Rectify (Return to Us Trilogy #2) (6 page)

She bursts out laughing and claps her hands together. "I knew it!"

"What? You didn't think I was that stupid, did you? He's a teenage boy for Christ's sake. Nobody fucks in my Jag." I drape my arm over her shoulders, pull her to me, and whisper, "Except us."

Jacade

We trek across the drop zone toward the line of trees. She steps through the branches I hold up for her and gapes at her next surprise parked in all its glory.

A custom order, fully loaded 2016 Dodge Challenger Hellcat. Red for her fiery personality, decked out in chrome accents, a thick black racing stripe down the hood, and an insane 707-horsepower engine. I would've loved to get her a vintage muscle car, but they don't have all the safety features I require. She might have preferred a new Mustang, but they make me think of the Mustang she stole the night she ran from me, not to mention the whole mess with my beastly stepfather. No more Mustangs for Ivy.

I tighten my grip and tug on her hand. "Come on." She stumbles, so I slow my pace to give her shorter legs a chance to keep up.

"Wow! Sweet ride. Is it yours?" Her voice turns titillating as hell when she talks about cars.

She bumps into me when I stop walking, our gazes glued to the impressive vehicle standing before us. The fall sunrays bounce off the brilliant red paint. The soft lines of the body impersonate my tempting and curvy Ivy lying on her side.

"Nope." I turn my head to watch her face. "Yours." I dangle the key in front of her.

"What? No way." She gawks at the car, mouth open wide. I'm tempted to place my finger under her chin and raise her jaw to prevent flies from taking up residence in there. Or my hard dick.

"Yes way." I snort at my own response.

"But, I... Wait, what?" Her head turns to me and she squints in the sun.

"I gathered you weren't fond of the SUV Bernard bought you. Thought you might want more power at your command." And I get to drive it too.

She steps in front of me and turns to face me. "Are you giving me a car?"

"Yep. But since I bought it, I'm driving."

I arch my head toward her and grin. "Wanna ride, doll face?"

She quirks her lips to the side, then snatches the key out of my hand.

"Hell naw! I wanna drive." She sprints around the hood to the driver's side.

I chuckle and open the passenger-side door. Tossing the chute and our gear in the back seat, I say to her, "You can drive, princess, but I better get one hell of a ride."

***

Ivy

The glossy navigation screens and gages on the retro dashboard of the Challenger take a while to decipher. After a quick check to make sure the car is in neutral, the engine roars to life with a touch of my finger on the ignition button, and the intense vibration jiggles the cellulite on my thighs. I tap the gas pedal and the V8 engine thunders like 707 thoroughbreds are actually harnessed under the hood waiting for the gate to rise at the Derby.

I smile and tilt my head toward him. "How did you know I could drive a stick?"

The corner of his mouth curves up. "Lucky guess."

I press in the clutch and the gearshift moves into first like a hot knife through butter.

Jacade's stare weighs on my every move. I pull one of my gloves from my jumpsuit and place it over the gage showing revolutions per minute, leaving the speedometer visible. He doesn't say anything, but I feel the need to explain myself.

"It may sound weird, but I learned how to drive stick by listening to the engine, not watching the tachometer."

"Then you were taught correctly," he says in a reassuring tone. "Who taught you?"

"An older kid at one of my foster homes. He was patient with me. I was only fourteen at the time."

A tense moment passes as I release the clutch and touch the gas with the tip of my toe. The car lunges forward and shoves me deep into the seatback. Smoke emerges from the rear tires. A reflexive gasp and giggle escape my throat.

All that and we're only going ten miles per hour.

As I get a feel for the controls, we gain speed and the elation of driving such a powerful car zings through my veins.

"See, isn't this better than your SUV?" His playful voice makes me smile.

"Oh yeah. I was worried I wouldn't remember how to drive stick."

"How long has it been?"

"About sixteen years." The Corvette I stole from Viktor the night I shot and left him had a manual transmission. Not sure what hurt him the most, leaving him hemorrhaging to death or stealing his car.

"Well, driving a manual is kind of like sex. Once you've got your hand on the stick, your body knows what to do." He shoots me a wicked grin. I look at him and press my mouth closed, but it's no use, laughter sputters from my lips.

Jacade directs me to go eastbound on a four-lane highway through a rural farm area. We pass an occasional car, but it's pretty deserted out here. In my peripheral vision, Jacade messes with his phone, and the pounding drum beat of Shinedown rains from the sweet sound system.

He lounges in the passenger seat with his eyes closed and his head relaxing on the charcoal leather headrest. His thumbs drumming on his thighs to the beat of the frantic metal tune distract me from the road.

All I can see are his thumbs sliding down my inner thighs, his hungry gaze piercing mine from between my trembling legs like a scene from the animal channel. The lion's eyes glow as it stalks its unsuspecting meal. Slut Ivy and Feminist Ivy are looking through binoculars searching the tundra for my Jacade lion. Feminist Ivy points to a predator lurking in the bush. He's waiting. Waiting to pounce on me.

"Can I ask you a question?" What? Oh sure. Sorry, I was wondering if I could be the king of the jungle's meal for the evening. I turn my cheek to him but keep my eyes on the road.

"Hmm?"

"I was just wondering when you were going to drive this thing, grandma?" I turn my head to him, and he opens his left eye to see my reaction. As his smile materializes, his dimple stakes its claim on his cheek.

Jackass. I can't believe he's ready for another shot of adrenaline after jumping out of a plane, but I can keep up with him hit for hit. I shift into sixth gear and gun it, turning the tires into fog.

"Better, Dr. Jordan?"

He grunts. "Oh, I think you can do better."

I floor it and the car takes off like a burning rhino. The rear-wheel torque throws me off for a second, but I correct my steering, and we sail down the highway. He turns up the radio and reclines in his chair like he's happy I'm finally driving the car the way it was meant to be driven. Vitality pumps through my veins, and I'm soaring high.

Until I fly past a blue-and-white police car at over 150 miles per hour.

***

Jacade

With my head pressed to the headrest and my eyes closed, the g-force pushes through me as Ivy takes off. She's a woman with an instinct to drive, feeling the needs of the car and reacting with precision. Almost as erogenous as when she was shifting her feet the night she passed out in my car.

Beads of sweat form on my skin and my hands tighten into fists as my body prepares for the familiar flood of endorphins I've sought out my whole life. As a boy, hanging over the handlebars, pedaling as fast as I could. Jumping off the garage trying to fly like a superhero but breaking my wrist instead. As a headstrong teenager, stealing my bastard stepfather's Mustang mainly because he deserved it. The first time I got lost in Ivy's innocent eyes and saw her gentle heart.

Allowing Ivy to drive took a lot of restraint. I shrug off the unsettling lack of control and focus on the rush running through me. Usually I'm making quick decisions and unable to revel in the adrenaline. I know she can handle this kind of car because I've seen her do it when I was eighteen and she tried to boost my stepfather's already stolen car. I grin at the memory of her shocked face when she discovered I was in the back seat.

"Shit! A cop!" She slams on the brakes. My body shoots forward until my seat belt chokes me. I spread my hand out and brace on the dashboard. My palm leaves a sweat residue on the smooth interior. I can't stifle my chuckle.

"This isn't funny. I'm getting pulled over!" Amusement originates deep in my stomach, and I laugh with unfamiliar lightheartedness. Blue and red lights flash in the side mirror. She's not going to get pulled over.

I dig my burner phone from the pocket of my pants. Lowering it out of sight next to my thigh, I send a text to Colonel Mahoney. He'll make sure the cop doesn't pull us over. If he knows what's good for him.

She looks over her right shoulder, and I hear the blinking of her turn signal. She merges into the right lane as I lean back in my seat with my hand over my stomach. Very important to signal when you're running from the cops, Ivy.

Twenty seconds later, the blue and red lights shut off.

Told ya.

"What the... What do I do now? Pull over or not?" She's totally confused. She forgot to shut her turn signal off. I stretch over and flip the lever.

My breaths are short gasps between my laughs. "Floor it." I wipe amused tears from my eyes.

"What? Are you crazy? Have you lost your marbles in the last few minutes?" I turn my head to her.

Her jaw hangs open, and her eyes skitter from the rearview mirror to the driver's, then the passenger's, and repeat.

I let one last laugh out and flatten my voice. "You heard me."

"I'm not going to jail because you decided to be an ass to a cop!" Oh, really? You'd better watch who you call an ass, missy. There are severe punishments for lesser crimes in my book.

"I guess grandma has returned from the nursing home. Too bad. I was about to compliment you on your driving abilities. But now..." I pivot my palms in the air like a justice scale.

"And what's wrong with my driving?" I'm not going near her question. No way, no how. I would like to ravage her again someday.

"He's on your tail. I thought you could lose him, but..." I love messing with her.

"You're kidding, right? Is this a bet or something?"

"Not kidding. Lose 'em." My cheeks hurt from laughing, but I'm curious if she's going to follow my orders in a stressful situation. Her eyes flash to the rear mirror again. "Your choice, sweetheart." I check the side mirror like I'm gauging his position. "What're you gonna do?"

Come on, Ivy. Trust me.

She shifts, swerves to the left, and punches the gas. My pride shows in my expanding smile. She trusts me.

Jacade

Ivy pulls her new Challenger up to the door of my personal underground garage.

"I could swear, Jacade, that cop gave up the chase right after you were done fiddling with your phone. Did you do something?"

"Who me? No way." I give her my earnest face. Yeah, she sees right through me.

I exit the car and place my thumb on the scanner on the exterior wall. The door rises and my jumpsuit trails behind me as I jog back to the driver's side of the Challenger.

She follows my directions to a space next to my Cobra. Through her open window, I say, "This is your parking spot."

She puts the car in park. "My parking spot?" Her forehead creases. You heard me.

"Yep. I don't want you parking on the street. Not safe."

"How am I supposed to drive it if I can't park on the street? I don't have a garage."

I open her door and grip the handle. "You'll leave it here, and when you want to drive it, you can come get it. Shane will get you set up with a thumbprint entry." I tap the opener on the visor to show her the thumbprint surface there.

I step back and hold my hand out for her. She stalls and her mouth opens, but no words form. I offer my hand again with a pointed look, and she accepts it. I help her out of the car and close the door behind her. She tugs on my hand as we pass the Cobra.

"Holy shit! Is that a classic Cobra?" I stop and look back at her over my shoulder, our hands suspended in midair.

"Oh, you mean Delia?"

"Umm, yeah."

"Yep. She's a 1966 Shelby Cobra Supersnake in pristine condition. Paid 5.1 mil for her at auction, but she's worth more than that now."

She gapes at Delia like a woman drooling over a chocolate-covered Tiffany diamond. I tug on her hand hard enough to break her trance. "No, honey, you're not driving her. She's mine." Just like you.

I walk to my private elevator and scan my thumb. In the reflection of the chrome doors, I see her cross her arms and tap her foot.

The elevator pings and the doors glide open. If she weren't wearing so many darn layers, the warmth of my hand at the small of her back would help her relax. I hit
P
and scan my thumb again. As the doors close, I grasp her hips, spin her, and press her back flush with the wood paneling, her tits rubbing against my pecs. I slide my fingers into her hair at the base of her skull and hold her head in my palms.

She scowls and her nostrils flare. "You can't buy me a car and then dictate when and how I can drive it."

My thumbs caress her rosy cheeks as I hover over her lips. "I can and did." I press my lips to hers, and she whips her head to the side. She's gonna make me work for it.

I turn her chin with my index finger and thumb until she's staring into my eyes. Her rapid breaths creep between the individual hairs of my stubble. I press my thumbs into her neck and whisper, "Don't ever turn your cheek to me." Her pulse pounds under my thumbs as I skim lower to the hollow of her throat.

She splays her palms on my chest and pushes me backward. I don't budge. She's like a flea pushing against the drum of a steamroller.

"I can and did." Her pupils dilate, and her chest lifts as she inhales. She may be irritated with me, but I'd bet my left nut she's wet and ready.

I crush my lips to hers again. Her teeth clamp onto my bottom lip. The taste of blood transudes onto my tongue. She suckles the tickle of plasma from my punctured lip. My blood is now inside her.

Jesus, girl.

All I want is for her to guzzle more of my vital fluid. She crawls under my skin like a needle siphoning my soul into a glass test tube only to be bottled up and hung around her neck on a string.

With a troglodyte grunt, I lower my hands and clinch her breasts through her jumpsuit. So full and succulent. She grabs my wrists and pushes, aiding in my assault. I unzip her jumpsuit with a strong tug and use both hands to pull her shirt snaps open, exposing the cleavage that's been rousing me all day. I stuff my face between her breasts and circle my nose in the nook of her crevice.

"Oh, Jaca..." She rasps her words with labored breath. I lift her hips and she locks her ankles around my lower back. I could stay entombed in her ample cleavage until dinosaurs return.

The elevator stops and the doors open. I'm buried in her breasts neck deep. Fortunately, I've memorized the layout of this unit so I can get out quickly, even if the power is cut.

My tongue roots around in circles aiming for her nipple under the soft fabric of her lingerie. She yanks my hair and grunts as the tip of my tongue finds its target.

I carry her to the couch and sit down on the edge. Her knees press into the cushions on each side of my hips, and her feet dangle in the air. I raise my head from her tasty nipple and pause to gaze at her. Our eyes lock, and her fiery gaze permeates my soul. Bending at the middle, she takes my mouth as if she's drowning and I'm her oxygen.

Fuck.

I break the kiss to whisper in her ear, "Strip for me." Let's see if she'll follow my instructions.

She pushes off my chest to stand and stares at me with mischief radiating in her irises. She toes her shoes off and shimmies her jumpsuit down one shoulder, then the other, wriggling to get it over her hips. She pulls her right foot out, but the jumpsuit gets caught around her left heel. She wobbles and falls face first into my lap. I steady her with my hands on her waist and hold my foot on the material to aid her efforts. Once free, she flings the jumpsuit across the room.

I rest my left arm along the top of the couch, spread my legs wide, and prepare to observe the show. She grasps her neck with her elbows out in front of her and gives me a vulnerable, self-conscious look that shoots straight to my cock, just like it did the first time I saw her. I nod my head to let her know it's all good. Don't stop, beautiful.

She blows out a long breath and lowers her hands, rotating them so her fingers skate over her breasts. With her fingers pointed down, she traces down her sides to the curve of her hips.

I hold up my index finger and seize my phone out of my pocket. I punch in my passcode and turn on a song by Puscifer. The sultry intro drums through the invisible in-wall speakers. I know she knows this racy song when she smirks and sways to the rhythm. I roll my hand to tell to her to continue. She looks down and unbuttons her jeans. She turns away from me and wriggles her jeans down. As she bends to step out of them, she writhes her supple, barely covered ass, flexing her knees so her hips accentuate the heavy beat of the music. The pale-pink lace cut high on the top of her ass cheeks and the miniscule strip of pink covering her pussy present a salacious mockery of her earlier innocence and self-doubt.

She straightens and gives me a kittenish grin over her shoulder as she reaches behind her back. She turns to face me again, her breasts jiggling and straining against her mostly unbuttoned shirt. She digs in her sleeve and yanks a pink lace bra out and down her arm.

Nice.

I force my hard cock down, but he won't concede. We'd better be fucking soon because I may have to go to the hospital my balls are so fucking blue.

She steps toward me and leans over to skim her hands over my shoulders to my waist. I lift my hips and she tugs my jumpsuit down and off, removing my shoes at the same time. What about the jeans, baby? Don't forget those.

She climbs up on the couch, knees outside my thighs so she's straddling my dick. I let her kiss me and feel her pinch the hem of my sweater, urging me to lean forward. She hauls it over my head and drops it on the couch.

A resplendent nymph has risen from the depths of Lake Michigan and mounted me. A fair maiden with shimmering eyes and lustrous porcelain flesh. Her ornery hair tucked behind one ear tries to break free. The other side, not fussing with the ear at all, dangles in front of her ey
e
.

I glide my palms up her thighs and hook my thumbs in the last remaining snaps of her shirt. Her breasts spring free in my face. I clutch her ribs and bring her stomach to my lips. I exhale so she can feel my breath on her bare skin. I pull the fabric of her shirt off her shoulders, but stop so it's tight around her upper arms, her tits pushed out in front of me. She doesn't struggle, but waits for me to do as I wish. She's in tune with my wants. I trail kisses up her stomach to her right breast. The weight of her tit lies on top of my nose as I take in a deep breath of her enticing lavender scent.

I cover her areola and lap ruthlessly on her nipple. Her head drops back with a grunt. I grasp her other breast and push it up next to my face. My fingertips pass over a bumpy ridge under her left arm. I kiss my way around the roundness of her breast and hover over her scar. The scar I put there, etched on her flesh forever. The mark I made when I brought her back to me.

When her eyes blinked open on that operating room table, I thought I was the one resuscitated. Bringing her back to life salvaged my defunct soul
.
I close my eyes and press my lips to the raised skin. I almost lost her. My future with her would've vanished.

She grapples with the shirt around her arms. She gets it off and grabs my head, her palms on my ears. She pushes my head away, but she's weak and resigned. I glance up, and her eyes glaze over.

Dammit. Please don't cry.

Her head bobs around looking for an exit. She snatches my sweater off the couch and clutches it to her chest, her eyes wide as she stares over my head and toward the hallway.

"Ivy, wait..." My words trail behind her as she sprints away. I drop my head on the back of the couch, and the master bathroom door shuts with a bang.

I shouldn't have pushed her. Yeah, I'm a moron.

***

Ivy

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

The granite bathroom counter beneath my fingers delivers a welcome coolness to my overheated body. I lift my gaze to the mirror and see a woman I don't recognize. At first glance, she appears to be the vision of wantonness. Cheeks flushed red, eyes dilated, chest heaving. Her only clothes her pink panties and the man's sweater clenched in her arms.

A closer look reveals the truth. The bathroom light brightens the vibrant stretch marks crisscrossing her midsection like a drunken craftsman whittled this woman out of wood. With every hiccup, his jagged knife sliced profound gashes into her stomach and hips. Screw you, Gepetto. Lay off the booze. The woman in the mirror tries to hide the marks by wrapping her arms around her middle.

Knock, knock, knock.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my hold on my belly. He's too hot for me. I'm too broken for him. He should be with a Victoria's Secret model. Their children would screw up the entire world's gene pool with their freakish good looks.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Ivy. Open the door." He doesn't sound agitated, but I'm not opening the door. I can't see him right now. I can't gaze at his ridiculous body and know mine looks like this. I swallow my threatening tears.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Ivy. Open the door." Nope, not happening, buddy.

"I'll give you one minute. That's it. If I don't see your face in sixty seconds, I'm breaking down the door." He wouldn't break down his own bathroom door, would he? Yeah, he probably would.

I pull his sweater over my head, and it falls past my hips to my upper thighs. His woodsy and crisp smell wafts into my nose, as if fairies bathed a lumberjack in rainwater and soap. I touch the doorknob and prepare to face him.

***

Jacade

What happened?

I wanted to rip the damn door off its hinges when she didn't respond. Bernard's words flowed through my mind.
Give her some space
. The best I could do is a minute.

My stomach grumbles. I glance at the clock. We haven't eaten all day. Why don't I ever remember to feed her? I simply consume her. She's my daily sustenance.

I meander out of my bedroom alone. I lace my fingers behind my head and stare out at the lights of the Ferris wheel reflecting off the water. Has it been a minute yet?

***

Ivy

Three oil on canvas portraits glimmer under lamps on the wall outside Jacade's bedroom. I angle my head to the side and stare at the voluptuous woman rendered with steady lines and artful swirls in rich shades of purple, blue, and red. In the first painting, she sits alone on a velvet couch with her legs crossed, bending down to pull on her sparkly high heel. In the second, she stands alone in a rustic field with her arm perched over her eyes to block the sun. In the last painting, she's seated on her calves in a submissive pose, her head turned down and to the side.

The artist has carefully illuminated her nude breasts while keeping her nipples hidden in shadow. Her concealed face, the crooks of her body, and her sinuous brunette hair exude overt sexuality, but her posture conveys an undercurrent of innocence and a sense of loss or being lost. What's her story, and why did Jacade hang her here in his hallway? I add these to my mental list of questions for Jacade and turn the corner to his living room.