Mended (Connections, #3)(11)
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It’s five eleven a.m. and before I brush my teeth or take a leak, I roll over and snag my laptop from the nightstand to read what everyone on Facebook and Twitter has to say about the band and its lead singer. Surprisingly, not much, and I’m thankful. I want to wait to announce anything until after tonight. Before I close out, I search Ivy’s name. Why, I don’t know. She has a Twitter account but hasn’t tweeted since her engagement announcement. Hmmm . . . I wonder why.
Amy wakes up and sleepily looks over at me. The computer screen’s glow is the only light in the room. “What are you doing?”
“Hey, go back to sleep. I just need to send a few e-mails to Ena so she can get River and Dahlia set up for the tour.” I lie because I don’t want to tell her I’m stalking my ex-girlfriend and because I shouldn’t be thinking of Ivy when Amy is lying in bed next to me.
She rolls over and I set my laptop down and get out of bed. Once I’ve done a quick workout in the hotel gym, I head back to my room and hit the shower. I turn on only the hot water and let the steam fill the bathroom. Rubbing my eyes, I lean against the cool marble and think about Ivy—about how I didn’t realize how much a part of my life she was and how much I have really missed her. When I’m done, I head out to the living area and turn the TV on to find something mindless to watch. I’m slurping down my coffee when Amy joins me.
“Did they win?” she asks, pointing at the replay of the Brooklyn Nets game on the screen.
I nod. “Ninety-eight to eighty-five over the Lakers. It sucks, but I have to say the Nets have the best music sound bites in their game, so I watch them over and over.”
She laughs. “Only you would notice something like that.”
“I might even consider trading teams just to get one of our songs boomed over the PA as Johnson races toward the basket.”
“Are you serious? That music isn’t just prerecorded crap on replay?”
“No. Not at a Nets game, anyway. A guy named Period sits on the platform and punctuates games with amped remixes. It’s like he’s deejaying every game. It’s genius.”
“Well, you sold me,” she says, flopping down in a chair and pouring a cup of coffee.
“What’s your plan for the day?” I ask her. Today is pretty much a down day. I want to avoid the calls about Zane until after tonight’s show, and the guys are doing their own thing during the day. We’ll meet up for a short rehearsal before the show later tonight, so I’m up for whatever until then.
“I have to shower first. I tried to join you earlier, but the door was locked.”
I blow off her comment with a partial truth. “Sorry, a bus habit. I didn’t even realize I locked it. So, thoughts for after your shower?”
“I need to cut out by noon, but I wouldn’t mind lounging by the pool for a few hours first.”
“Sounds like a plan. We’ll eat some breakfast and head out there when you’re ready.”
“Pancakes?” she asks with a grin.
I shake my head no. That’s the one food I never eat—Ivy always made me pancakes. “Waffles sound great,” I respond.
I’m relieved that she’s leaving soon but feeling guilty that my mind has been consumed with Ivy. What the hell is wrong with me? I need to stop overthinking this. Amy and I have always been casual. Everything is cool between us.
After breakfast we’re sitting by the pool when Ivy and Damon set up a few cabanas over. I glance at Ivy, then study her. I know I shouldn’t, especially with Amy lying next to me in her skimpy green polka-dot bathing suit, but I can’t help it. Ivy looks amazing in a red bikini—seeing her makes my body ache. Her hair’s down and falls freely around her chin, making the angles of her heart-shaped face less pronounced—softer, not harder, even more beautiful. As she sits down, her head snaps in my direction. She squints and must see that I’m staring. I don’t care.
Damon follows Ivy’s glare and my eyes cut from hers to his. His expression goes dark, as he seems to recognize me. Does he know me? Or does he sense what Ivy and I have—had? He sneers at her, and I swear if I could bury him with just a look I would. He sits down on her chaise longue and pulls her to him, kissing her. Tension flows through my veins until she pulls away. He moves closer, speaking with animated gestures. Her facial expression signals that she’s not happy. My body goes rigid as I’m forced to watch this arrogant son of a bitch’s attempt to tame a girl who should never be tamed.
He practically f*cks her with his eyes, and I squeeze my fists at my sides, resisting the urge to smash his face in. Ivy pulls her robe out of her bag and wraps it around herself. For some reason this helps ease my rage. Then suddenly he stands up and snatches hold of her elbow, pulling her out of the chair. I stand up as well. She snaps at him and steps back, but he grasps her shoulders. A smirk spreads across his face as he presses himself against her. The vulgarity of his actions hits me like a punch. She whispers something in his ear, and he drops his hold but doesn’t surrender. He touches his fingers to her cheek and tilts her head toward him. As if to make a point, he slides his hands down and unties her robe, his gaze lazily scanning her body before shifting over to me. I know what the * is doing—he’s demonstrating to me that she’s his. He obviously feels the need to antagonize me further by running his hands down her hips and slipping his fingers inside her bathing suit bottom. My stomach twists. She flinches, then gathers her things and walks away. But he quickly catches up to her.