“I was just leaving.” She puts a hand on the tree trunk to steady herself and brushes off the bottoms of her feet.
“And you couldn’t use the front door?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “Careful. Those are crushed oyster shells in the flowerbed. They’re sharp.”
She jumps back like she just saw a snake.
“You’re not driving, I hope, because I can find you a ride home.” Didn’t she come with friends? Maybe I should bring her to the station. Depending on where she lives, Kelly can give her a ride when she leaves.
“I’m not drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about.” She looks at her phone. “My roommate will be out here in a minute.”
Why the hell would she be up on the roof if she’s not wasted? And why the makeup running down her face? It’s true that she’s not slurring her words or acting confused, so I’m not sure what’s going on.
“Where’s your coat?” I ask, remembering the bloodstains.
“Good call.” She fires off another text. “I’ll have her grab it on the way out.”
“Tell her to leave it here. I’ll have it cleaned.” I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over her shoulders. Even though I’ve never taken clothes to the cleaners in my life, Mom used to take her designer shit there, gifts from the guys she dated, so I know they can clean just about anything.
“That’s okay,” she says, trying to give my jacket back to me. “I was going to—”
“Take it. I feel terrible about the blood and everything. It’s the least I can do.” As I situate my jacket back on her shoulders, I catch a whiff of fragrance. Not perfumey, but simple and uncomplicated. Vanilla, I think. From her hair. It’s…nice.
I grab my phone from my back pocket and hand it to her. “Put in your number and I’ll call you when it’s clean.”
She stares at the screen, then darts a glance nervously toward the house.
The realization hits me upside the head. She was on the roof to get away from someone at the party. Someone she’s afraid of. The makeup running down her face isn’t because she’s drunk. It’s because she’s been crying.
I flex my hands, trying to ignore the pain in my knuckles from the fight earlier. I’m going to pound the holy living shit out of the guy who did this to her. If there’s one thing that makes me lose my shit faster than anything else, it’s when a guy mistreats his girlfriend. There’s no fucking excuse for that. Having seen it way too many times with my mom and her messed-up love life, I have zero tolerance for it.
Like I said before, I’m no angel. Maybe that’s why I can easily spot an asshole.
“Where the fuck is he?”
Her eyes widen. “What? Who?”
“Your dickwad boyfriend. I’m going beat the shit out of him.”
She looks confused. “I…I don’t understand.”
“That’s why you were out on the roof, isn’t it? To get away from him?” I have an overwhelming urge to pull her into my arms and protect her from the jackass who did this to her. No one should be allowed to make this girl feel as if her only option is to climb out on a roof to get away. She could’ve fucking fallen.
Her expression softens as she looks at me. “No dickwad boyfriend,” she says quietly, taking my phone. Her fingers inadvertently brush against the palm of my hand, sending electricity shooting up my arm. “But thank you for…for wanting to beat the shit out of someone for me. That’s really…sweet of you.”
No boyfriend at all or just not a dickwad boyfriend?
“Then why were you up there?” Despite what I originally thought, it not like she got wasted and ended up on the roof in a drunken stupor.
She drops her gaze, turning her attention to my phone. “I’d rather forget about it, if you don’t mind.”
In other words, none of your business.
But...I want to make it my business. All those years looking after my mom have taken their toll. She had supremely bad judgment when it came to men and made a shit-ton of excuses for them—whether it was a current boyfriend or an ex-boyfriend. Including my father. She never went after him for child support or had anything bad to say about him. When one of his songs would come on the radio, she’d get all teary-eyed, but she’d never change the station. I was the one who had to do it.
So I’m telling you, this situation has asshole boyfriend written all over it. “An ex?” I ask, probing for an answer.
She glances away and blinks a few times, and for a moment I’m thinking she’s going to say yes. I’m prepared to go back into the party, find out who he is, and introduce his face to my fist.
“No,” she says, surprising me. “My ex isn’t in there, either.”
I could’ve sworn… I study her for a moment. She sounds truthful enough. “Okay, but why—”
“Do you think we can just drop it?”
Her words jolt through me. End of subject. No more questions because she’s not going to give me any answers. “Yeah, fine. No problem.”
“Good.” She hands my phone back.
I shift my weight to the other foot and check to see what she entered. I can’t help but smile. “Ivy. How perfect for a girl I found on the roof of an old house. No last name?”
She stares at me for a moment before answering. “Does it matter?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, how many Ivys do you know, anyway?”
“None. You’re my first. But am I supposed to remember you as Ivy, the girl on the roof? Or just Ivy on the Roof? Or are you like Bono or Slash and only go by your first name?”
There’s a hint of a smile on her lips. “It’s Ivy McAllister.”
“Is that M-A-C?” I ask, spelling out the letters on my phone. “Or M-C?”
“Wow, all these questions. Are you always this inquisitive?”
“Only with things that matter to me.”
Her eyes meet mine for a half-second before she quickly glances away. “It’s just M-C,” she says quietly.
Just? I can tell already that there’s nothing remotely insignificant about Ivy McAllister.
I enter her last name into my contacts and confirm the spelling. “Since we’re introducing ourselves, I’m Jon Priestly.”
She makes no move to grab her phone and enter my info. “Yeah, I know.”
My chest swells with pride. While it doesn’t surprise me that she knows who I am, I love it just the same…until I realize she doesn’t ask for my number in return. Why? Is she too shy?
As I mull over other possible reasons, I notice that her scarf doesn’t cover her chest. It draws my eyes like a magnet and I exhale slowly. Her teal shirt dips low in the front, revealing a hint of a teal lace bra. Must be her favorite color. It just may be my new favorite—
Damn.
I try not to let my gaze wander lower, I really do, but perky nipples are pointing straight at me through her thin shirt. And like I said earlier, I’m not a saint. Not even close.
Ivy
Just because Jon helped me off the roof and loaned me his jacket doesn’t mean he has free rein to be a douche. He lifts his gaze and his eyes meet mine. Busted. He doesn’t even look the least bit guilty that he got caught, either. I glare, hoping to shame some manners into him, but he doesn’t act embarrassed. In fact, is that a smile?
But if I’m being perfectly honest, Jon Priestly isn’t exactly knight-in-shining-armor material, so the fact that he was blatantly staring at my chest shouldn’t surprise me. I watched him beat the crap out of a dude, learned that he sells weed, and if I’m not mistaken, I accidentally barged in on him having sex with some chick upstairs when I was looking for the bathroom. He’s no hero. Not even close. He’s more like a villain with a few redeeming qualities.