White Ivy(82)

“You should thank me, Ivy,” said Tom. “I’ve just saved your fiancé from being mauled by a group of hungry cougars. We’ve barely managed to get away.”

“Thank you, Tom. Thank you for always saving Gideon. You’re such a hero.”

Gideon moved his lips but she couldn’t focus on what he was saying. A rushing sound filled her ears, like wind blowing over a field of grass.

“I can’t hear you up here,” she said, motioning with her hands. “Can we go talk somewhere else?”

Gideon stood up and took her arm. “Let’s go in here.” He led her to the waiting area for the restrooms. “Are you feeling all right?”

She said she had had one too many and was feeling queasy. She saw a dark-haired figure behind Gideon—her heart jerked. But it was only one of the maids holding an armful of towels stained with what looked like Kool-Aid.

“Let’s splash some water onto your face,” said Gideon. When she didn’t move, he led her into the women’s room himself.

“I ran into Dave in the staircase,” she said.

“Yeah, I was with him earlier. He’s quite drunk.”

“Did you know he has a suite here on the eighth floor?”

“Really? That must be nice.”

He knows, thought Ivy, staring at Gideon’s carefully blank expression. He knows and he doesn’t want me to tell him. “Come here.” She pushed Gideon into one of the stalls and closed the door behind her. He was more confused than stunned; then, grasping what she wanted from him, his face went slack. He took her hands and pressed them to his lips. But she didn’t want tenderness. She broke away and slithered down to hip level, pulled down his pants, and took him into her mouth. She was extra rough, both aroused and sickened by the cool, spongy tissue of him hardening, pressing against her tongue. The hands encircling her head were warm and snug, it felt like a crown. A minute later, she came back up and guided him into her, one leg over his hip, her back pressed against the stall. They moved as one, in gentle motions, then, her violence building, she stepped her other foot onto the edge of the toilet seat. He slipped out. She tried again but as they struggled, Gideon banged his elbow on the wall and made a soft cry. “Get a room, gross,” a woman said from the next stall. Gideon froze. His face paled, his mouth closed in shame. Ivy looked upon her fiancé as if from very far away. His humiliation seemed sad to her. She was sad that he was humiliated and sad that she’d been the one to bring it upon him.

Without speaking, he pulled up his pants. She unbunched her dress. Like thieves making their separate getaways, they snuck back out to the party to blend into the anonymous crowd.





18


“WHY’D YOU GO LAST NIGHT?”

“I was invited.”

“By whom?”

“The mayor himself. A gold-plated invitation delivered on a dinner tray. Want to see it?”

“That’s not why you went.”

Roux splayed his hands out in front as if to say, You got me. “You’re right. I wanted to see you in your natural habitat. The slutty dress. Dancing on the table. Salivating over the abundance of rich men. Throw a lasso and you’ll catch one. Did they stuff tips into your underwear?… Oh, wait. You weren’t wearing any.” He was smirking but his eyes were cruel and not one bit amused.

“It’s called a platform,” said Ivy.

“What?”

“I wasn’t dancing on a table.”

Roux laughed in disbelief. “Was Gideon even there?”

“Yes.”

“What a pathetic man.”

“You’re green with jealousy,” Ivy said pleasantly, “and it makes you look like a filthy, green kangaroo.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She deliberately took her time lighting a cigarette, blowing the smoke right into his eyes. “Why not?” she said. “That’s all you are with your dirty money and gold-plated invitations from the mayor of crime town. A filthy green kangaroo.”

He slapped her. A great big thwack on her left cheek. Ivy’s head snapped to the side. She was conscious of the cigarette falling out of her hand and rolling onto the pillow. Her hand drifted to her cheek. The skin was warm and sticky, the pain nonexistent at first, then ferocious.

She launched herself at him, arms raised, going for the hair. She fought like an animal, eyes pinched shut, swinging blindly, silent except for the staggered breathing emitting from her nostrils. Roux wrenched her hands away, pinned them to her sides. She tried to bite his arm. He pushed her facedown onto the bed. Her legs thrashed around but only kicked air. “Enough!” he shouted.

When he realized she wasn’t struggling anymore, he slowly released her. Oxygen returned to her lungs in embarrassing wheezes. She told herself to move, to react, but she couldn’t move a muscle. Over the thump of her galloping heart, she heard the ticking of the clock in the living room.

Roux shoved his face into her line of sight. “Are you okay?”

“Get away from me.”

“Look,” he said aggressively, showing her his profile. “I’m bleeding.” He was. She saw the gashes down his cheek in two parallel curves, like red ski tracks, which he was cupping with one hand to keep the blood from dripping onto the sheets.