by Alam, Donna
I run the back of my hand under my nose, glad for the seating structure in first class as I blot the corners of my eyes with the edge of my thumbs. Husbands. Why the hell were they invented? All those extraneous dangly bits. Okay, maybe not that unnecessary, but also not very nice to look at. Except maybe in Dylan’s case. Smooth, long, and thick. And cut.
I’d never been with a man sans foreskin.
Oh, shut up, brain, shut up!
Blame the pre-flight cocktails. Blame the in-flight champagne because Dylan’s dick should not be floating in the sphere of my brain activity these days. There are plenty of other dicks in the sea, I tell myself, which isn’t a pleasant image or analogy. But it still makes me giggle. He can’t be the only one in the world who knows how to work one, surely?
Maybe that’s what I need to do; move on and find me a new D.
Rather than imagining pickling Dylan’s in a jar . . .
Because screw him. My life was back on track until I’d slid my finger under that envelope flap. A shiver had coursed down my spine as the heavy paper tore with a reluctance I’d felt bone deep.
Leave it unopened, my mind whispered. Ignore it. Send it back.
Apparently, God gives you that little voice for a reason. I ought to learn to listen to it.
In my state of shock, I’d managed to keep from spilling my secrets, and though I’d thought about confiding in Fin, she could do without that right now. Instead, I sold my friends a line about prior work obligations. I told them in the vaguest terms that I needed to return for a contractual thing.
But if you swap obligation for divorce, I’m not lying, technically.
Okay . . . let’s just go ahead and call it lie #1038 because something tells me before this trip is over, I’ll have lied my way into hell.
Because I’m all about the lies these days. Including the ones I tell myself.
Chapter 6
Ivy
The sun is setting when the cab pulls up to the gated entrance to what is, technically, partly, still my house, I suppose. a Spanish Colonial Revival set in Toluca Lake; it’s a million miles and a couple of million dollars away from where we began. Back then, Dylan was sharing a dive with two waiters, sorry, actors, while I barely clung to the next rung of the property ladder in a glorified studio an hour out from my place of work.
The marital home. It was one of the largest purchases he made following his first box office hit—for you and me, darlin’, he’d said—though by Toluca standards, the house is pretty modest. Three beds, three baths, and I loved every square inch of it.
We’d banged over every square inch of it.
‘You want I should drop you here?’
The cab driver pulls me from my memories abruptly, something twisting in my chest. I’d say it was my heart, but for the fact that I no longer wear it there.
‘What? Wait. Oh. Hang on.’ I rummage in my bag for the gate remote, praying that the battery still has life, and breathe a sigh of relief as the dark stained gate begins to slide left. ‘Front door please.’
The driver eyes me via the rearview mirror, resigned, and at the front door, I hand him an obscene amount of cash for a journey I’d known would be ridiculous. In exchange, he deposits my case at my feet.
Key in the lock, I begin to stress because what if Dylan changed the alarm codes? As the door swings open, I think it’s more likely his forgetful ass overlooked setting it before leaving. Again.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ I whisper, steeling myself to enter this world for the last time. Pushing the door a little wider, I take my first tentative step inside.
The double-story entrance is silent; no beeping or blaring of an alarm, though there is . . . a tap-tap-tapping sound. A sound drawing nearer while getting faster, a sound my heart recognises a nanosecond before I’m flattened to the ground.
‘Nigel? Oh, God, it is you!’ Emotion stings my eyes—I’m so pleased I’m here right now, if for nothing else than this.
A pair of heavy paws land on my shoulders, my heart’s desire now licking my face and slobbering, and unfortunately, peeing just a little bit on my shin. I don’t chastise, and I can’t blame; I’m so excited I could pee a little myself. In my case, it would be with relief because that’s my overwhelming emotion right now. I’m just so bloody relieved to find him here. Fingers tight on his hairy haunches, I bury my face in the scruff of his chest, the scent of warm and slightly unpleasant dog breath filling my nose.
‘You’re such a good dog.’ Yes, Nigel is a dog, not some kind of pee fetishist. And he’s not a good dog really unless you count being good at being a dog as what constitutes being a good dog. Nigel only knows three or four commands and pretty much does as he pleases unless there’s a bribe at hand. ‘Yes, you are. Such a good boy and you’re here!’ My hands push his slobbering mush away for a beat at the realisation that, ‘If you’re here, who else is?’ His coffee coloured eyes reflects my worried expression. ‘Who’s looking after you, boy?’
And what else has he lied about?
The place isn’t fancy enough for staff, though I expect Dylan’s got someone looking after the domestic side of things, given the gleaming floors and the evident health of the nearby potted banana plant. Pushing Nigel from my legs, I pull myself upright, determined to find out who’s looking after my pooch because despite what Dylan might say, this woolly behemoth is mine. He may have picked him up as a scrawny puppy from the animal shelter in Burbank, but he gave him to me.
Just as surely as he’d told me he’d rehomed him.
You left, Ivy. The fucking mutt had to go. It was either rehoming him or a trip to the doggy farm, by way of the veterinarian.
Rehomed him, my arse; I should’ve known he lied. Who would take on something this large—something that looks like the results of a three-way between a mop, a deerhound, and a small horse? The tiny bundle he’d deposited on my lap was fluffy, black, and tiny. I was besotted, and so was he. The start of our family, he’d said. Neither of us had any idea he’d end up shedding his fur, going bald for a couple of weeks, and then turn woolly and grey and grow to the size of a Shetland pony.
‘He’s half poodle, half deerhound, and all daft.’ Dylan mimicked my accent, deepening his into something wild and improbable when other dog walkers asked for Nigel’s breed. Along with the indecipherable accent, the beanie and sunglasses, no one could tell they were in the presence of acting superstardom.
Bet he’s got tickets on himself these days.
The guilt I’ve been feeling the whole journey is no longer weighing so heavy. I’ve lied to those I’ve loved, but now, it appears, so has he.
Only he doesn’t love me anymore, does he? I push that thought to the back of my mind because no way am I replacing angry with sad.
‘Bastard,’ I say to the empty room with my hand still on Nigel’s thick neck . . . and a collar that I didn’t buy. ‘Did Daddy buy you a bonny pink collar, boy?’ His big eyes stare up at me as though to say, What do you think?
I think—because DMZ; yeah, so I might’ve had a wee web stalking session in the taxi—that a certain blond singer has been hanging around my man. Dog. I mean dog. There might not have been pictures online of Talia Griff walking Nigel, but someone bought him a sparkly collar, and it’s enough to make my blood boil.
‘That no-good philandering fuckwitted b—’ I halt. Why is it that he is the only person in the world who can drive me to profanity? Closing my eyes, I take a deep, cleansing breath. I’m not punished for my anger; I am punished by it, I intone silently. Exhale slowly. Think calm thoughts. Conquer anger by non-anger.
Maybe I could try some Sanskrit chants?
‘Knickers.’ My eyes spring open. Easier said than done today. ‘Come on, Nige,’ I say, abandoning my bags. ‘Let’s go see what else hasn’t changed.’
The smell of home assails me as I enter the great room. A familiar scent I’d somehow forgotten, so it’s all the more shocking to be enveloped by it. It’s something intrinsic to the house itself; ye
ars of beeswax polish mixed with the perfume of the garden—jasmine and gardenia. I loved this room—from the dark beamed ceilings and floors to the massive stone fireplace it was rarely ever cold enough to light. By my Scottish standards, anyway. Pale sofas, carved end tables, and Turkish kilim rugs. Plates and dishes. Frames and art. All these things chosen with love to fill a home I once loved. With a man I once adored.
I squeeze my eyes, hooking my arm around one of the turned colonnades flanking the archway while trying to force a good, hard cry. Wonder how much tears weigh? I reckon I’ve put on at least three pounds in tear retention since leaving LA.
Oh, God, I’m so very, very . . . ‘Fucked.’ The word is little more than a whisper expelled on a harsh breath.
‘Right there, as I recall. Epically.’
I squeeze my eyes tighter at the sound of those smooth bass tones, my mind fighting the images his words create; of the time I’d hung onto this very post as he’d demanded I get there, his dirty promises filling my ears as he’d pounded me from behind.
I should’ve known. Should’ve anticipated he’d be here. I purse my lips against the things I want desperately not to say—the angry and the intimate. Things I have no license to utter today. All the things I don’t want him to hear. Regret. Shame.
My body begins to tremble at the muted sound of his bare feet against the tile—a slow progression, almost as though he draws closer only because compelled, reluctant because he knows he shouldn’t feel the draw.
This is a sentiment I recognise like my own name.
Should’ve known.
Should’ve anticipated.
Should’ve answered that letter a different way.
‘I’m pretty sure the wood still bears your nail marks.’
Though I try to keep my eyes closed, they flutter open at the pull of his voice. Finding him standing less than a foot away, his arms are stretched high, his fingers touching the top of the archway. It still hurts to look at him. At how beautiful he is. Lean like a rock climber, he’s all angles and planes, and my eyes can’t help but map the contours of his bare arms as, inexplicably, my fingers itch to do the same. To trace the trail of dark hair peeking from the hem of his dark t-shirt. To run my hands over the ridges of his abs to his penny-coloured nipples and—
‘Cat got your tongue, baby?’
My cheeks redden as my eyes snap to his face. Embarrassment is the least of my worries, my thoughts falling away. Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t even touch this man—high, ruddy cheekbones, a mop of not-quite-black hair, and eyes a shade of green as changeable as the sea. Eyes that are, right now, a muted, stormy green.
He lowers his arms, one hand reaching out, ghosting my cheek. Unprepared and suddenly empty, I lean into it, immediately regretting the motion.
‘You brought me back to reminisce? Really?’ My stomach twists along with this bitterness, but being a bitch is the only way I can deal with him and retain my sanity. ‘And you have my dog,’ I spit, leaning away—away from his body. Away from the scent of him.
It’s not so much a smile as a cynical twist of his mouth as his hand drops. ‘Seven months and that’s all you have to say?’
‘Oh, I have plenty I want to say,’ I snap immediately. ‘You told me you’d gotten rid of him!’
‘I believe I said rehomed.’ A line of tension sits between his brows; I’m going to take it as guilt.
‘Yet here he is.’ One hand on my hip, I find myself using the other like some sarcastic game show model, indicating the scruffy mutt by my side. ‘Do you know how I’ve suffered, worrying about him? Wondering if he was okay—if his new owners were good to him? If you’d killed him.’ I regret this the instant it’s out of my mouth.
‘The fucking dog.’ One minute, his hands in the air, his movements jerky—what the fuck hands—and the next, they’re on his cheeks. ‘The fucking dog she worries about; but of the husband she left behind, not a fucking thing. Haven’t you wondered about me? Worried how I was doing?’
He steps into me; his fingers tight on my arm as the smell of his cologne assaults my senses, taking me back to another time. Another time in the archway, my fingers clasping the wood as we made love. As we fucked. And that’s the beauty of it; even when we were fucking, we were making love.
Dylan’s nostrils flare, his gaze following the path of my own; he knows where I’ve gone, and his anger softens. ‘Don’t you have anything to say to me? Aren’t you glad to be back, Edera?’ he asks gently. Softness spoken from his mouth contradicts the hardness from his eyes. I close my own, and purse my lips for good measure. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he asks, his tone now cold and cynical.
I shake my head, fighting against tears as he steps closer still, pressing his hard body against mine.
‘I’m here for only one thing.’ Well, two now. I want my dog back, but I’m not giving him any warning.
‘All that matters is you’re here.’ His cheek caresses mine as he leans his lips to my ear. ‘Welcome home, Edera Velenosa.’ My Poison Ivy.
Chapter 7
Dylan
I lean back before I kiss her cheek. Those honey eyes of hers blink at my welcome, seeming to lack guile. Good job I know her better than that.
Edera Velenosa. My Poison Ivy.
‘That can’t be all you’ve brought me here to say.’ The soft brogue of her accent gets me in the chest every time. Like home. I haven’t heard from her in over half a year, and what she has said has been nothing but bullshit, so why do her soft words have me feeling like this? Like the blood in my veins is lava, every inch of my skin prickling with heat. What is it I’m feeling—rage? Relief? And why the fuck does she look the same, so soft and sweet? Beautiful and real.
‘Couldn’t you have put it in a letter?’ Her tone is cool, her eyes cold. ‘Paid your lawyer to pass on your best regards?’
Her words dial up my rage; fuck her and her cool attitude. Just fuck her. She doesn’t fool me; she’s running scared and deflecting. Fuck her and fuck this shit, if I’m supposed to care.
Stick with the program, asshole. Don’t let her suck you in again.
‘Maybe I just wanted to see your sweet face.’
I fill the words with anything but sweetness as I step away. I want to be over her. I want to say that, when my gaze drew over her face after so many months parted, I’d felt nothing but distaste. Our parting. What a joke. We no more parted than we were cleaved. There was nothing clean or surgical about her leaving.
She hacked. She sawed. We broke.
Seeing her again, I was sure I’d be able to keep my heart as stone cold as my face. That I was over her. That what I wanted now was only revenge.
Yeah, I want to say those things, but that’d make me as bad as she is. But maybe not nearly as bad as I plan to be.
‘Dylan.’ Her voice is tired like she has a right to be sick of my shit when, clearly, it’s the other way around. ‘Why am I here?’
‘Plain old blackmail?’ Ivy raises a brow like she’s implying it’s a dumb move. It’s not, because she’s standing here, isn’t she? She can try to hold her superior attitude, but she knows I’ve won. And if she hadn’t shown, I would have posted another piece of video porn. ‘You want your divorce, and while I have a fuck tonne to say about that, I want to hear why. I want to hear your side of tawdry, my adulterous little wife.’
She flinches, her eyes sliding away, and I get a sick sense of satisfaction from her pain. I’m currently the kid who captures butterflies just to pull off their wings. I know what I’m doing will slice away her dark-haired prettiness and leave her in pain. And yeah, I’m a sick fuck because I want her to hurt—I want to be the one to cause her that hurt—and not so I can soothe her or make it better in any way. No, I want to wreck her. Take her apart bit by bit until she understands the truth of what it is to be wiped out. Obliterated.
To her shoes, she says, ‘We’ve been through this already. I can’t take back what I did.’ Her head rises slowly, and in the honey of her ey
es lives the truth. It was always there. I was just too fucked up and broken to see it. And though I see now, what I don’t see is why. ‘Dylan, you can’t doubt what you saw.’
I choose not to take her words as a taunt—as I no doubt did before—and see them today for exactly what they are. Acts of evasiveness. Fuck that, again, because what I saw broke my fucking heart. I turn away from her coolness at the memory and rake my fingers through my hair. A picture paints a thousand words, and what I’d walked into that morning spelled nothing but misery. I know the truth of it now, but that fucking picture. That’s indelible. Permanent. And a lot like hate.
I stare out at the garden. I never stay in this house, not since she left. It sits empty, and the truth about the dog is I pay a fortune for someone to stay here with him. I can’t be here, and I can’t be with him, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to let her take him. She gets nothing. Nothing but what I’m about to serve her.
Good thing we were never together long enough to have kids.
I take a deep quelling breath, my shoulders rising and falling with it, and then turn back to face her. ‘Cut the shit, Ivy.’
‘Tell me what you want from me.’
‘So fucking reasonable. Been polishin’ your chakras, babe?’
‘If you brought me here to fight—’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ She flinches while I sneer. ‘I brought you here to end this thing.’
‘We could’ve done this on paper. I sent you the documents.’
‘And perjure us both,’ I return. Her face is a picture; surely, she had to know this day was coming. ‘Where’s the fun in that? See, we both know the truth now, baby. We both know you lied.’
Chapter 8
Ivy
He says nothing else; he doesn’t need to because there’s nothing else to say.