Page 13 of Ivy’s Poison

That was a no go. My blades were an extension of me. So, I head gestured to different locations in the hotel room until all were found. As the president pushed me past the only two girls in my life and out the door, I told myself he was not the only one I was going to murder. Ivy had now been marked. By me.

It wasn’t a surprise that the only hotel employee and the few patrons didn’t step out of the office or rooms. From what I could see while being guided to the car, they didn’t even dare peek out the windows. They heard bike engines, gunshots, and a baby crying. It didn’t take a genius to assume it was a bad situation.

Due to the fact sheriffs would soon be on the scene, all dead bikers were left behind in the hotel room. In an old brown sedan, bloodied biker cuts and wallets were in the trunk in an attempt to keep from implicating the gang’s involvement. My knives were with the hidden evidence. A leathered man drove the car with Ivy and my kid in the front bench seat. I sat in the back seat, alone. The president rode his bike. No other bikes followed. I didn’t know, at the time, what the president was doing in my neck of the woods, but they had traveled alone. No other bikers were present to haul a fully loaded trailer back to Nebraska. And there had been no time to properly dispose of the evidence. I guess the bikes had false registrations and couldn’t lead officials back to their club. And, since they would be found states away, officials would have no way of linking them to one certain gang.

The dark back road leading away from the hotel only lit up when cruisers passed us. A part of me hoped they would pull us over since we were the only ones anywhere near where the emergency call came from, but they didn’t. They blared past us, and I was left to face the revenge to come.

We drove through the night, crossing Louisiana’s state line and into Texas. The president had taken advantage of his bike’s speed and left us behind early on. It took hours, but my shoulders started to truly hate having my arms tied behind my back.

Pulling over in Oklahoma for gas and snacks for the little one, I wasn’t offered food, not that I expected to be. In the morning light, as Ivy exited a gas station, she appeared tired and mad as hell. No words were shared as we got back to putting miles behind us. Ivy only smiled when my daughter finally woke in her car seat.

From behind, I watched a little outreached hand ask for a sippy cup. Ivy leaned closer and cooed, “Good morning, beautiful. Thirsty?” The tiny fingers gripped the cup, and then I heard a sucking sound. It was the sweetest fucking sound. I wanted to see her little face working hard for the beverage, but I couldn’t. I imagined she looked adorable. I hoped she looked content. I told myself, She will be okay, as soon as I break her free from the hellhole her mother has her in.

When the little girl started to fuss a couple of hours later, Ivy pulled out an iPad while telling the driver, “It will entertain her, but pull over at the next rest area. She needs a diaper change.”

“How old is she?”

Ivy glared at me from over her shoulder. “Do the math, shithead.”

My teeth experienced the rage building inside me as my jaw locked. I growled, “I liked you better when you had a mouthful and couldn’t talk.”

She squinted as she spat out, “Well, that won’t be happening again.”

“Damn straight.”

The driver asked, “Can I muzzle the fucker?”

As she faced forward again, she replied, “Like the dog he is.”

Why she was so angry with me, besides killing a bunch of criminal bikers, was beyond me. She was the one who was in the wrong. She was the one who was raising innocence in vile surroundings, and then sold out that innocent’s father to the true dogs in this scenario.

I was never ‘muzzled’. That would have gained too much attention on highways and at gas stations. At one gas station, Ivy pulled the kid from her car seat to lay her where she had been sitting. My eyes searched, but I only caught side glimpses of the tiny face with chubby cheeks.

After a diaper was changed, I told Ivy, “I need to take a piss.”

She was buckling the little one back into her car seat. “Like I give a shit.”

“Fine. I’ll piss in the car. Your choice.”

The driver eyed her. “Not likin’ the idea of him leaking in the back seat.”

Didn’t think you would.

Ivy exhaled, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Drive us closer to that outside bathroom.”

Once there, she pointed over the back of her seat, telling me, “I’m not untying you but will go in with you—”

The driver interrupted. “Maybe I should take him.”

She spoke words to him while her grey eyes spoke to me. “He won’t hurt me. He wants to see his kid again.”

The driver shook his head, completely frustrated. “I hate that you’ve pulled me into this shit.”

Leaning toward the driver, she grumbled, “Being his best friend made you a part of it.”

Whose best friend? I head gestured forward. “I don’t give two shits about the runt in the front.”

Ivy returned her attention back to me, lifting a brow while getting out of the car. “Oh, yeah? Then why the hell are you sittin’ in the back seat like a good little boy?” She shut her door.