by Ren Benton
Ivy grabbed him by the tie and pulled his face down to hers. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”
He looked down at the hand gripping his tie. “Are those the underwear?”
Now that everyone had seen them, there was no point trying to hide them again. She wrapped the lace around her knuckles like a bandage. “I can change in two minutes. Please don’t leave me here.”
“I told you I’d take you as you are.” He tugged off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket. “I could go for a burger and fries. How about you?”
He was so good at going with the flow. Her tear ducts threatened to emulate him. “I could kiss you.”
His grin flashed. “I’m counting on it.”
“Let me grab my purse.”
“You won’t need it. I’ll take care of you. Just come.”
He held out his hand, like some mythical tempter inviting her to partake in indescribable pleasure, if only she forsook all that protected her from the unknown and put her trust in him.
I’ll take care of you.
He’d found a gift for her mother, provided supplemental cake, and administered an unnecessary medical examination. He’d kept her shameless behavior a secret from her parents, fed her pizza grilled cheese after a skimpy dinner, forgave her for ruining his plans, and was a sport about literally being unable to get in her pants.
If anyone could be trusted to take care of her in the absence of her emergency preparedness kit, it was Griffin Dunleavy.
She jammed the underwear and seam ripper in her back pocket and placed her hand in his.
Ivy’s tension didn’t abate with distance from her house. She vibrated with bad energy in the passenger seat of his car.
She volunteered no information about the cause.
Griff preferred not to take it to bed with them. “Does your friend need you?”
Her answer was sharp enough to lacerate. “What she needs is a time out. When she settles down, she can have attention.”
In his experience, that wasn’t how getting attention worked. “I’ve always wondered, what’s the ratio of settling down to annoying you until you snap with that time-out business?”
Her head whipped around as if the ratio had been tipped in favor of snapping, but instead of letting it out, she pressed her fingers against her eyes to hold it in. “I’m sorry. I’m lousy company again. This is going to be another disaster.”
He double checked his memory and came up empty. “We had a previous disaster?”
Her fingers slipped down to her chin. “Thursday night.”
He hadn’t gotten the evening of his dreams, but he wouldn’t classify it as a disaster. “Seventy-five percent of those kids didn’t hate me on sight, and those were the best green beans I’ve ever eaten. I call that a success.”
She shook her head. “Those were second-rate green beans. On special occasions, I fry them with bacon.”
“Good Jewish boys don’t eat bacon.”
“How is that relevant?”
He pointed at himself.
Her sputter turned into a trilling laugh. “How silly of me. When I heard Griffin Dunleavy, the first thing that should have come to mind was a yarmulke.”
A quick glance revealed her eyes were brighter, her brow unlined. He’d found the key to distracting her from worry, so he kept the revelations coming. “Half. On my mother’s side.”
“Does that mean you’ve never known the joy of a bacon’s touch?”
“I said good Jewish boys. I’ll eat bacon, ham, sausage, and pulled pork on a chop.”
She bent her leg and turned slightly in her seat, the better to stare at him. “Did you have a bar mitzvah?”
“Raked in the cash, and then Mom — who married a nonpracticing Irish Catholic, so you see how mired in tradition the whole family is — told me to follow my own path.” He hadn’t been to synagogue since. “Your turn.”
“I went to Sunday school with a friend a few times when I was six or seven.”
Lo and behold, she was actually telling him something personal. “Why only a few?”
“I liked the arts and crafts. I loved the cookies and Kool-Aid. I was less keen on the promise of eternal damnation as punishment for imperfection.”
“I can see how that would be a downer.” Even if she hadn’t already felt pressured to be perfect.
“I came home in tears one too many times, and Dad had a talk with me about the difference between god and church, and about terrifying people into believing something being a tactic of petty tyrants, not god. After that, my mom made cookies and Kool-Aid every Sunday, and I did arts and crafts without the fire and brimstone. Alas, I did not get a cash-raking farewell party.”
“Look at escaping the constant threat of hell as its own reward.”
“None of that in Judaism?”
“Nope. The biggest threat is disappointing your mother.”
“Based on what you’ve said about your mother, she sounds like she has a high tolerance level.”
“Believe me, she’s had to.”
“So without the threat of perdition to keep you in check, you just ran wild. Should the single ladies looking for a good time be cruising for bad boys outside the synagogue?”
If she started doing that, he might have to go back. “The singles scene was pretty hot, at least when I was thirteen. I made out with Rena Scheinberg in the women’s prayer room.”
“So the prayers worked.”
He laughed. “They must have. Nothing short of divine intervention would have charmed her when I told her Scheinberg meant beautiful mountain and drew a comparison to her boobs.”
“You researched the meaning of her name. That’s romantic.”
“Only marginally more so than hey, nice tits.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Pickings are slim. We take what we can get.”
That attitude got her a man who let her believe she was boring and embarrassing and had the gall to think she would marry him. She deserved infinitely better.
“If you’re trying to make me feel better about my dating ineptitude, keep in mind I can’t use being a thirteen-year-old boy as an excuse.”
“I’m still waiting to hear about one of these alleged disasters.”
“The night at the hotel.”
“Which one?”
“I hadn’t been counting the time I almost scared you into an early grave, but I’ll add it to the list. I meant the most recent.”
“Now you’re hurting my feelings. I was attentive, courteous, generous, and I could have made that last for hours if you hadn’t dug your fingernails into my thigh again, which is some kind of acupressure fast-forward button I knew nothing about until you came along.” Not that he objected to urgency, but there was much to be said for slowing down to savor the moment.
“You people with no kids and your leisurely pacing. I don’t have time for hours of sex. Give me a well done ten, fifteen minutes so there’s a chance of getting through it without interruption and save your endurance trials for someone with no other demands on her time.”
How much responsibility did she have for her sister’s children that she breezily excluded herself from the kidless-people demographic? “What about foreplay?”
“You are foreplay. The pants feelings begin as soon as I hear your voice or see your face. By the time you get around to putting out, I’m ready to pop. Or do you mean foreplay for your benefit?” She reached over and feathered his hair through her fingers. Her voice dropped to an approximation of a baritone. “Your hair looks pretty tonight, babe. Like you only raked your hands through it six or seven times today instead of the usual dozen.”
That was a tic when he knew he was screwing up, a way of warning himself to use his head. Sometimes it even worked. It felt much nicer when she did it, though. “Then in what way was that night a disaster?”
“Apart from the obvious—”
“Nothing is obvious with you.”
“Wardrobe. Malfunction.” She tugged his hair
with each word.
Even that felt good, sending a corresponding summons along nerves connecting to his groin. “That was a disaster only if you’re a sore loser who’s going to pout because I was right about your impatience and you were demonstrably, indisputably wrong.”
“I was demonstrably, indisputably proactive about getting what I wanted.” She settled back against her door. “And if you don’t want me to pout, you shouldn’t have told me it’s sexy.”
She could scratch a chalkboard with a fork and it would be sexy. “Apart from the non-obvious,” he prompted.
She turned her head to watch the streetlights pass. “Holly called at the last minute, and I told her I wouldn’t watch the kids. I was worried all night about what she’d do with them instead.”
If he’d known her obvious distraction was that serious, he would have taken her home or told her to call and check on them, something to ease her mind. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Being my sister’s personal babysitting servant isn’t sexy. Neither is being a terrible person who blows off responsibility to get laid. It seemed less damning either way to keep my mouth shut.”
Again, he wondered if she thought him incapable of sympathy or if she was so accustomed to maintaining the illusion that everything was fine, it never occurred to her to confess it wasn’t. “Tell me what happened.”
She elaborated on her sister’s presumption of perpetual availability and her shock at being refused service. “I was afraid she’d do something unsafe. Stayed afraid until...” She sighed and shrugged.
She was still afraid. She was always afraid because her sister was a disaster she couldn’t prepare for with a well-equipped purse.
“She did the same thing Thursday, I take it.”
“Dialed up to eleven. This time when I told her no, she just left the kids at school, knowing someone would call me to come get them, nullifying the no.”
Her sister sounded like a raging bitch. She not only manipulated Ivy using weapons no decent human being could fight — she made weapons of her children.
And Ivy worried about looking like a terrible person.
He took her hand. “It is my expert opinion as a lazy degenerate, alleged donkey thief, and heathen twice over that you are not a terrible person. You have a good heart, and you take care of the people who need you.”
She stared at their linked hands. “It feels like that’s all I ever do.”
“Not tonight.” He raised her hand to his lips. “For a couple of hours, relax and let me take care of you.”
“I don’t need to be taken care of.”
The denial was swift — less an assertion of independence than an abhorrence of being a burden from someone who felt burdened by her own caretaking role.
“How about this? I’m going to do some things because I want to do them. You can tag along if you want.”
She relaxed into her seat, visibly comforted by the notion he didn’t care about her at all.
Problem was, he cared a little. She wasn’t cruel or cold and thus far hadn’t exhibited any other repellent qualities. She made him laugh. Her voice cured fatigue. Her touch banished stress.
After a lifetime of throwing himself at hard, jagged surfaces to see which of them broke first, Ivy’s softness was a much-needed respite.
They were going to have a problem if she lured him in with all that warmth and expected him not to thaw.
He took her to his favorite diner, which turned out not to be one of the places they had narrowly missed meeting for years.
“I always thought this was a used car lot.”
The owners strung plastic pennants between light posts to facilitate that ambience, and the parking lot packed day and night by regulars availing themselves of around-the-clock service could pass for a fully stocked inventory of secondhand automobiles. The sign over the door identified THE CAVE in plain, industrial print with no further business designation.
“It’s an honor and a privilege to pop your Cave cherry. Everything on the menu is good, but a cheeseburger and a piece of pie will transport you to a new dimension of bliss.”
“Careful.” She looked at him through her lashes. “You’ll make yourself obsolete.”
Before he could tell her all the ways he could be of service while she was blissful, a shout rang out across the parking lot. “Ivy!”
A bespectacled man wearing a suit and tie stomped through the cars toward them.
Ivy’s sigh left her drooping.
Griff stepped closer to her side, where he could easily come between her and whatever threat the guy posed. “Another rejected suitor, or a dissatisfied mortuary client?”
“Neither.”
Before she could elaborate, the man stopped in front of them. “What the hell did you say to Jen?”
“Nothing, Roger.”
“Not according to the note she stuck to the fridge when she left me.” His pitch went up an octave. “Ivy says a woman deserves excitement. Ivy’s glowing because of the man in her life.”
Griff fought valiantly to control the tilt of his lips.
At the moment, Ivy glowed with mortification. “Camille might have said the thing about excitement, and that was weeks ago in regard to the Jared situation.”
“Jared being the unexciting party. My friend Jared, whom you have remarked on several occasions is my clone.”
So this guy was dull and clueless about the woman he wanted to claim, too. “Do you know what kind of music your wife likes?”
Roger scowled at him. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Once upon a time, a carpentry mentor advised Griff, Nothing built to last begins with inattention to detail. “What I meant is, why are you stalking Ivy and shouting at her in a parking lot instead of discussing your marital problems with your wife?”
“I don’t have any marital problems.”
“Clearly.”
Tone deaf to sarcasm, Roger interpreted that as agreement and returned his attention to Ivy. “You caused this. You fix it.”
“I’ll talk to her, Roger.”
“Now.”
Did everyone she knew think they had a claim to her time? Griff wanted some of it more than anyone, but he lacked the gall to demand it. “When was the last time you fucked your wife?”
Ivy made a strangled sound, which he preferred to listening to her agree to fix this asshole’s marriage, which she would do because everyone — including Ivy — expected her to keep the universe running smoothly despite their best efforts to sabotage its operation.
Roger’s ire fixed upon a target disinclined to be gentle with him. “What did you say about my wife?”
“She explicitly told you she left because your marriage lacks excitement. Unless she has previously expressed an interest in skydiving or chainsaw juggling, that means hire a babysitter, get a hotel room, and fuck her like you’re cheating on the mother of your children.”
All the exposed skin above Roger’s collar turned scarlet. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy wives come to when their husbands won’t fuck them.”
Incapable of a coherent response to that, Roger looked back to Ivy. “What are you doing with this asshole?”
She tucked her hand in the crook of Griff’s elbow. “Getting a cheeseburger and pie.”
He could have kissed her for playing so cool under pressure.
“Would you like to join us?”
He should have kissed her before she overplayed it.
Fortunately, Roger didn’t like the company any more than Griff did. “No, I don’t want to join you.”
“Good.” Griff steered Ivy toward the entrance of the diner. “Go home, calm down, and think about what Jen needs so badly she’d leave you to escape the lack of it.”
When it came time to open the door, he realized he was kneading the top of his head. Sometimes the warning was delayed. “Should I be sorry for being a dick to your friend’s husband?”
He wasn’t
, but he could lie to be polite.
He dared a sideways glance at Ivy. Far from fuming in silent pique, she gazed up at him as if he were the hero who saved her from being tied to the railroad tracks. “That was amazing. Are you some kind of shock marriage counselor in real life?”
“As much as you’re European royalty.” He shielded her when a group of college kids spilled out the door. “Just to be clear, I did not do that to take care of you. I did it because I’ve had a lifelong dream to tell off a pompous windbag.”
A dream inspired by his brother.
Her forehead crimped with dismay. “I’ve never seen him act like that.”
The guy was probably borderline comatose most of the time. Being shocked awake would do him good.
“Jen surprised the hell out of me. The poor man must have been blindsided.”
She made excuses for everyone who treated her like crap — one of her predictable traits they relied on. He wished he’d been more brutal. “There are always signs that things are wrong.”
“I noticed some strain, but—”
“He lived in that strain. He knew it was there. He chose to ignore it until it blew up in his face.”
In hindsight, those signs were fifty feet tall with blinking lights that spelled out YOU’RE BEING STUPID. Claiming blindness after the fact was a feeble excuse for willfully ignoring them because imagining an unobstructed view was more pleasant.
She sighed and stepped through the door he held open for her. “It’s not my problem, is it?”
“Not tonight.”
She would make it her problem tomorrow because she cared too much to let her friend struggle without help, but for a few hours, he would do everything in his power to keep her mind free of worry.
Starting by feeding her the messiest burger in the state.
She dabbed her shirt with a paper napkin. “I’ve made a mess of myself.”
“All according to plan.”
She looked up from the stain and arched a brow. “Have I been such a slob historically that you can schedule an evening around it?”
“No one comes out the other side of a Cave burger without at least one badge of honor. Phase two of the plan involves throwing your clothes in the laundry, rendering you naked for a couple of hours.”
