Page 4 of Clint & Ivy
That was why I took Clint Reed’s outstretched hand and agreed to let the devil run the show.
CLINT REED
Most men in my lineof work suffered through rough childhoods, leaving them hard enough to face danger without flinching.
That wasn’t me. My childhood was idyllic. I suffered no abuse, knew very few disappointments, and reached adulthood as an unbroken man.
Growing up spoiled was likely why I chose to start my own club rather than remain a soldier in another man’s crew. My dad and uncle didn’t mind taking orders. They were rough men with hard childhoods. Being one of many was enough for them, but I demanded more.
My spoiled nature also explained why I had a blonde goddess wrapped around me as I raced away from a Missouri gas station. A man I assumed was her uncle watched us leave. He called out her name.My goddess was named Ivy.
Hearing him call out to her, Ivy hesitated and seemed drawn to him. She glanced at me as if begging me to stop her worst impulses. That was why I kept her hand trapped in mine and guided her to my motorcycle.
Ivy was a petite woman, maybe not even five feet tall. With her fair blonde hair and pale skin, she looked like a damsel who’d spent too long locked away in a dungeon. I was playing the role of hero. Nothing about our situation felt particularly wrong to me.
Before we rode away, her uncle stepped away from his car. He seemed sick. His eyes bounced back and forth like his brain was misfiring.
He said Ivy’s name again once my engine rumbled. I saw her little hand lift and offer him a sad wave. Her uncle mimicked the gesture. I noticed a pistol in his other hand.
A less seasoned asshole would have sped from the scene in a panic. However, I kept my cool and slowly pulled away to prevent Ivy from falling off.
I drove three miles with my gaze locked on the rearview, waiting for someone to tail us. Eventually, I accepted I was alone on the road with a stranger.
Two exits from my hometown, I pulled off the highway and into another gas station. Ivy trembled wildly against my back. I helped her from the bike and then held her still while I climbed off.
Her gaze was unreadable. She was the type to hide in her head. I sized up her clothing, trying to piece together more of her story. She wore a knee-length, black-and-gray plaid skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, and shiny black shoes like kids endured at church.
At the gas station, her hair had been tied back with a black headband. She must have lost it during the short ride. Ivy’s hair was now wild from the wind.
I had no fucking clue why she was dressed like a fussy schoolgirl. Her uncle had been decked out in overalls like an old farmer. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn they were on their way to a costume party.
As she shivered in the early spring weather, I slid out of my jacket and gestured for her to wear it.
“Your name is Ivy,” I said as we stood in the quiet parking lot. “If trouble were to show up right now, tell me what that would look like.”
“I don’t understand.”
