Surviving Ice

A bubble of nerves bursts in my stomach. He doesn’t sound like he’s planning on leaving me anytime soon.

The bubble is quashed the second we turn the corner to find three guys on Harleys parked outside the house.

I recognize the blond beard immediately. “What the hell is Bobby doing here?”

“Stay put,” Sebastian says, throwing the car in Park. He slips his gun out from his boot and tucks it into the back of his pants.

I open the door and climb out, my adrenaline pumping. He sighs with exasperation, but he doesn’t scold me. He knows better.

We meet behind Sebastian’s car and walk together toward Bobby, who’s climbed off his bike.

“Nice shiner,” I say, nodding at the prominent black-and-purple bruise marring Bobby’s left eye. Curtains in several windows of wary neighbors across the street shift. I wonder how long I’ve had bikers sitting outside Ned’s house.

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian asks in an icy tone, his gaze shifting to size up the other guys—the two from yesterday. Another guy I’ve never seen before steps out from a pickup truck parked along the curb.

Four against one. I don’t like these odds.

“We came to offer a hand.” Bobby looks directly at me, ignoring Sebastian. “Ned was family to us, which means you’re family, too. Carl over there,” he points to the guy who got out of the truck, “does plaster. You need someone who knows what they’re doing for that.”

“Did Moe send you?”

Bobby’s lip twitches just slightly. “Maybe.”

I heave a sigh. I’m not in a position to tell them to go to hell, even though I’m still pissed at Bobby for leaving me in the dark about Ned’s gambling situation. “Great. We can use all the help we can get.” Spearing Sebastian with a warning glare and a whispered hiss of “Don’t beat them up again” just loud enough that Bobby can hear it—for ego-bruising purposes—we head into the house.

THIRTY

SEBASTIAN

It’s been a long time since I sat on a front porch with a cold beer, watching the sun set after hours of hard manual labor.

I forgot how good this feels.

Dean and Thomas—the guys I knocked out yesterday—are loading the last of the debris into the back of the truck. That’s the third trip to the dump for them today. They’ve stayed out of my way for the most part. All of them have.

“So, if we come back here tomorrow, will you be here?” Bobby asks.

I roll my eyes through another sip. Dakota showed up about an hour ago with a twelve-pack of Coronas and some homemade muffins that Ivy interrogated her over before allowing her to hand them out. Bobby and his guys have been trailing her around like lost puppies after their owner, and she’s happily let them, flicking her hair over her shoulder, showing off the tattoo Ivy just did for her.

“I guess you’ll have to come back and help Ivy to find out, won’t you?” Dakota laughs. It’s such a soft, seductive laugh. I have to hand it to her—she knows how to manipulate men into getting what she wants, and right now that’s helping her friend fix this house.

“Oh, we’ll be here until this place is as good as new. Don’t you worry.” The dumbass is falling right into her trap.

“Good.” Her sandals slide against the concrete steps as she makes her way down to sit beside me. “How’s that beer?”

“Nice and cold. Thanks.”

She smiles boldly at me. If it were anyone else, I’d say she was flirting, but I don’t think that’s the case with her. Glancing over her shoulder, she murmurs, “Who knew these bikers could be good for something besides causing trouble?”

“We should have the place fixed with a few days of solid work.”

“I think Ivy should stay in San Francisco. Don’t you?”

I blink at the sudden change in subject. “If she wants to, then yeah. It’s a great city.”

“She wants to. She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet. But I’ve never seen her this happy.”

A sudden, angry holler of “Dammit, Bobby!” coming from inside makes me nearly spit out my mouthful of beer. “Is that so?” I ask with a wry smile. But inside, her words are resonating deep with me. I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long time either. Even with all the guilt and worry that’s eating me up inside.

Dakota leans over to rub my biceps with her arm. “And she’s perfect for you. I can just feel it. It’s like”—she holds her hands in the air, her fingers rubbing together as if testing out an invisible fabric—“those first few warm days when the ice begins to melt. When you just know that the long, cold winter is over.”

I have no fucking clue what she’s getting at, but tension slips into my back with her choice of words. I know that’s all it is—a word—and it’s just coincidental, but it reminds me who I am. I’m not really this guy who follows a woman around, shares meals and beds, shops for locks and perfume. I’m only pretending to be him right now.

What if Ivy finds out?

“I’ll leave dinner out for you two,” Dakota says with a smile and a pat, climbing down the steps and heading to her car, a vintage yellow Volkswagen Bug. Exactly what I’d expect her to drive.

I sip the rest of my beer slowly as I watch first Dakota pull away, and then Carl in his pickup truck. Dean and Thomas follow minutes later, with silent but respectful waves to me that I match, the deep rumble of their Harley engines earning a few glances out of neighborhood windows.

It’s when I tip my head back to finish my beer that I catch a glimpse of the figure sitting in the navy sedan down the street. I noticed the car there three hours ago, but it was empty. Or I thought it was.

Now it’s very clearly not.

“Hey, you want another one?” Bobby asks from behind.

I would have said no. Now I reach up over my head and feel him shove the ice-cold can in it. Cracking it open, I force my eyes away from the car and the figure inside for just long enough to pretend I haven’t noticed it.

Bobby hunkers down beside me, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm. “Jeez, that one has a temper on her.”

“She has to compensate for her size somehow.”

He bursts out in laughter, but then glances over his shoulder. “Don’t let her hear you say that. You’ll end up with your nuts in a sack on your pillow by morning.”

I was always good at carrying on a conversation while scoping out enemy territory, but I’m struggling to do it now. Maybe I’ve been working alone too long. I just want Bobby to leave so I can figure out who the hell is in that car.

I’m pretty sure I already know.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Here.”

“Yeah? Same. Went to school in Colma.”

I sip on my beer instead of answering, letting the silence drag on.

“So, you and Ivy?”

Now I turn my attention to the burly blond guy next to me, to glare at him. “Are we really doing this, man?” I’m not going to sit on the steps and talk about whatever’s happening between the two of us.

He shrugs and climbs the steps, disappearing back into the house.

“Thanks for the beer,” I call out, taking the steps down two at a time. I walk to the end of the driveway and make a point of staring at the shadow in the car. Letting him know I see him.