Page 74 of Corrupting Ivy

“What things?”

I held my breath, praying he didn’t say green-eyed, black-haired women.

“Javelina. Their meat is so good, I don’t know why people don’t hunt them more often.”

What the hell was a Javelina?

It sounded like the name you would give a rabid dog or a gopher. What were those large swamp rats down in the bayou called?

God, please don’t let him feed me that.

“To be honest, I’m not that hungry.” I glanced at the knife in front of me before returning my gaze to him. “Perhaps we could wait until dinner.”

He paused in the middle of slicing the steak, staring at the plate, before setting the cutlery down with unnerving calm. “I prepared this lunch just for you.” He gave me a threatening glare as he peered through his lashes at me. “I did everything specifically for you. And now you want to wait?” He picked up the utensils and began slicing once more. “We don’t want this steak to go to waste. It doesn’t taste delicious when it’s reheated.”

I gritted my teeth as he ignored my plea like I never made one. My muscles quivered as the familiar feeling built up inside. I killed Billy to escape this type of behavior and, well, the abuse.

“Coen, I’m not eating that. I don’t feel good, and I want to go home.”

He slapped his palms on the table, causing the dishes to rattle with the impact, jumping in place with a clatter.

“I’ve been more than hospitable, Ivy.” He turned to Veronica. “There are no manners in today’s society. Can you believe this Roni?” He shook his head as if he heard a reply. “I know. What can we do?” He shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude,” I said, placating this delusion as much as I could. “I just thought maybe our first date could be more romantic, is all. It’s just… it’s not all that romantic after I puked on your floor.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t throw up, don’t lie. You’ve been sitting here the whole time.”

Perspiration broke out on my brow as tears stung my eyes. This was much worse than I thought. His mind deliberately ignored information to stay with the delusion. Even though he’d cleaned up my vomit, he still denied it ever happened. My heart beat hard in my chest. I don’t think I’m getting out of here alive, and that thought scared the shit out of me.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I meant to say I want to throw up. My stomach hurts.”

What was it about me that attracted psychotic people? Billy, Randall's mom, and now Mr. Grady… I should have pursued Otis and let the whack job, Rachel, figure herself out. At least he had his life together. A therapist and a bull rider. Somehow, those two things just didn’t seem like they went hand in hand. But then again, he’s in jail for killing someone…

What if he goes to prison for Mr. Grady’s crimes? If I die here, no one will ever know it wasn’t him.

“That’s better.”

He finished cutting the steak until all the pieces were in bite-sized bits, then dressed the salad with tomatoes, dressing, and onion slices. If this wasn’t a scene out of my nightmares, I would have eaten the salad. It looked appetizing. But if I made it out of here alive, I’d never touch another one again.

“I’m going to need my hands.”

He sighed as he tossed the salad with tongs. “You have hands.”

“I meant untied.”

“I thought you wanted me to feed you. It’s part of the romantic lunch.”

The pressure in my chest increased as he shot down each suggestion I had with ease. It was as if he had an answer book that he studied until the pages wore out. I could not talk myself out of this with him.

“Well, I changed my mind.”

He smiled, then stood from his chair, the legs scratching against the wood as he glanced at Veronica, who continued to give me an unnerving stare… as if she could change it.

“I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared down the dark hallway again. What was back there? I twisted my wrists again, allowing blood to drip down my skin and onto the armrest.

I’d gotten nowhere. These plastic ties were sturdy and thick, preventing them from stretching. Before he walked into the room, I scooted forward and reached for the restaurant-style steak knife sitting beside the table. The ones that didn’t have sharp points, and you practically had to saw your food apart. My fingertips brushed across the black handle as the shuffling grew louder, causing my hands to tremble and sweat to form on my brow. There was no way I’d be able to get the knife before he came back into the room, and who knew what he’d do if he saw me reaching for it.

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