Page 18 of Volatile

image

image

image

Chapter Six

image

His phone buzzed, nearlyvibrating itself off the kitchen table. Jon set down the cast iron skillet he had in his hand and went to check the screen. He hit accept, then cradled it between his head and shoulder so he could continue making his late lunch. He hadn’t had the chance to eat all day, and his stomach was pissed.

“Hello, Ivy.”

Jon had left her a message earlier, hoping to set something up. He slapped a couple slices of buttered bread into the pan, heaping them with slabs of roast beef and tomato.

“Hi, Jon. I got your message, but I couldn’t call until now. The shop was so busy today, and I’m starving. Could you meet me at Seagrass Café—the one on Oakwood? No rush, I can get something to eat first.”

His chest tightened. He’d successfully avoided that neighborhood so far; he didn’t need to start failing now. “No, that won’t work.”

“Why not? It’s not far from you, and it’s right next to me. Are you busy? You said you’d be free after three.”

He adjusted the flame, flipping the sandwich. The sizzle made his stomach roar. “I am free; that’s not the issue. Just pick another place and I’ll meet you there.”

“What’s wrong with Seagrass?”

“Ivy, how many cafés are in this city? It can’t be that hard to pick another. You know what? Better yet, just come here. I’ll feed you and we’ll have more privacy.”

“Feed me? What, like a dog?”

He slid his lunch onto a plate, steeling himself. Great, she’s in this kind of fucking mood today. “How about you allow me the honor of preparing food for you? Is that better?”

“Fine. I’ll be there soon.”

She ended the call, and he raked his hands through his hair. What kind of name was Seagrass anyway? It was like something that lady at Stolly’s would drink. He shook his head, looking out the window, but just for a moment. He had to make Ivy that lunch he promised, even if she ended up stabbing through it with her sharp tongue.

Jon began making her sandwich, taking bites of his in between. As he was heading to the fridge, it came to him. He knew he’d seen that sloshed woman before. It was at Wardstone Booksellers. She was screaming at the cashier, threw a book across the counter. Maybe she’d been hopped up then too. He gave a snort, lips curving up. His smile fell. That was right before.... Fuck.

Well, well, well. Is that who I think it is? Lucky me. And here I thought the most exciting part of my visit happened fifteen minutes ago when the belligerent woman got hauled out. I sink back into the overstuffed chair, stroking the arms. Caroline can take as much time as she needs. She’s tied up doing whatever indie bookstore owners do, and if we don’t get a chance to chat today, I’ll drop by another time. No rush, dear friend. I’m in no hurry.

As I watch Julia scanning shelves, something clicks inside, as if the hammer just cocked. I’m instantly transported back, drowning in memories I haven’t thought of in years. She runs her fingers down the spines, making me hard. I want those fingers on me. I want to fuck her raw.

I’ve wanted her in my bed since I first saw her, but something’s different now. The trigger is squeezed and I fly apart. How dare Ian get someone like her? How dare he get something he doesn’t deserve? He takes what he wants with no regard for anyone, least of all his best friend. Ian needs a taste of what he shoved down my throat. He needs to gag on it. If Julia only knew the kind of man he is....

Let the mindfuck begin.

What the fuck? Jon pressed his palms against his eyes. That was thirteen months ago. How the fuck did he remember everything so vividly as if it just happened? What had started out as a game was going to end up killing him. Julia was gone and wasn’t coming back. He had to fucking get it together before Ivy arrived.

He focused back on the task at hand, pulling the leftover salad out of the fridge and adding it to Ivy’s plate. He carried it to the front room just as she was pulling up. Jon placed her plate on the end table and went to the door. He held it open for her as she walked up the path, the wind whipping her thick curls against her face.

She stepped inside, smoothed down her hair, and glanced around. Her eyes zeroed in on the plate, and her belly gave off a loud rumble. “You actually cook? You weren’t just saying that?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Maybe. You don’t seem the type.”

“And what type is that?”

---