Surviving Ice (Burying Water #4)(47)

This has to be one of Bentley’s Alliance guys.

Why the f*ck is he here?

He has a drink in hand, so he’ll need to use the restroom soon. He’s a guy, it’s inevitable. Hell, I already need to piss, too. I could follow him in, corner him, get him to talk. It’ll be loud and crowded in . . .

“What’s going on with you?”

I start, surprised. At some point, I stopped watching Ivy completely and she snuck up on me. No one should be able to sneak up on me. This is why I hate clubs. I’m not at my best in here.

I push aside thoughts of the guy for now and focus on her, on the thin sheen of sweat that makes her cheeks glow and the swell of her breasts—pushed up in a top made to look like a corset—glisten. “Nothing. Why?”

“You looked like a f*cking statue just now. It was weird.”

“I’m sorry. Something distracted me. I’m fine.” But I’m not fine, because that guy is still there watching, and I’ve reached my sanity maximum of strobe lights and head-splitting music.

She follows my gaze, though she’s not noticing the mirrors, with the reflection of him. She’s zeroing in on two college blondes with shorts that barely cover their asses, and her eyes narrow.

“That’s not what distracted me,” I scold.

“How do you even know what—”

I loop my arm around her tiny waist and pull her into my good side, holding her tight. “Can we please get out of here?”

Fire dances in her eyes as she glares up at me. “Maybe I still feel like dancing.”

“Then you can dance all you want at home.” For me.

She smirks, opens her mouth to answer, but decides better of it. She flags down the waitress passing by instead. “How much for the Cohibas?”

“Twenty each,” the waitress answers with a grin.

I feel a hand slip into my back pocket, but I don’t panic because I already know it’s Ivy, fishing out two twenties. “I’ll take two.”

My brow spikes, watching the exchange with amusement. “Who are those for?”

“One’s for me.”

“And the other?”

She tucks them into her cleavage, the ends sticking out. Making my mouth water. “I haven’t decided yet.” The way she’s staring at me now, I can’t tell whether she wants to undress me or slap me. Her words, though, are clear. She’s still undecided about what—if anything—to do with her attraction to me.

I’d like her to decide sooner rather than later, because I’m leaving here and she’s not staying without me.

I watch patiently as she makes a point of pulling money out of her small purse and putting it back into my wallet, enough to cover the cigars and the drink I bought her. Figures. She’s too independent to actually let me pay for them.

When she makes a move for Gregory White from San Diego’s driver’s license, though, I snap my wallet out of her hand and slide it back into my pocket.

The last thing I want to do is expose my weakness to her, but I need to leave. I lean in close to her, reveling in her perfume. “Listen, I really need to get out of here. The strobe lights and flashes . . .” A perfectly timed parade of servers with bottles prance by, waving sparklers in the air to announce their delivery. “. . . Sometimes they remind me of shit from the past.”

I can’t be sure that she’ll even understand what I mean. Or care. But there’s an instant flicker of recognition; I can see it in her demeanor. She doesn’t say a word. Slipping her hand in mine, she begins leading me to the stairs.

Thank God.

“I drove,” I call out.

She glances up over her shoulder, a step below me. “Good, because you’re taking me home.” She doesn’t have to spell it out, I can see her meaning in her eyes.

We exit the front door with a nod to the bouncer and a smile on my face.

“Which way is your car?”

I place my hand on the small of her back and she has no choice but to let me lead, though she doesn’t tense or scowl. She doesn’t seem to mind at all.

As we round the end of the building to the street parking behind, I casually check the entrance.

The guy with the black blazer and black dress pants and polished black boots is standing on the sidewalk.

Watching us.

NINETEEN

IVY

I prefer short flings.

Not because I’m a slut—I detest that word; it’s so disparaging, and who the hell is anyone to judge anyone else’s sexual preferences?—but because there aren’t any expectations beyond, hopefully, a good time. There is no opportunity to hurt anyone’s feelings. I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me. It’s just pure physical attraction.

Like what I’ve been feeling with Sebastian all day.

I want to take him home. I want to take his clothes off and mother his wounds—my artwork—with a gentle, experienced hand. And then I want to f*ck him. I decided that somewhere between tucking the cigars into my cleavage and him revealing a vulnerable side that he was hiding so well, until he wasn’t.

But to be honest, I’m not entirely sure that this is simply physical attraction anymore. Had I had sex with him on the dirty floor of Black Rabbit two minutes after he walked in the first time, or even yesterday, then it would have been. But after spending seven hours with him and his body today, I feel connected to Sebastian, for reasons that go beyond his looks.