Page 9 of Corrupting Ivy

Handing Mr. Grady, the country store clerk, his beer, my gaze caught a mysterious man walking through the bar door, who took a seat near me. His spicy cologne struck my nose like a pheromone, drawing me in. Remy spoke with him as though he were a lifelong friend and not some random tourist. If he lived here, I’d never seen him before.

I grabbed a washrag and scrubbed a sticky substance from the surface of the wooden bar as he spoke to her. The surrounding crowd, along with the music, made it impossible to hear what they were discussing.

He picked up the glass she gave him and walked around the bar. I lost sight of him as I bumped into Remy and stumbled.

“Sorry,” I said as I grabbed her shoulders to steady her and myself—not that she needed it. Remy was as tough a woman as they come. “Who was that?”

Her lip kinked a smile. “That is a man you should stay far away from.” She filled another shot of Jack and tipped it back, swallowing the contents. “Listen to me when I tell you, you don’t want to get messed up with him. He will chew you up and spit you out.”

I tensed my brows. Those were some powerful words for someone who was just friendly with such a menacing man, as she says he is. I nodded, then walked over to the table where the three FBI agents sat down to take their order.

One agent I’ve come to know since being interviewed by them endless amounts of times—as though they expected my story to change, or for me to miraculously come up with more information that could help them solve the case—asked for Hellbender IPA.

Agent Reynolds was a black man in his late forties with light-brown eyes and a smooth complexion. He kept his hair cut short in a tapered fade with a 5 o'clock shadow that added to his handsomeness.

“And what can I get you two?” I asked, turning my attention to Agent Mons and Aguilar.

Aguilar was a tough and intimidating woman with copper brown hair and a small beauty mark like Cindy Crawford. I think she and Mons had a thing for each other. They were always together and sitting closer than they should be if it were a professional relationship.

“I’ll just have whatever is on tap.”

“I’ll have the same,” Mons said.

I nodded. “Coming right up.”

Turning on my heel, I made my way to the back in search of the IPA, whose name reminded me of a motorcycle club.

The stockroom was dim with shelves along the walls, and on them were different lagers. I started from the top, still unfamiliar with her organization, and made my way down until I hit the bottom shelf, then started from the top again.

My skin crawled. Not from the dark room or the fear of what crawled in it, but as though eyes were searing my skin. My heart sped up as the survival instinct I’ve developed kicked into gear, sending my senses soaring.

“What are you looking for?”

A deep baritone voice penetrated the silence, which shot my stomach into my throat, then lit it up with tiny fireflies.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” I pressed my hand to my chest as I jumped in place with a start, searching for the face that belonged to the voice. And then I saw him. Tucked in the back, where Remy had a bed for the times she got too drunk to go home, was the man from the bar—the one she warned me to stay away from.

He laid on the bed, shirtless. I swallowed hard as I observed all his tattooed muscular glory, exposed for my viewing pleasure, while he lay with his hands tucked behind his head. The cup he had balanced on his chest drew my attention to the frightening tattoo it magnified. Some sort of black beast clawed its way out of the depths of darkness with two red piercing eyes that would terrify even the most seasoned horror movie lover. I tore my gaze away from the beast to see the outline of his hard length through his pants.

“You won’t find them on that shelf.”

I flicked my eyes up to meet him, his voice slapping me back into reality. “Hmm. Do you typically crack jokes after scaring people to death?”

He grunted as if he shared some inside joke with himself.

Plucking his glass off his chest, he sat up and stalked towards me. He bent down to the bottom shelf at the end and pulled out a dusty, worn-down cardboard box, then shoved it towards me. It slid across the ground with a scratch that resembled nails on a chalkboard, coming to rest at my feet. He stood still, observing me as I did him, the liquid in his glass as calm as a lake on a sunny day.

Bending over, I opened the top of the box only to find an old nativity scene along with a few other decorations.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I rolled my eyes. “Really?”

Somehow, he was closer now. The cologne I smelled earlier when he walked in, stronger, and that darkness on his chest was pitch black. The rest of his tattoos were now visible with an elk head on his middle finger, its antlers branching out across his knuckles as he held the glass. His other hand, sticking partially out of his jean’s pocket, was a tattooed dagger on his thumb with jewels embedded in the handle. Ink covered his arms from wrist to broad, muscular shoulders with intricate objects weaved in, all seeming to revolve around… death and time.

I stepped forward without a second thought and placed my fingers on the devilish red eyes staring back at me. My fingertips touched his warm skin, sending a jolt of fire between my legs. His hand shot up, and he wrapped his long fingers around my wrist, holding my hand in place.

“Don’t.”

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