“I think Ivy should stay in San Francisco. Don’t you?”
I blink at the sudden change in subject. “If she wants to, then yeah. It’s a great city.”
“She wants to. She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet. But I’ve never seen her this happy.”
A sudden, angry holler of “Dammit, Bobby!” coming from inside makes me nearly spit out my mouthful of beer. “Is that so?” I ask with a wry smile. But inside, her words are resonating deep with me. I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long time either. Even with all the guilt and worry that’s eating me up inside.
Dakota leans over to rub my biceps with her arm. “And she’s perfect for you. I can just feel it. It’s like”—she holds her hands in the air, her fingers rubbing together as if testing out an invisible fabric—“those first few warm days when the ice begins to melt. When you just know that the long, cold winter is over.”
I have no fucking clue what she’s getting at, but tension slips into my back with her choice of words. I know that’s all it is—a word—and it’s just coincidental, but it reminds me who I am. I’m not really this guy who follows a woman around, shares meals and beds, shops for locks and perfume. I’m only pretending to be him right now.
What if Ivy finds out?
“I’ll leave dinner out for you two,” Dakota says with a smile and a pat, climbing down the steps and heading to her car, a vintage yellow Volkswagen Bug. Exactly what I’d expect her to drive.
I sip the rest of my beer slowly as I watch first Dakota pull away, and then Carl in his pickup truck. Dean and Thomas follow minutes later, with silent but respectful waves to me that I match, the deep rumble of their Harley engines earning a few glances out of neighborhood windows.
It’s when I tip my head back to finish my beer that I catch a glimpse of the figure sitting in the navy sedan down the street. I noticed the car there three hours ago, but it was empty. Or I thought it was.
Now it’s very clearly not.
“Hey, you want another one?” Bobby asks from behind.
I would have said no. Now I reach up over my head and feel him shove the ice-cold can in it. Cracking it open, I force my eyes away from the car and the figure inside for just long enough to pretend I haven’t noticed it.
Bobby hunkers down beside me, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Jeez, that one has a temper on her.”
“She has to compensate for her size somehow.”
He bursts out in laughter, but then glances over his shoulder. “Don’t let her hear you say that. You’ll end up with your nuts in a sack on your pillow by morning.”
I was always good at carrying on a conversation while scoping out enemy territory, but I’m struggling to do it now. Maybe I’ve been working alone too long. I just want Bobby to leave so I can figure out who the hell is in that car.
I’m pretty sure I already know.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Here.”
“Yeah? Same. Went to school in Colma.”
I sip on my beer instead of answering, letting the silence drag on.
“So, you and Ivy?”
Now I turn my attention to the burly blond guy next to me, to glare at him. “Are we really doing this, man?” I’m not going to sit on the steps and talk about whatever’s happening between the two of us.
He shrugs and climbs the steps, disappearing back into the house.
“Thanks for the beer,” I call out, taking the steps down two at a time. I walk to the end of the driveway and make a point of staring at the shadow in the car. Letting him know I see him.
The car pulls away from the curb and takes the first left turn.
Too far away for me to catch the license plate.
So this is how it’s going to be, is it?
I grit my teeth against the bubble of anger rising. Is this Bentley? Is it that fucking idiot Mario?
I reach into my pocket to pull my burner out, to call Bentley and blast him. But no . . . fuck it. I’ve warned them both.
I won’t warn them again.
THIRTY-ONE
IVY