I should’ve driven straight home after leaving the station this evening. But instead, I found myself cruising around Cold in the dark of night. The glow of the moon, a few streetlamps, and the headlights of my truck were the only things left in the inky blackness.
I’d left work thirty minutes ago, and I was quickly starting to realize Cold was too damn small. If I kept making loops around the center of town, people would start to notice, and I needed to roam.
Yeah, I definitely should’ve just gone home. But lately, it seemed I was never doing any of the things I should be doing.
In the spirit of avoiding someone noticing my odd behavior, I took a right past town hall and found the open road.
Today had been a long day.
Before I’d gone into the station for an eight-hour shift, I’d worked on the set of Cold for a good five hours. I’d sat down with the director and discussed a few technical things related to police work, and then I’d had to sit beside him for what felt like an eternity as I watched Johnny and Ivy shoot sex scenes.
Watching her fake-fucking Johnny Atkins didn’t sit well with me.
And didn’t sit well with me was a really fucking nice way of saying torture.
I tried to tell myself it was because they were portraying Grace and me. I even tried to tell myself it was because I was merely annoyed with being on set and watching take after take of the same scene while hearing the same lines over and over again.
I failed.
Ivy was the one I was seeing in those scenes, not Grace, and I was mesmerized each and every goddamn time. She was alluring and beautiful, and her body was under someone else’s.
It was a recipe for hostile psychological captivity.
So much so, even now, hours and hours later, I couldn’t shake her out of my thoughts.
Another ten minutes into my drive and I pulled my truck to a stop just outside of the entrance to a driveway.
But it wasn’t just any driveway.
When the logical, rational side of my brain caught up with the fact that I was outside of Grace’s old house, which was now Ivy’s current home away from home, I sighed heavily and rested my head against the back of my seat in defeat.
What the fuck, Levi?
From the street, I could see that most of the lights were still on inside.
She was home.
Quickly, I averted my gaze to the opposite side of the road while I berated myself. The last thing I needed to be doing was peeking in her windows like a fucking creep.
How in the hell had I ended up here?
And more than that, why was I here?
Because you want to see her.
The last time I’d really spoken to her had been inside of her dressing room right after I’d stepped onto set and told Boyce Williams, the spineless prick, to shut the fuck up.
Ivy had needed someone to stand up for her, and in that moment, I hadn’t wanted that someone to be anyone else but me.
But once she’d calmed down and we’d talked behind closed doors, the way she’d made me feel had been far too much for my tortured soul to handle. I’d left without saying much more than a goodbye.
She pushed me out of my comfort zone, and I wasn’t sure how to handle any of it.
Which was probably why my truck was currently sitting outside of her temporary residence.
With a heavy exhale escaping my lungs, I rested my forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel as my truck idled in place.
Inside my head, my emotions, these fucking feelings, warred against one another.
Go to her.
You shouldn’t be here.
But you obviously want to be here.
You can’t be here.
It was too much. All of it. Her.
I had no idea what I was even wanting to get out of this. What good would it do if I just showed up in the middle of the night?
And what was the end goal? Talking?
I nearly laughed at my irrational naïveté.
We wouldn’t talk. We never just talked. Every interaction Ivy and I had, even when we were screaming at one another, was always so much more than us merely talking.
Before I gave myself any more time for impulsive, rash, fucking insane behavior, I wrapped my fingers around the shifter and slid it into drive.
Back the way I came, I drove ten miles over the speed limit down the mostly open road until I reached the center of town again and spotted the one and only place that had the power to provide some sort of solace.
As I pulled into the parking lot of Ruby Jane’s, I turned off my truck and sighed quietly into the cab. Fatigue was starting to seep into my pores, and I needed a distraction in the form of a stiff drink.
The remnants of the several-hour discomfort I’d had to sit through while watching Ivy and Johnny fake-fuck each other on set, along with the overall exhaustion that was my constant emotional battle, sat inside my bones. And my appetite had been nonexistent all damn day.
Which was another reason why stopping at Ruby Jane’s for a few hours was a good idea. I’d have a stiff drink, eat a burger and some fries, and call it a night once my mind stopped giving its best impression of a NASCAR driver.
My boots crunched across the gravel of the parking lot as I walked toward the front of the bar. Opening the big wooden door, I stepped inside. My senses were instantly kidnapped. There was noise and chatter and people. Everywhere.
The bar was far too busy for my liking, but I swallowed down my annoyance and nodded my greeting toward what felt like half the town as I headed straight for the bar.
Small talk and pleasantries were not on my agenda. My brain was far too muddled for that tonight.
The familiarity of the bar made thoughts of Grace swirl around my mind like wisps of smoke coming from a lit cigarette. The annual party the Murphys threw every year in honor of Grace’s birthday was tomorrow—her birthday would have been tomorrow…
It was meant to remember her. To reminisce over the many memories we all shared with her. But every year, it only intensified the sting I still felt from her loss.
The jukebox in the back of the bar switched over to “Sweet Home Alabama,” and several patrons shouted their approval. People cheersed and danced and sang around me, and I couldn’t fight off the scowl that furrowed my brow and pushed my lips into a firm line.
Normally, I could drown out the crowd. Ignore the constant chatter and boisterous voices. But as I sat down on the barstool and nodded toward Lou for my usual, my ears rang with aggravation. I felt hyperalert. Like every sound around me was being processed through a fucking megaphone.
Lou slid a whiskey toward me with a soft flick of his wrist. “Bottoms up.”
“Cheers, man.” I lifted my glass and nodded toward him before taking a hearty swig. The alcohol stung as it slid down my throat, and I shook off the afterburn as I set the glass back onto the bar.
“Everything all right?” Lou asked. “Haven’t seen you around here in a while. Where ya been?”
I shrugged. “Well, considering I’ve been forced to take on another damn near full-time job in the name of a Hollywood film, it’s safe to say I’ve been a little busy.”
He scrutinized my face. I fought the impulse to cover it with my hands. I’d known Lou my whole life, and the man had a good sense of knowing when I was at war with myself.
Hell, on paper, he was my employee. Even though he physically ran Ruby Jane’s, I was the sole owner. It was the one and only thing I’d inherited from my father that I couldn’t sell off.
Well, this, and that goddamn monstrosity of a house I currently called home.
“How’s it goin’ with that film?”
“Hell if I know. I’m just there to keep things official, courtesy of Old Red,” I responded with another shrug, and Lou chuckled.
“Chief Pulse is a bit of a hard-ass, ain’t he?”
I smiled. It felt like the first time in a year. “Preaching to the choir, Lou. I’ve been dealing with Red’s tendencies my whole life.”
He smiled and wiped off the counter with a damp rag before heading toward the opposite end of the bar to serve Butch Mason and his wife Amy Marie fresh beers.
I took another swig of my whiskey and stared up at the flat-screen television above the rows of liquor bottles that were ready and waiting to feed the alcohol lovers of Cold their favorite poison.
College basketball flashed across the screen, but I couldn’t focus on anything going on in the game. I had no clue who was playing, who was winning, or how much time was left.
My mind might as well have been in China.
I only lasted another ten or so minutes before I decided that neither the whiskey nor the ambiance that was a boisterous Ruby Jane’s crowd was going to quiet my racing thoughts.
Ideas of stiff drinks and burgers and fries were no longer appealing.
I just needed to go home. Take a shower. Go the fuck to bed.
I pulled a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet, tossed it onto the bar, and nodded a goodbye to Lou.
“You leaving already, Fox?” he called from the other end, and I offered a curt nod in his direction.
“Got an early day tomorrow,” I explained as I got up from my barstool and pulled my jacket back on. “See ya around, Lou.”
Tired of thinking, tired of trying not to feel, tired of not being able to invite the numbness I’d relied on for the past several years, I made my way into the too big house that was my own.
I settled in, creating light and noise, but even with the rooms bright and the TV on, it was empty and far too quiet compared to the blaring thoughts of my mind.
I needed a distraction.
With my boots heavy and slow across the hardwood floor of my living room, I dragged my tired, out-of-sorts self into the hallway and straight into my master bedroom.
I was undressed and stepping past my half-filled walk-in closet and into the master bath scant minutes later.
The cream tile felt cool on my bare feet as I padded past the Jacuzzi tub and to the shower. I turned on the faucet and hopped inside before the water even had time to warm up.
It didn’t matter, though. I couldn’t feel a thing, not even the frigid temperature of the unheated water spraying across my aching skin.
I switched my brain to robotic mode, only focusing on the menial tasks of washing myself. Grab soap. Wash skin. Grab shampoo. Wash hair. I focused on the beautiful simplicity of each task.
And for a few easy moments, I found relief in that.
But it didn’t take long for my thoughts to catch up to me.
Visions of red hair and emerald orbs and a gaze so heated it could ignite my skin flickered and flashed behind my eyes.
My devious fucking hand found my cock after that.
And before I knew it, I was stroking my hand up and down my shaft as the sheer pleasure of it made my lids fall closed.
It felt good.
But she would feel better…
I stroked more, and my cock grew until I was rock hard in my palm.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Her rosebud mouth. Her striking green eyes. Her perfect fucking curves. The way her curvy little ass saunters from side to side as she walks.
My head swam, and I stroked harder, faster.
The sexiest woman I’ve ever known. Her body. Her face. The rasp of her seductive fucking voice. The way she moans when I slide my tongue into her mouth.
My legs shook as the pleasure of it all started to build. I rested my free hand against the stone of the shower wall to brace myself, while the other continued to move up and down my throbbing dick.
I want to feel her wrapped around my cock.
I want to hear her moans when I slide inside of her.
I kept fucking stroking myself. I couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop.
Yes, Ivy.
Fucking hell. I released my cock and slammed my fist against the wet stone wall as water dripped over my eyes and fogged my vision. I couldn’t escape her. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was consuming me, and I didn’t understand why.
Because you feel something.
I shut my eyes, turned around and let my head fell back against the wall as the hot water sprayed directly into my face.
I had to stop this.
I refused to let myself get off to thoughts of Ivy. I feared, if I did, there would be no going back. Once I came to the mere idea of her, there would be no possibility of ignoring the feelings that were building inside of me.
She would consume me after that.
She already consumes you.
“Fuck!” I shouted, and my booming voice echoed off the walls of the bathroom.
I tried to distract myself. I tried to wash myself again in hopes I’d forget about her for more than a few fucking minutes.
But my cock was still hard.
And I couldn’t stop picturing her mouth. Her mesmerizing eyes. Her fucking body.
With my hand to my dick again, a tingle running down the line of my spine and an ache in my balls, I was done. I fisted my cock, stroking once, twice, three times, and by the time I’d moved my hand up and down my cock for a measly thirty seconds, I came. Hard.
My knees shook. The waves of my pleasure rolled up my spine, and I shut my eyes as a deep, guttural groan left my throat.
It was wrong. But, God, it’d felt so good.
And the intense pleasure hadn’t just come from the much-needed release.
No. It had come from the visuals. From the thoughts. The fantasies.
Of Ivy.