Surviving Ice

“Shred it.” I sigh. “Except for any customers I worked on while I was here, I guess. They can’t take Ned’s license away, but they can still take mine.”

“And where are yours?”

“They should be in that pile over there, next to the upturned boxes. I just brought those in the other day.” And the assholes dumped those, too.

“How will you know which ones are yours?”

Paper crunches beneath my boots as I step through the mess and stoop down to pick up a sheet, pointing out my name in Ned’s scrawl on the top of the form. A twinge of sadness stirs in my stomach at the sight of it. “They’ll all say my name like that, on the top.”

Sebastian pulls it from my grasp and steps around me to take a seat in the office chair. He reaches down to grab a stack of papers. “Why don’t you tackle your uncle’s room? I can manage this.”

I leave quietly, but not without a glance over my shoulder to see Sebastian eying me.

TWENTY-SIX

SEBASTIAN

I go for the latest records first, because I know that Ivy’s clients will be in there.

And because I’m hoping that Royce has a file in here, too. I need his address.

I need to find out more about him.

Ivy’s worked on a lot of customers in her seven months at the shop. I’m no longer wondering how she has a chunk of money saved. It’s not on account of any criminal side jobs. She just works really hard, and at two hundred bucks an hour, she’s earning a solid living for herself.

After twenty minutes of digging, I find the original paperwork Royce filled out. I fold it and tuck it into my back pocket just as Ivy passes by, tossing in two more box flats and several trash bags on her way. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I wouldn’t do it if I were you.”

I level her with a look. I don’t normally hold a grudge but I’m still pissed at her, even though she’s apologized.

I can’t help it. Bentley has the videotape now, so Alliance has no more use for Ivy, alive or otherwise. But Scalero, he has reason not to want her alive, a thought that’s been pricking at my mind since I pulled out of Bentley’s driveway this morning. An hour and a half later, that little prickle had grown into something more difficult to ignore.

And then I showed up at Dakota’s to find Ivy’s car gone.

I nearly came straight here, but I’m glad I went to the door first. Dakota told me she had left only ten minutes before, and where she was heading.

It’s one thing to have Ivy believing that a biker gang is somehow behind all this.

It’s an entirely different thing to have her confronting them about it. By the time I arrived at that auto shop, it was obvious Ivy and that big guy, Bobby, were well into it. The only other time I’ve had any direct experience with bikers in the past was in San Diego, and the shithead was waling on his woman outside a bar.

I wasn’t going to stand back and watch that happen again.

Ivy ducks out without another word, leaving me to this nightmare.

I could easily make my excuses and leave now.

I grab a trash bag.

I’ve survived eighteen months of intensive SEAL training.

I’ve survived two tours in Afghanistan.

I’ve survived thirteen assignments for Bentley that no one will ever talk about, or know about.

I’ve been shot, stabbed, blown up, and beaten.

But it’s the dozen paper cuts on my fingers that may finally break me.

“Fuck!” I curse as another page slices across my knuckle. I toss the bag aside and suck my knuckle to relieve the sting, just as Ivy speeds past. I expect a glance, a derisive snort, some mocking.

When she doesn’t even lift her head, I know that something’s wrong. She’s been on edge all day. When I got to the auto shop, it was clear by the look in her eyes that she was happy to see me. That didn’t stop her from punishing me for leaving so abruptly last night by giving me attitude. But this must be different.

Forgetting my personal woes, I make my way to her bedroom to find her crouching over her dresser, trying to lift it back to its upright position.

“That’s heavy. Let me help you with—”

“I’m fine!” she snaps, but her voice doesn’t carry its normal sharpness. It’s shaky and higher pitched. When I step closer, she hides her face behind a curtain of hair, turning away from me.

That’s when I know.

She doesn’t resist me when I scoop her up and settle onto the foam mattress—still basically intact—with her in my arms. She rests her head against my chest and my shirt grows damp with her tears, her entire little body shaking as she cries. But she barely makes a sound.

Ivy’s hard shell has finally cracked.

TWENTY-SEVEN

IVY

I didn’t cry the night of the robbery.

I didn’t shed a single tear at the funeral.

And now I can’t seem to stop.

I wasn’t even doing anything particularly nostalgic. Tossing Ned’s underwear and socks into a trash bag. Dumping his buttondown shirts and jeans into a box for Goodwill. Deciding what to do with his white wedding day suit that he’s kept all these years, insisting that he’d be buried in it when his time came, because the day he married Jun was the happiest day of his life, and he wanted to relive it for all eternity. His day came too early and forty pounds too heavy, unfortunately.

Then I started to think about how maybe none of this would have happened if he just hadn’t been gambling, and how I can’t believe I didn’t know about this mess with him and that guy Sullivan trying to take Black Rabbit from him. It was happening right under my nose and I didn’t have a clue, too busy poking fun at him for being old, while I lived in his house and ate his food and worked out of his shop.

And then the tears started to roll and wouldn’t stop, no matter how furiously I wiped at them.

I hate letting anyone see me cry, but I don’t have it in me—physically or emotionally—to push Sebastian away right now, and if I stop lying to myself for a minute, I’ll admit that it feels good to have him just hold me.

It actually helps.

“Thanks,” I mutter, wiping my cheeks. I pull away from my little nest against his chest and cringe, streaks of black mascara and eyeliner smeared all over the front of his white T-shirt. I can only imagine what my face looks like.

He doesn’t even flinch, though, his jaw working against itself, taut. The short beard that’s normally so well kept shows signs of disarray, like he didn’t have time to trim and edge it today.

“You look like you didn’t sleep last night,” I say.

“I didn’t. But I’ll be fine.”

What kind of errands would keep him up all night?

“Don’t look so worried.” He sighs and stretches his long legs out in front of him. We’re practically sitting on the floor, him on my mattress; me, on him. The muscles in his arms are cording, probably after holding me in this position for so long.

I try to move, to relieve him of that, but he squeezes, trapping me.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I warn him.

“Neither do I,” he fires back with a smirk. “But do you feel a bit better now?”

I nod slowly, because I do.

He opens his mouth but hesitates. “I told you about those three good friends I lost in the war?”