips into the bowl with his own. He is ravenous, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. “This is so fucking good. Rita makes the best pasta salad. Ever. Eat some.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Dude, it has fucking bacon in it.” He picks up the spoon, waving it at me until I take it.

  Our eyes stay fixed on our phones, and the pasta is so fucking good, just as Deacon claimed. I am bored and ready to go home, because no matter what Deacon says or suggests, I can’t pull my brain from the prison it is currently in. My conscience
and heart battle with one other. My heart stays on Emily’s eyes—that watery blue I could get lost in. Her pussy—those smooth lips surrounding my fingers. I agonize over the fact that I have no texts from her since I dropped her off. On how much I have fucked myself, because even I don’t know my own intentions with Emily.

  But my brain says it is good. To let it go. It is for the best.

  Only, my heart knows I can’t.

  Not just yet.

  The tremor of my hand causes the wine bottle to shake against my lips as a warm ticket to numbness pours down my throat. Someone was in here. In my fucking house. Going through my stuff. I set down the bottle on the table. It’s the second one I’ve had, its contents already half gone. The handwritten note tacked to the wall mocks me, but I’m too terrified to read it again.

  It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve searched the entire place—my loaded revolver in hand. I’ve put everything back where it goes, the cushions on the couch, the random bills tossed about the kitchen floor, the insignificant notes that had been sifted through in my nightstand. Even with all the disruption of my things, I can’t figure out the motivation. This wasn’t a robbery, because nothing, as far as I know, was taken.

  Terror melts to rage, enveloping me like a swarm of angry honeybees. Stings me in every conceivable place as I scoop up as much of Mom and Dad as I can, their former home shattered beyond repair. What monster could do this? What monster would hurt them?

  My eyes cut to the note again, its giant red letters blurry from this distance, but still legible and menacingly cordial.

  I FED YOUR DOG AT 8 AM scrawled in big, red block letters—no hint at the gender of its artist.

  My first course of action after reading it was to dial Alicia. She said she fed Lucy at 5 PM, and Devon had walked her around 8 PM. Neither of them had seen anything unusual.

  The only conclusion I can come to is that whoever did this is the same person in the red car—whoever he or she may be.

  I stomp to the wall where the note is tacked. Angrily rip it down, my body growing hot as jet fuel over the disgust I feel toward this person. They’ve picked the wrong woman to mess with. I’ll figure out who they are, and then I’ll ruin them. Make them wish they’d never glanced my way.