Dirty Money

by Jessica Clare

  “Wow, that sounds like hell.” Wynonna crosses her arms and leans on the counter as I take a sip of water. “At least you had fun, right?”

  “Wasn’t all that fun,” I lie. They’re just piling on at this point, those little white lies. “Stuff like this is why I never go out.” Well, that and I spend most weekends working. It doesn’t matter, though. She can’t know what I did this weekend. I love my little sister but I can’t let her know I’m doing something as foolish and selfish as sleeping with a client.

  A client that is so ridiculously rich that he bought a golf course just to torch it, I think to myself.

  “I’m going to go take a shower,” I tell my sister with a quick smile. “After that, you want to eat dinner and watch some TV? Get some quality sister time in since it’s going to be in short supply once you start college?”

  Wynonna rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I’m staying in the dorms,” she says, a wistful note in her voice. “We’ll still have plenty of time to hang out.”

  I feel an unhappy surge of guilt. “I wish you could stay in the dorms, Wynonna, I really do. But the costs . . .”

  “I know.” She gives me a bright smile. “We can swing college, but not that part. I get it.”

  We can’t really swing any of college, but she doesn’t have to know that. “Right.”

  “Oh, and before I forget, I’m going to visit Dad a week from Monday. Want to go?”

  I freeze. “You’re driving out to Huntsville?”

  She nods eagerly. “I talked to him on the phone and he said that he might be up for parole soon. He wanted me to go and discuss options with him.”

  My father. I wish I could feel anything other than disgust when his name comes up in conversation. Wynonna has a rose-colored view of him, but I remember him for who he was. Karl Smithfield was a mean drunk, a meaner dad, and incredibly shady. I somehow doubt he’s going to get out of prison early due to good behavior. He’s served six years out of a twenty-two-year sentence for armed robbery and aggravated assault. I wish I could say it was all a misunderstanding, but it’s not. Karl held up a gas station because he wanted beer and smokes, and didn’t have the money for either. While that was bad, he also beat the attendant within an inch of her life for no good reason at all, other than he was drunk and mean. He tries to blame it all on my mother, because my mom had just split with his paycheck. And while I hate her for leaving, I hate him more for knowing he had two young daughters to take care of and deciding to be a degenerate asshole anyhow. “Options? What kind of options?”

  Wynonna shrugs. “You know, where he’ll go when he gets out.”

  I try to hide my disgust. “You mean, come back here?”

  “Well, it is his trailer, isn’t it?” My sister’s eyes are wide. “And he’s our dad.”

  All the more reason for us to get the heck out of here. “I don’t want him back here, Wynonna. We’re doing fine on our own.” Which is another lie, but I still firmly believe we’re doing better just the two of us than if dear old Dad showed up again.

  Plus, the last thing I want is my ex-con father around while I’m involved with Boone.

  “You’re being unfair,” Wynonna says, flouncing away toward her room. “He’s still family! Family means everything!”

  I don’t disagree with her . . . but I also no longer consider my father part of the family. For the last six years, it’s been just me and Wynonna. No one else counts.

  And I’m a horrible sister, too, because I think of Boone, and how I’m sneaking around to see him behind my sister’s back. Some “family” devotee I am.

  I can’t do this. I’m being pulled in too many directions, and something’s going to have to give.

  Chapter Eleven

  Boone

  One week later

  She’s ghosting me.

  I text Ivy for the hundredth time in the last week. What are you up to, baby girl? Got any houses for me? I don’t expect much of a response at this point, but I can’t help but keep trying. I’m stubborn like that. Her response comes right away, and it’s negative, just like I knew it would be.

  Ivy: Work is terribly busy right now. Sorry. Will text you later.

  Sure she will. That’s her response every time I send her a message, be it email, phone, text, or any other way I can think of. She’s always very polite, but she pushes me away. She’s got no time for me, at all. She never calls me; I’m always the one calling her, tryin’ to get her attention. If I waited on her to contact me?

  I’d still be waitin’.

  I must have scared Ivy off. Maybe calling her my fiancée freaked her out. Maybe my brothers were dicks to her, though it didn’t seem that way. I’ve been racking my brain for the past week trying to determine where I went wrong. Maybe the sex was bad?

  Nah. I rocked her world. At least twice each time.

  Bottom line is, though, she ain’t friendly anymore, and I need to fix that.

  So I text her back, because I don’t like no for an answer.

  B P: I understand you’re busy but . . . it’s Saturday.

  Ivy: I still have clients on Saturdays.

  B P: Just . . . not this client?

  Ivy: I’m currently with someone at the moment but I’ll research another house for you when I get home tonight!

  B P: You know I ain’t asking about the houses, Ivy. I’m asking about me and you.

  Ivy: I’ll text you about it tonight.

  I sigh, because she is almost as stubborn as me. Almost.

  B P: Can’t we be mature adults and talk about this?

  Ivy: Absolutely! I’ll send you a message tonight.

  B P: Why don’t we meet to discuss it?

  Ivy: I’m having dinner with my sister.

  B P: Fantastic, I’ve been waiting to meet her.

  Ivy: I can’t, Boone. I’m sorry, I just can’t.

  B P: Do you hate me now or something?

  Ivy: No!

  Ivy: That’s not it at all.

  Ivy: It’s just . . . complicated. I’m sorry I can’t say more.

  B P: Me too, baby girl. Me, too.

  I toss my phone aside, frustrated with how the conversation went. I can normally win Ivy over in a matter of moments—so what’s troubling her so much that she won’t even see me? It’s complicated tells me absolutely nothing, other than there is something, and she doesn’t want to talk to me about it. I think for a moment, and then text one more time.

  B P: Are you pregnant?

  B P: I know we rubbered up, but accidents happen.

  Ivy: What? No!

  B P: So you got your period?

  Ivy: I am not discussing this with you, and are you freaking insinuating that the reason why I’m avoiding you is that I’m hormonal?

  B P: So . . . you are avoiding me, then. And here you’ve been telling me all week that it’s work.

  She’s silent. I knew she would be. Ivy hates to be confronted. And somehow, having her admit that she is, in fact, avoiding me just makes things worse. I need to figure out what’s going on so I can fix it. Protectiveness toward Ivy surges through me.

  No one better be messing with my woman.

  I’m actually a little bummed that there’s no baby. I picture Ivy’s stomach rounded with my kid and . . . I kinda like it. Of course, it’s early in the relationship yet, but Ivy pregnant with my baby? I’m up for that.

  Course, I gotta get her speaking to me, first.

  ***

  I get an idea of how to break down Ivy’s barriers a few days later. She’s been utterly silent and driving me crazy with lust, but I’m a patient man.

  Okay, I’m actually not, but I’m a calculating man. And I need a plan. It finally comes through for me on Monday, when Clay sends me a text message.

  Clay: Meeting with suits @ new drill site in West Tx. Tmrw @ 8 am. Yo
u need to be there.

  I’m about to text him that all of our brothers need to be there, because the company belongs to all of us even if I have the majority share. But as I start to text, I get an idea. Ivy has herself barricaded behind her desk, citing work.

  I just gotta get her away from work.

  I drive over to Ivy’s office. The lobby has a few clients inside it, sitting lined up in fancy chairs and sipping coffee. One’s in a suit and reading Forbes magazine. It’s a two-month-old issue. I know that, because it’s my face on the cover, along with my brothers as we pose with sledgehammers in front of one of our many rigs. I thought the picture was kinda stupid, but eh. It’s amusing to see this starchy, snooty suit reading my magazine, though. He barely gives me a passing glance before turning the page.

  The receptionist cocks her head and gives me a puzzled look, as if she can’t quite make me out. I guess Ivy’s number she did on my hair improved things more than I thought. Well, that and I’m not covered in dirt today. Thought it might be bad manners to show up to woo my woman covered in mud. “I’m here to see Ivy.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not in at the moment,” the woman says, picking up her pen and a notepad. “Did you have an appointment?”

  “Sort of.”

  Her brows draw together. “Who shall I say came by?”

  “Oh, I’ll wait.”

  Her mouth opens and then closes again, and she gives me the tiniest of frowns, as if she disapproves of this choice. “I’m not sure how long she’ll be—”

  “That’s fine.” I move to one of the chairs in the lobby and drop into the seat, sprawling my legs out and getting comfortable. I’m prepared to wait. If Ivy’s here, she’ll have to come confront me at some point. And if not, well, I’ll run into her when she heads in again. Either way, I’m seeing Ivy today.

  I ain’t taking no for an answer anymore.

  About a half hour after I sit down, the front door opens and a very pale, tired-looking Ivy enters, a stack of flyers in her hand. I immediately get to my feet, and as I do, surprise moves over her pretty features at the sight of me. “Boone! What are you doing here?”

  “Getting you a seat,” I tell her, taking her by the arm and leading her toward my chair. She looks . . . sick. Unhealthy. There’s a sheen of sweat on her face but she’s also paler than I’ve ever seen her, and my heart is about to jump out of my chest with worry for her. Is that why she’s been pushing me off? She’s ill? “What’s going on, Ivy?”

  She blinks her eyes at me, confused. “Going on?”

  “Why do you look like you’re about two steps from passin’ out?”

  She puts a hand to her forehead. “I’m fine. Truly. I just . . . need to eat some crackers and drink some juice.”

  That’s weirdly specific. “You just donate blood or something?”

  “Or something.” She sags against me as if all the strength has gone out of her.

  Worry slams through my chest. She’s so fragile, and the weight she leans against me is slight. I’m full of panic, because I don’t know what to do. I feel helpless at the sight of her like this. But I have money, and as long as I have money, she’s gonna get the best care possible. So I scoop her up into my arms and immediately head out to my truck. “You hang tight, baby. I’m gonna get this all taken care of for you.”

  Ivy makes a small sound of protest as I open the door to the cab and gently set her inside. “Where are you taking me?”

  I buckle her in, gently close the door, and then race to the other side of my truck.

  “Boone,” she demands as I jump into the car. She sits up a bit more, no longer looking quite so scary-pale. “Seriously. Where are we going?”

  “Hospital,” I tell her as I start the truck and roar out of the parking lot. “If I have to buy them a damn wing to get them to look at you, I’ll do it.”

  To my surprise, she laughs and her hand touches my arm. “I promise you, I’m fine. You’d be better off driving me to Starbucks than the hospital.”

  I glance over at her. Some of the color is returning to her face and there’s a hint of a smile on her lips, though she still looks mighty pale and worn. I’m torn, but I pull into a nearby Starbucks and order the drink she tells me. And then I order a few more cookies, just because she needs ’em. We pull up to the window and I fling my credit card at the girl, grabbing at the drinks and food and hastily passing them to Ivy. I don’t relax until she takes a few bites out of a cookie and sips at her iced coffee, and she gives me a bigger smile. “Thank you.”

  “You okay?” My heart feels as if it’s never gonna stop racing in terror. Her lips aren’t the same color as her pale cheeks anymore, though, so that’s good.

  “I’m getting there,” she says, and takes another sip. “You might want to get out of the drive-thru so someone else can get their order.”

  I glance at the rearview mirror, and sure enough, there’s a line snaking around the building and lots of impatient people. But I don’t want to leave yet in case Ivy needs another cookie. I hand my card over to the girl at the window. “Pay for everyone else’s, too. It’s on me.”

  “Oh, Boone,” Ivy says, and there’s a soft note in her voice like I just bought these people something more important than a cup of coffee. “You big softy.”

  I put the truck in park. “I ain’t leaving until I know you’re good. You need more coffee? More cookies? A donut?”

  She shakes her head slowly. “I promise you, I’m perfectly fine now.”

  I ain’t sure I believe that just yet, but when the girl at the window hands me my card back, I guess I don’t have more reasons to stall before returning Ivy.

  Then again, maybe I shouldn’t return her. I give her a thoughtful look and she’s smiling so sweetly at me, as if she hasn’t blown me off all damn week. As if she hasn’t given me blue balls and a sackful of worry. As if everything is okay now that she’s got some mocha java thing to drink. And then . . . what? I take her back to her work and she goes back to ignoring me?

  I nod thoughtfully and tuck my credit card back into my wallet, hand the girl at the window a fifty-dollar bill for a tip, and then drive off, silent.

  “I appreciate the coffee, Boone, though it wasn’t necessary.” Ivy’s voice is like liquid honey, all smooth and pretty and sweet. “You’re thoughtful.”

  “Just doin’ my job,” I say blandly, and drive out from the parking lot and into the street.

  “Oh, I think you missed the turn for the office,” she tells me politely, gesturing at the windshield. “You can take the next street, though.”

  I don’t. I don’t take that street or even the one after that. I just keep driving, and she makes a surprised sound as I turn onto the highway.

  “Boone? Where are we going?”

  I act like it’s no big deal, like I kidnap a woman every day of the week. Don’t even look over at her while I’m driving. “I’m taking you out to West Texas with me.”

  “What? You can’t!”

  “Kinda looks like I can, from my point of view.”

  “Boone!” She makes an outraged sound and thumps her hand on the dash. “Take me back to the office! Right now!”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you mean, nope?”

  “I mean . . .” I give her a lazy look. “Nope.”

  “You can’t just drive off with me! My laptop’s still at the office. My purse, too! All I had with me was my phone—”

  I let her make all kinds of unhappy noises, but I keep on driving.

  “You can’t just take me!”

  I glance over at her again. “It kinda looks like I did.”

  Her eyes are flashing anger now. “This isn’t funny, Boone. I’m serious. This is kidnapping.”

  “No it ain’t.”

  “God, you are so frustrating! Yes, this is kidnapping! I can’t believe you!”r />
  I shake my head slowly. “You said you’d go with me.”

  “When did I say that?”

  I’m doing my best not to smile, though it ain’t easy. She’s real cute when she’s riled. “I seem to recall a certain promise of a blow job anywhere I wanted. Anytime. Any place.”

  Her gasp of shock is long, and low.

  “I want it in West Texas. At one of my rigs. Don’t worry, it’ll be private. I have to oversee drilling on a new well. Got a lot of production in the new area so gonna dowse for a well in some neighboring land. Thought I might bring you along with me.”

  “Because you want me to blow you?”

  “No, because I like your company.” I can feel the grin spreading across my face despite my best efforts to play it straight. “Blow job’s just an extra.”

  “Boone, please.” Her voice is turning soft and pleading now. “I have clients this afternoon. I’m supposed to meet someone to discuss selling their house—”

  “Well now, that’s mighty interesting seeing as how you won’t look at houses with me.”

  Ivy goes silent.

  Now she’s snared. I wait patiently, because I’m bound and determined to get that explanation I’ve been wanting all week.

  She gives a little sigh. “You and I, we’re . . .”

  “Complicated?” I say drily.

  “Yes. No. I mean . . . we’re not supposed to be a thing.”

  “Says who?”

  Ivy rubs her forehead, and I nudge the bag of cookies toward her. “Eat another.”

  “You’re so pigheaded.”

  Not inaccurate.

  “And a bully,” she adds.

  Possibly not inaccurate, either. “Where we goin’ with this?”

  “Ugh! You are so frustrating, Boone! Seriously! Why won’t you listen to me? I can’t be here with you. I need to go back to work!” Her voice turns pleading and she puts her hand on my arm again. “Please.”