Surviving Ice
Page 77

Never did I think I’d be using that information as leverage against Bentley, and yet here I am, doing exactly that.
Bentley’s eyes narrow. He thinks I’ve betrayed him. He’s right, but I don’t really have a choice.
“As long as nothing happens to either of us, that information will never see the light of day,” I promise.
“How can I believe—”
“Because unlike you, I can be trusted.”
Bentley chews the inside of his mouth. He’s always been good at knowing when he’s cornered, with no way out. It rarely happens. “I’m not going to walk away from this unscathed, am I?”
“No. But you’ll walk away because you finally did the right thing.” I meet his gaze. “Where are they?”
He grits his teeth.
FORTY-FIVE
IVY
“This isn’t exactly like the picture!”
“No, it’s better.” I start pulling apart my tattoo machine to clean it.
“She’s right,” Ren, a twentysomething-year-old blond guy with a giant smile and a bad habit of flirting with anything female, says¸ winking at me.
Bobby studies the rottweiler riding a bike in the mirror, then glares at me.
I stop what I’m doing to fold my arms over my chest and stand my ground. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” he grudgingly admits.
“Well, then.” I glance at the clock on the wall. Two a.m. “How much longer?”
He shrugs. “There’s a bed in the back that you can use for the night.”
With crusted semen from God only knows how many of these guys? “I’m fine.” I’ve seen two guys stroll out from the dark, dingy hall that leads to the unknown part of the clubhouse since I’ve been here.
The same stupid, sated grin on their faces, the same hooker on their arms.
“Okay. Ain’t gonna fight with you.”
“Finally . . .” I mutter, earning his snort.
“Oh, look who it is . . . perfect timing.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the flip phone. I dive for it, but he’s too tall, twisting out of the way to answer. “Yup . . . yup . . . all good.”
I drill into Bobby’s face with my impatient glare, making him uncomfortable enough to finally mutter, “Jesus, talk to her. She’s drivin’ me nuts.” He thrusts the phone into my waiting hands.
As annoyed and confused as I am right now, I also miss Sebastian. I’ve gone from being with the man all day, every day, to being locked up in a smelly biker clubhouse with vague, random phone calls and no information to sustain me.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” Sebastian’s voice is low and soft, as if he’s trying to keep quiet. I can’t hear anything in the background. “Are they treating you well?”
“Yeah, fine. Where are you?” What are you doing? Is it one of those things that people won’t approve of?
Silence answers me.
“Will I approve of this?”
After a long moment. “Yes. At least, I hope so.” I hear the sorrow in his voice, the worry.
“Just tell me I won’t be held hostage by these bikers for much longer.”
Bobby grumbles something unintelligible behind me.
“I’ve gotta go. I just needed to hear your voice.”
“You’re safe, right?” Will he end up with another bullet in his leg? Or worse?
“See you soon, Ivy.”
The phone goes dead, leaving me with an odd, inexplicable sense of dread.
I try to slide the phone into my pocket, but Bobby snatches it out of my hand. He settles onto his stool and takes a swig of his beer, nodding at my drink. “Now that you’re done working on me, I’ll let you have a drink.”
“Let me?” I roll my eyes. “Whiskey, neat.”
The middle-aged Mexican playing bartender pours me a shot of Wild Turkey—I cringe, but he merely shrugs and says that’s all they’ve got—and I slam it back, earning Bobby’s laugh. “You know, you’re your uncle’s niece, that’s for sure. I can see why Ned was so happy to have you around.” He heaves a sigh. “He used to sit in that very seat after a game. Just for one or two, though.”
“He never was a big drinker.” I haven’t felt that painful ball in my throat for some time now, but it flares up at the mention of Ned. Probably because I don’t have Sebastian to distract me. “Why did Sebastian send you to get me?” Why would Sebastian want me locked up here, behind walls and chain-metal fence and security? It’s obviously to keep me safe, but from whom?
“He had something he needed to do.”
“Bobby.”
He avoids answering by taking another swig of his beer.
“You’ve basically kidnapped me. I think you could at least tell me why.”
“Can’t. Promised your guy.”
“So you’re more loyal to him than to me?”
“No, I was loyal to Ned. That’s why I’m doin’ this.” He purses his lips, as if he just said more than he wanted.
“So this is about Ned.” I pause, as puzzle pieces begin clicking into place. I still don’t have any answer, really. But I think I’ve figured out one. “Sebastian knows who killed Ned, doesn’t he?”
After a moment, Bobby offers only a nod and then a shrug. “Told you there was something off about him.”
“Yes, you did.” And I dismissed it because I was too busy falling hard for the guy. It’s odd, but Bobby’s confirmation is somehow anticlimactic for me. I think my subconscious had already accepted it along with everything else about Sebastian that I can’t explain.
I tap the counter with my empty shot glass, waiting for another round, as I run through all kinds of questions in my head. Did Sebastian know before he met me, or did he find out at some point after? Who does he work for? Why the hell did he let me tattoo half his torso with my design?
But more worrying to me than anything else right now . . . Does he really care about me, or has this all been some big scam?
Because that will crush me.
All these thoughts are going on under the mask of calm that I’ve mastered as I throw back my drink.
Bobby watches me warily, as if he expects me to suddenly explode.
“What?” I ask, and I realize my voice is way too steady.
“I figured you’d take that news a little harder.”
I divert the subject away from me and my feelings. “If you think there’s something wrong with him, then why are you helping him?”
Bobby considers that for a long moment. “Because I don’t think he means you any harm.”
And yet he’ll probably break my heart into a million tiny pieces.
“Look, you two can hash all that out when you see him again. I don’t get involved in this shit. If you want uncomplicated, come sit on my lap. Otherwise, drink, ink, sleep . . . or shut up.”
Exactly the kind of answer I’d expect from a guy like Bobby. I wave my empty shot glass at the guy behind the bar, who promptly fills it again.
“To Ned,” Bobby says.
I clink my glass against his. “To Ned.”
FORTY-SIX
SEBASTIAN
The dilapidated trailer shows no signs of life—no lights, no sound. Apparently this is Ricky’s uncle’s property. Ricky dropped a trailer on it last year. He likes to come out here for weekends and shoot targets.