Where the Ivy Hides (4 page)

To anyone else reading that rap sheet on his desk, yes, it looks bad. Okay, it looks really fucking bad. But to me, I remember those moments in my life. Every cut I remember. Every time the cops stopped me, warned me, and then later arrested me, I remember the need to make it go away, and by it I mean everything, hence the suicide attempt list.

No, I am not a model citizen. But hell, come on, really? “Really, Mr. Dawson? How about the shit that happened before the hospitals and authorities started documenting? Is there a little summary at the top of my chart? One about the hell I lived through before my ten-year-old self accidently cut an area that surfaced an artery I didn’t even know existed?”

His eyes sadden. “No, I’m sorry, there isn’t. But that’s why you and I are here. To find out what happened so we can get you back on the path of healing. Physically and emotionally. Would you like to try to fill in some of the holes in your patient chart with me today? I really think it’d help.”

I glance at the clock and release a pent up breath, “Nope. Sure don’t. Look,” I nod towards the wall where the clock hangs. “My time’s all up for today, Mr. Dawson. Until tomorrow.”

I have to move very slowly in order to keep from wincing from the pain as I rise from the chair and turn to exit.

“Ivy…Cage? You were adopted by, was it your mother’s sister or your father’s?” His words root my feet to the floor.

Without turning around, my head tips to the side before I clearly speak, “My Aunt Blythe adopted me. Blythe Cage. Ask her.”

I don’t look up once from the taupe and white checkered floor tiles as I pass the people in the halls on my way back to patient room number 13.

Chapter 4

My heels nervously click against the hardwood floor of the church’s small auditorium as the second to last speaker drones on about her beloved, mythical five-year sobriety chip, and I’ve never been so certain I would pass out from anxiety before than I am in this moment.

Until Ry’s hand settles on my knee before squeezing. “Easy, love. You got this.” My eyes meet his through my grown out bangs and everything else in the room goes still. “You got this.” His Irish lilt is a tad thicker than usual.

Like water in a jar. I think that’s in a country song Reese made me listen to once, but there are really no other words to express the calmness that blankets me. I smile and mumble to him, never breaking eye contact, “I’ve got this.”

And I do. It’s been one fucking hellish three months, but I made it out alive, and as of right now, I got this. The pride I feel thrumming through me is unparalleled to any high I’d rather feel. I don’t have five years like Debbie up on the stage does, but my ninety days makes me feel just as proud.

Dr. Dawson and I’s love/hate relationship, and Ryker’s unshakable determination are the only two things I can attribute my little success to. I don’t know where I’d be without either of them, but mostly my Ry. I wish I could squelch my lingering reservations about him, but like Dr. Dawson explained, I have trust issues that run so much deeper, and the only fix for that is time.

Of course my retort was that a line and a shot are much quicker fixes, but he didn’t find the irony in that joke very funny.

The announcement of my name and applause pulls me from my thoughts, and immediately I feel Ryker’s hand at the small of my back.

“Ya know, I’m proud of ya, love. Now, go knock ‘em dead, Las.” After he kisses my cheek, he places my hand in the crook of his arm before escorting me up the stairs and then stopping just out of sight on stage behind the curtain.

Without thought, I turn the podium towards the right of the stage where Ryker stands and Dawson, Delilah, Reese, and Jaci all sit in the front row.

I’m not speaking to Jaci or Delilah. And to be completely honest, I’m not really speaking to Dawson or Reese. Ryker’s eyes mine settle on before I speak.

“Hi. I’m Ivy and I’m an addict. I ahh…well, I don’t really like to talk much about myself, so this is going to be short and sweet. Or short and to the quick, really. Okay, so I have this great guy, and he fixes me over and over. I think that’s his only mission in life, or the only one he’s taken on, and…” Shit, the agitation is almost so bad it makes me itch. If that makes any sense. “And ahh…a couple months back I fu…sorry, I messed up again, and like always he was there to save me. For two out of the last three months, I’ve hated him. Said things that…damn, oh…shi-, I mean, shoot, sorry.” I think it’s best I just walk from the stage right now. I wanted so badly to be able to get through this, not for me, but for Ryker. But as much as I want hi, to be proud of me, I think it’s time I leave. Now.

And I try, but when I turn to leave, there he fucking is, saving me again. One hand at the small of my back and his other resting on my arm as if to tuck me to him, he leans in and whispers, “You have got this, love. Show them.”

I clear my throat, grit my teeth and make myself stand a little taller, then begin again, “I said things no one should ever say to another person, much less someone that you mean the world to. I’m not here for me. What I’m trying to say, is I’m here for him. I owe him my life, and I’m going to fight like hell to make sure I pay that debt.” I look up at Ryker and dreaded tears pool in the corner of my eyes. “Thank you. You don’t…” We shake our heads in unison, saying ‘no’ to opposing reasons. Mine being a lack of words and his being this apology isn’t needed. But I whisper anyway, “Thank you.”

Then I turn to the audience, out of respect for fucking Dawson, of course, and make it known, “I didn’t fully cuss in church. ‘Hell’ is in the bible, and I’m certain it’s been spoken its worth in here. Just wanted that clarified.” I raise my chip in the air and smile, looking right at Mr. Dawson. “Thanks for three months, Daws.”

Settling back into life sober is hard. Settling back into it with Ryker, sober, is a lot easier than I thought it would be. Ryker's already rough around the edges, and now he rarely speaks, and even then most of the time he's so frustrated, his accent is too thick to understand what he's saying. We fight, but it's not his fault. No, it's because I'm a bitch and I feel safer when I'm pushing him away. If either of us had the emotional maturity to recognize and then initiate a productive conversation, we'd probably make it.

But we don't. And all I see is the familiar beginnings of an old cycle. I just pray, I'm strong enough to resist the cycle’s catalyst and remain sober. I also question if resisting and not using, will be enough this time. Enough to make believe he'll stay when everyone else always leaves.

I really want us to work out this time...I'm too much of a realist though to lie to myself.

Today is his sister’s wedding and the second weekend I've been out in the real world. The hopeful side of me wants to be good and really, really wants to keep Ryker happy and with me. But the realist in me acknowledges that while I may stay away from drugs, me having a drink again is probably in my near future. I never thought alcohol was one of my demons, I haven't had just a few drinks before and hit rock bottom. I know, it may sound like excuses to you, but I'm only fucking twenty-one. And a life without any substance to self-medicate, even though I'm already medicated, is not a fucking life for me, not one I want to live.

Ryker walks through the old front door of his garage apartment with the last three boxes. "What room do these go in, love?" he asks.

I watch as his tall frame invades the small space of the living room and wonder in awe how the hell I was the girl he decided to strap himself to. "In the bedroom, baby, I'll unpack it when we finish with these."

He heads in the direction of one of the only two doors inside our apartment and sets the boxes down in our room.

As I look around at all the boxes Delilah FedEx'd over yesterday, I'm surprised at how much shit I've accumulated as a druggie vagabond. I know eight dream catchers, three two foot bongs, and five autographed posters by various one hit wonders aren't considered important possessions to most people, but this shit is mine. And that means something.

"Ivy," Ryker calls from twenty feet away in our bedroom as he's walking towards me with a pair of glass slippers hooked to his middle and pointer fingers. "Why in the hell do you have a pair of glass slippers?"

After winking with a smirk, I never miss a beat answering, "To wear when I finally meet my prince charming, of course. How would he find me if I don't leave one behind?" I go back to unpacking my dream catchers.

Before I can gently lay down the one in my hand, it's hitting the floor and beads bounce before scattering everywhere. My hip bones are slammed against the hard edge of the foyer table and both of his hands are gripping mine, shoving my palms against the mirror on the wall behind the table. Our piercing gaze stays locked in the reflection as he runs his nose from the crook of my neck until his lips are brushing against my left ear.

"Don't move your fucking hands from that mirror, love." His voice is so rough and his Irish lilt is so fucking thick it causes my knees buckle. Oh, but my hands... my hands never move and our intense stare never wavers. He grips the flesh of my hips until it hurts, before yanking my cut off sweatpants down my thighs. Then he kneels behind me and alternates kissing my chill bumped skin and scraping his teeth up my side until he bites my ribs just beside my right breast. "I need ya, love. Bloody hell, do I need you," he speaks around his clenched teeth before softly kissing his mark.

"Been gentle with ya." His callused hands barely skim the surface of my skin on their way up, and I can't help myself.

I beg.

"Fuck. Please, Ryker."

Just as his nails score the flesh covering my hip bones at the top of my panties, he demands, "Fuck. What?"

His nails rake down my legs, pulling my panties and shorts off, and by the time he's towering over me with his eyes locked on mine I'm at the point again where I'd lay down my life to keep him from stopping.

It's the point of no return, the point of no words. That's where we are, and that's when it hits me, I don't need any other high. He is...Fucking. Everything. And this...this is what I crave most. Him.

Every moment before this has been soft, sweet and tender. Every time before this he's worshipped my skin on the alter of his love and it was perfect. But this...his anger and frustration and my submissive acceptance and appreciation for it…this is what we need right now.

When his hands sink into my hair and jerk my head back, I cry out and whimper. Not because it hurts or because it frightens me, but because I know I'm finally going to have what I've always only ever wanted.

His urgency tells me he needs me. That he hasn't been doing everything in his power to keep me happy and alive because I'm a poor little girl who needs someone else's help, he does it because he needs me. He needs me happy and alive, to live. And this knowledge sates a pitiful, withering inside me.

"I'm going to fuck you, love. Hard. I'm going to use you up until nothing is left, then I'm going to fill you up with all of me until the lines between us blur. Is this understood, love?"

I moan an unintelligible 'yes' and push my back against him. My hands move on their own accord behind my back and begin wrestling with the buckle of his belt, but he catches me by surprise and I gasp when his hands circle both my wrists before slamming them back against the glass mirror.

Tightening his grip around my wrists harder, he speaks through his gritted teeth again, "Don't. Move. Your. Bloody. Hands. Love. Understood? "

I nod, pleading with his eyes in the mirror’s reflection and as soon as he registers my answer, he steps back and finishes unbuckling his jeans. After I hear the sound of his belt thudding against the floor, I feel him towering over me again and watch as he reaches his left arm over his shoulder, gripping the material covering his wide roped back, before pulling his v-neck over his head.

I watch as he strokes himself in the mirror in a morbid fascination as his eyes run over me from head to toe while he speaks, "This isn't about being gentle, now, love. And I'm sorry if I hurt ya," His hand slides up my spine as he continues to stroke his cock with his other hand. When it settles between my shoulder blades, I beg again, but before a single word leaves my lips, his hand is shoving me forward until I feel the cold, hard wood of the table smash against my breasts and stomach causing me to hiss. "I love ya, Winter Ivy. But you just keep hurting me." The hand between my shoulder blades slide up into the hair at the nape of my neck and his hand grasps it, yanking my head up until my eyes meet his in the mirror.

"This isn't about forgiveness, love. It's about absolution." I feel him at my entrance, sliding through my wetness and for some reason, it could be to keep him from stopping or walking away, or it could be the first time I ever spoke the truth, but I just say it.

Without twitching a muscle, I keep our eyes locked and I say, "I fucking love you, Ryker. I love you."

Fractions of a second later he's buried deep inside of me, and again, I'm crying out.

He's not gentle.

He's rough. He brutally pounds into me, over and over. His hands grip and grab to the point of bruising. His nails rake and his teeth graze and nip. Every kiss ends in a bite. Every moan ends in a yell, and every time he sinks into me another tear falls, but his eyes won't let mine go.

"Say it. Fucking say it again, Ivy," he growls with his face shoved against the side of mine.

So I say, "I love you, Ryker. I love you." Over and over, I say it.