Dirty Money(42)

I sit up on my couch, reaching for a nearby beer bottle. It's empty, so I  toss it back down. I'm out of beer. Think I ran out of beer yesterday,  actually, because then I went to Knox's trailer and stole his. "I gave  them plans on where to dig."

"Yeah, and you also left the suits in charge. They put a company man out  on site and let him run the show. Two dry wells this week."

Fuck. I can't even let up for a damn week and things go to shit. "I'll talk to 'em."

"I don't give a damn about the money. We got more than enough. I'm  worried about you, brother. It's not like you to be this messed up over a  woman."

"It's not just a woman," I point out to him. "I was gonna marry her.  Make her my wife. Move into a fancy house and maybe have kids someday."  It's been days and I'm still empty inside over Ivy. She lied to me,  right to my face, so many times.

Shitty thing is, I'm still in love with her. Finding out that she's a  liar hasn't made me want her less. Now there's just a lot of betrayal  and anger mixed in with all the lust and need.

I'm furious at her . . . and I still miss her like hell.

"Have you talked to her?" Clay asks, propping his feet up on my end table. "Gotten her side of the story?"

"No. Haven't talked to anyone." I pick up another beer bottle and shake  it. Empty, too. "Don't know if you noticed, but I'm not in much of a  talky mood."

"Oh, I noticed. I was just curious how you feel about her."

I squint at him, then rub my face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, let's say it's the worst. She's a gold digger and a hooker or something-"

"She ain't a fuckin' hooker-"

"I know, I know. Calm down. I'm just saying worst-case scenario. What if  she's, like, the worst you can imagine. She only wants your money. What  would you do then?"         

     



 

I picture Ivy. Smiling, sweet Ivy, with that sleek bun of hair that just  begs to be taken down. Ivy with her long legs that go on for miles. Ivy  with my hand up her skirt, her pussy soaking wet. Ivy telling me not to  take the house we just looked at, because it's not good enough for me.

Ivy standing like a statue, while that buffoon Jack puts his hand on her shoulder and laughs at us.

"Don't know," I mutter. I do know, though.

I still fuckin' love Ivy. I still want her. If all she wants is my  wallet, I'd take that as long as I get her smiles, her laughter, her  sweetness . . . and I'd hope that over time, she'd come to love me, too.

"I do know," Clay announces, and tosses something down on the table,  knocking over beer bottles. "That's why I decided to step in."

I lean forward and pick it up. It's a folder. Manila. There's several pieces of paper inside. "What's this shit?"

"It's about Ivy. I hired you a private investigator so you could find  out all the truth about Ivy since she wasn't keen on sharing it. Find  out her dirty secrets and all that." He grins at me like a loon. "Or  shall I say, Reba Lee Smithfield?"

"Huh?"

"Damn, you are drunk, aren't you?" He reaches over and bats at my hat,  knocking it off my face. "She changed her name, dummy. Her birth name's  Reba, like the country singer. Her sister's Wynonna. If that ain't a  redneck calling card, I don't know what is."

Reba? My blonde, elegant Ivy is Reba? I flip open the folder and squint  at the documents. Sure enough, there's a picture of her driver's  license, a duplicate underneath it with a different name. Two years ago,  she went from Reba Lee Smithfield to Ivy Smithfield, no middle name.  Six months later, she got her real estate license.

"Shit's pretty juicy if you ask me," Clay drawls, crossing one foot over  the other. "Lil' Reba was an honors student back in high school.  Student council, varsity academics, all that nerdy shit. Then a month  before graduation, she drops out. Boom. Just stops showing up to school.  You wanna know why?"

"Why?" I flip through the papers, curious.

"Her parents suck. It's somewhere in there. Seems like her momma ran off  and daddy got arrested at about the same time for robbing a liquor  store. Sister was twelve at the time, so I'm guessing Ivy-sorry,  Reba-dropped out to take care of her. Her employment history is all  there, too. She's worked just about every shitty minimum wage job there  is-usually two at once. Still managed to get her GED and her real estate  license."

I flip through the paperwork. There's her credit history-it's terrible,  and her debt-to-income is through the roof. I pull up a copy of her 1099  from last year. It's from Three Jacks and she made all of four grand.  Jesus. I think of her fancy, elegant suits and her expensive shoes.

I think of that beater of a car she drives.

I wanted to attract a higher caliber of client.

She wants to make something of herself. She wants a better life for  herself. I know that feeling. I know what it feels like to be stuck in a  hole and trapped by your circumstances. She's clawing herself out, any  way she can. I keep reading, because I have to. I see her dad's arrest  records. I see Ivy's current list of bills, all far more than she's  bringing in. I see her sister's school records and her upcoming schedule  for college.

I see a list of plasma donations to private corporations in exchange for  money, and my stomach clenches. I think of all the marks on her arms,  and scan the dates. Some of these are two or three times a week, all at  different places, never for more than fifty bucks a donation. That is  fucked up.

No wonder she was so excited to get my business.

I close the folder and toss it aside, rubbing my face. I feel tired.  Weary. Defeated. And so damn in love with her I don't know what to do  with myself.

"Well?" Clay demands.

"Well what?"

"She's pulled herself up by her bootstraps, just like you," my brother  says. "Well, maybe not like you. You were successful. She ain't there  yet."         

     



 

I glare at him, because that sounds perilously close to an insult and  I'm feeling more than a little protective of Ivy at the moment. I  picture her working one shitty job and then turning around to go work  another, all so her sister can keep the same roof over her head. I  picture her dropping out of high school to go flip burgers, the very  thing that those assholes laughed in her face about.

"Just wondering why you're so mad about this shit," Clay drawls.

I don't even know if I'm mad anymore. I don't know what to do. "Because  she wasn't who she said she was. She said she was Ivy, and she's been  Reba Lee the whole time."

"You're wrong. She made herself into someone new. She doesn't want to be  that old person. Don't see why she's gotta be tagged with her past for  the rest of her life when she's working so hard to change things."

He's got a point . . . but I'm a stubborn son of a bitch. "I picked her  out because I wanted a lady. I wanted respect from all those assholes  out there that think they're too good for a few roughnecks that have  more money than them." Assholes like the Jacks.

Clay shrugs. "So get a new lady. One with a real pedigree."

"I don't want a new lady. I want her," I growl at him. The thought of  anyone in my life other than Ivy leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

"So go get her."

"I can't have her and the respect I want." The Jacks showed me that.

"You damn blasted fool-headed idiot." Clay flings himself up from the  chair, irritated. "You gotta decide if this ‘respect' stick you got  stuck up your ass is worth more to you than Ivy. Who the fuck cares if a  few dumbasses in suits don't respect you?" He slams a fist into his  palm. "You make them respect you. If they think you're trash, buy their  businesses and burn 'em to the ground. Show 'em who's their daddy."

I laugh, because it's a fuckin' ridiculous plan . . . and it's one I've  already done before. I think about my new golf course, all burned out  and nothing but ash and rubble. I have to admit that was mighty  satisfying, blowing that shit up. Funny thing is . . . I don't know if  they respected me more when I destroyed the golf course, but it made  them realize that I was in charge.

Maybe it ain't about respect as much as showing them I got the balls to back up my talk, then.

I rub my beard thoughtfully. I started this whole thing because I wanted  Bates to eat shit. I wanted him to realize I was someone to be  respected, and I thought I'd do that with a big, showy house and an even  more showy woman in my bed.

Thing is, though, none of that matters much anymore. I think about Ivy,  and she's really the only thing I want. I don't care about a house with a  pool and a staircase. I don't care if I can swan in to a hoity-toity  party and Ivy won't know which fork to use.

But I think about never seeing her smile again. Never feeling her soft  lips pressed to mine. Never seeing that sweet flush creeping over her  cheeks when she thinks dirty thoughts about me.