Surviving Ice by K. A. Tucker
“Well, don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” He sets his jaw, like he doesn’t really believe that.
He curls his fingers through mine, and then presses the doorbell. Moments later, footfalls sound on the other side and the door cracks open, and a small woman with a blond bob appears.
She gives her head a shake. “Sebastian?”
“Hey, Mom.”
She looks dazed for a moment. “Why didn’t you . . .” Her words drift off as she glances from him to me, to our clasped hands, to him again. And then she heaves a sigh and smiles. “Come in, please.”
I smile in return, though internally I’m frowning. Something’s off here. Did he not tell them that he was bringing a guest? I will kill him, if that’s the case.
We trail her inside, getting past the door so she can close it. The delicious smell of turkey wafts through the house and I inhale, savoring the scent. It’s an American tradition that my family never really picked up. Suddenly I feel like I’ve been missing out for twenty-five years.
“Mom, this is Ivy. Ivy, this is my mother, Mona.” He hasn’t let go of my hand yet.
I stick my free hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Right, yes.” She nods absently, taking it. “Come in. Come in.”
No. This goes beyond me.
A deep older, male voice sounds from somewhere in the house. “Is that those lawn care people again? They don’t know how to take no for an answer!”
“Uh . . . no,” Mona answers, a slight wobble to her voice. “It’s your son.”
Silence.
My hand grows clammy in Sebastian’s. He’s sweating. When I peer up at him, he offers me a brief, tight smile.
A chair creaks, and then, moments later, a graying man in tan slacks and a button-down shirt appears. He’s tall, like Sebastian, only much more slender. The same shocked expression sits on his face that appeared on his wife’s moments ago. “Sebastian.”
Sebastian releases my hand to offer his. “Sir.” He’s so serious, I half expect him to salute his own father.
After a long pause, and a nervous glance between the two from Mona, Sebastian’s dad takes it.
Sebastian turns to me. “This is Ivy Lee. Ivy, this is Captain George Riker.”
Riker. So that’s Sebastian’s last name.
“Just George is fine.” His dad’s piercing gaze shifts to mine, and I can feel the scrutiny as he holds out a hand.
“It’s so nice to meet you.” I sound like a parrot, but it’s the only thing I can think of. This is beyond awkward.
Mona and George share a glance and a subtle nod.
“So . . . umm . . . I have a large turkey in the oven. You know how your father likes leftovers.” Mona wrings her hands.
“That sounds great, Mom.”
Again, another sigh, then a smile. “Okay. Great. Well . . .” She gestures toward the living room. “Make yourselves at home. Not much has changed. I’ll be back in a few moments.”
We follow George into the living-dining room. It reminds me a lot of Ned’s house in its layout, except it’s immaculate and tastefully decorated, with couch cushions that match curtains, and an area rug that looks like it has never been stepped on. The dining room on the other side is big enough for six people. Two formal places are set.
And the oddness makes sense now.
I turn to glare at Sebastian. They didn’t know we were coming! Did we just crash Thanksgiving dinner?
He simply shrugs and gestures to the love seat. But when Mona rushes in with plates and cutlery, I head that way instead. “Here. Let me help you with that.” I reach out and take the plates from her.
“Thank you, dear.”
I can’t say the last time anyone has ever called me “dear.”
From behind me, I hear George say something about a cigar on the back veranda. The two of them step through the sliding door, shutting it behind them.
Leaving me alone with his mother.
“If I had known that Sebastian would be surprising us like this, I would have had things ready beforehand,” she rambles on, fussing with the spacing of the knife and fork. “I’ll just have to throw some more potatoes and carrots in . . .”
“I’ll help you. And . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’ll strangle him later for you.”
She chuckles, glancing out the window at her son, at his profile. “He looks so much older.” Shaking her head, she murmurs more to herself, “I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise after five years, but still . . .”
The butter knife slips from my hand and clatters against the china.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SEBASTIAN
Not until the first ring of smoke sails out of his mouth and into the cool late November breeze does he speak. “So? . . . How are things?”
I look at the cigar in my hand and smile, thinking about the ones Ivy bought and tucked into her top. We never did smoke those. “Fine.”
“Work?” He peers out over the chestnut tree, a few prickly shells still hanging from limbs. The ones that littered the grass have long since been picked up and disposed of.
Dad knows what I do. Well, not exactly what I do, but he’s smart enough to put two and two together and not ask questions. He despises Alliance and companies like Alliance that profit from war, taking money that should be put toward funding the troops. That means he despises men like Bentley, living in their Napa vineyards, reaping the rewards.
He was watching from the window the day that Bentley pulled up in his car and took me for a long, enlightening drive. He was watching when Bentley dropped me off and shook hands with me, and handed me an envelope full of cash and my first false ID.
And when he asked me what it was all about, and I told him that I couldn’t give him details but that I’d be doing good work, he warned me not to go down this path. He warned me that I’d get burned. Then he turned his back on me.
He would have come around, eventually, I think.
But I was a fucking mess back then. Lost, angry, and unable to handle that perpetual disapproving gaze of his. So I packed my bags and left the next day, and haven’t been back since.
I figured that was best for everyone.
“Did Mom get the birthday card?” I ask, leaving his question unanswered. Her birthday was six weeks ago. I always send one, just to let her know I’m thinking of her, and that I’m okay. It never eases the guilt.
“She did.” His cheeks lift in a tight smile. “She’s always happy when those arrive.”
Silence hangs over the backyard as we both puff away at our cigars. I used to love sitting on the porch floor and watching him smoke them with one navy buddy or another while they went off about the government and what they should be doing, and what they weren’t doing.
I check inside the house to see Ivy and my mom in the kitchen, their backs to me. Ivy’s peeling something, from the looks of it. I probably shouldn’t have left the two of them in there alone, but there’s not much my mother can tell her that Ivy doesn’t already know, and there’s no way my dad told my mom anything about Bentley.
It’s always been that way between the two of them. My mom, happy and oblivious in her world of gardening and catering to my father’s every need. They’re straight out of the 1950s as far as their marriage goes, and both are content with that.
“Where’d you meet her?”
“Here. In San Francisco.”
He nods, his mouth opening to say something, but hesitating. Captain George Riker forms opinions of people quickly. I’m sure he’s already formed an opinion of Ivy, and that’s without seeing all her tattoos.
A feature he would definitely not appreciate as I do.
“She seems nice,” is all he says. “How long have you been in town?”
“Not long.” I can’t bring myself to admit to having been here for a couple of weeks already.
His jaw tenses, like he’s figured that out already. “Staying?”
“I wasn’t planning on it but . . .” I glance
Astute eyes settle on me. “Does she know?”
I shake my head.
He takes another long puff of his cigar. “You gonna tell her?”
“I’m not sure I’ll have a choice but to.”
His eyes narrow. “How so?”
I hesitate. “She’s tied to an assignment that I shouldn’t have been brought in for. I don’t think I can keep it from her forever.” The guilt will eat me up more than it already has.
“He’s got you doing something wrong, doesn’t he?”
“Something to cover his ass, yeah.”
My dad nods, like he expected this all along. And he did. This is exactly the kind of thing he warned me about.
He’s always loved being right. But right now, I see only worry. “You’re going to do the right thing. Right?”
I puff quietly on my cigar, not sure how to answer that.
If only it were that easy.
“It was so nice to meet you, Ivy.” My mom’s eyes light up as she shakes Ivy’s hand, and I know she approves. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if she would. Ivy’s nothing like the girls Mona Riker always tried to steer me toward growing up. She’s the opposite of Sharon in every single way, and Mom was heartbroken when Sharon called off the wedding.
Maybe she’s just so happy that I’m here, that she doesn’t care who I bring home. Either way, I’m happy that tonight ended peacefully.
“So . . .” My mom’s gaze shifts to me and I see her fighting off tears.
“We’ll be back to visit very soon,” Ivy says for me, in a voice that tells me she means it, and a sharp look that tells me I’m going to get an earful from her later.
“Okay.” After a moment of hesitation, my mom ropes her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight. “I hope so,” she whispers, making my chest tighten with guilt and regret.
My dad gives me a single nod, his arms settled over my mom’s shoulders.
I feel their eyes on our backs the entire way to the car. Ivy must as well. “Your mother is incredibly nice,” she murmurs, slipping her fingers through mine affectionately.
I smile. “She is.”
“My own mother isn’t even that nice to me.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Just you wait . . .”
I open the door for her to climb into the passenger seat, and then I come around to the driver’s side.
A sharp pinch on my triceps has me wincing in pain.
“Five years? You live in the same city and you haven’t visited that poor sweet woman in five years?” Ivy barks. “When you said you weren’t close, I thought you meant you did the occasional drive-by, half-assed attempts at calling. But they haven’t seen or heard from you in five years!”
I knew that was going to come out somehow.
I can only offer, “I know.”
“She doesn’t care about your less than honorable discharge, Sebastian. All she cares about is that her son is happy and safe.”
“I send her birthday cards,” I mumble, earning her sharp glare.
“A card.” Her tone is flat but her glare is scathing. “That doesn’t even begin to count.”
I didn’t think Ivy of all people would get so fired up over this. “What? How often do you see your parents?”
She sputters for a moment.
“Thought so.”
“I call them once a month. I email regularly. We correspond. I get my regular parental dose of ‘you’re fucking your life up’ from them. And if I actually lived in the same city, I would visit. But I’ve never iced them out like you have. So what’s your excuse?”
I heave a sigh as I pull out. It’s time for some truth. “I haven’t been living in San Francisco for the past five years.” Truth in small doses is the best way with Ivy, I think.
She falters. “Where have you been?”
“Around.”
“For work?”
“Yeah.” That’s not a lie.
“When exactly did you move back?”
“I’m in the process of it right now.”
Her head falls back against the headrest. “So . . . there are no plumbing issues.”
“Depends on if you consider the cracked, leaking toilet in my shitty motel room a problem. I checked out of there a few days ago.”
She’s still trying to make sense of this; I can see it on her face. “Why’d you lie to me, then?”
“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t give me the time of day if you thought I was just passing through.”
“But you’re not. Passing through, I mean. Right?”
I reach over and weave my fingers through her hand. “No. I’m not. Definitely not, now.”
THIRTY-NINE
IVY
I watch Sebastian’s long lashes flicker as he sleeps.
He finally lay down about an hour ago, after I woke up to find him sitting by the window again. Who knows how long he was there tonight.
Is he like this all the time? Or just for now?
The more I get to know him, the less I know about him, I’m realizing. He’s complicated. I sensed that from the moment I first met him. Dakota sensed it. This supposed “darkness.” But it’s more than just his ghosts—the little girl, his friends, his time in the war.
There’s definitely more.
Is Bobby right?
This stranger shows up at the shop one day, apparently on vacation, willing to pay just about anything to get a tattoo from me. He keeps coming back until I finally agree. And, except for a few hours apart while he “runs errands,” he has basically refused to leave my side since. Not that I’m complaining. Not once have I felt overwhelmed, or suffocated. I love having him around.
But aside from meeting his parents and what happened during the war, I know nothing about him. I don’t know where he actually lives because he lied about that. He’s never mentioned any friends. The one work phone call he received was him refusing to actually go to work and talking about mercenaries.
Was that a joke?
Nothing about his tone of voice that day would suggest it.
Everything that he’s said suggests he’s a loner. He shut his own parents out for five years. He’s back in San Francisco now; why, I have no idea, but he came with one small duffel bag that holds five T-shirts and two pairs of jeans. He comes out of a Home Depot restroom with a split lip that was not caused by walking into a wall because an ex–Navy SEAL who can take down three grown men without breaking a sweat is incapable of walking into walls. He sits by my window at night with his gun ready, waiting for something to happen, and his late-night confessions included doing things that he’s afraid I might not approve of.
Who are you, really, Sebastian?
Besides the stranger who strolled in and seized my heart?
FORTY
SEBASTIAN
“She probably thinks she’s alone.”
Ivy lies on her back next to me, staring up at the bedroom ceiling. “Both of our cars are parked outside.”
“Well, then . . . maybe this is payback. We haven’t exactly been quiet either.” I woke up to the sound of the front door closing about twenty minutes ago. Two voices—one, Dakota’s, and one, a male voice—carried through the small house, on their way to her bedroom.
Ivy woke up when the moaning began and the headboard knocking started.
“That’s something I would do. Dakota isn’t spiteful enough.” She groans. “When are you finding a place?”
“Maybe we can look later today, after we get all the paint supplies. Carl should be done with the plastering soon.”
She smiles, pleased. “Okay.”
Dakota’s moans have reached their peak and, coupled with some deep grunts and groans, sound like the two have come to the end of the performance.
“I’m betting it’s the California Bum.” Ivy pulls herself out of bed. “We need to get out of here before they emerge. I’ll vomit if I witness that.”
&
Ivy turns to see my hard-on and scowls. “Not a chance.”
I shrug. It’s hard for any guy to listen to that and not be affected. I watch with an arm tucked under my head as she pulls on fresh clothes, covering up her body. “Hurry up and get dressed!” she hisses, tossing a T-shirt and briefs that land on my face. I pull them off with a grin to see her sliding the pocket door open.
At the same time that the pocket door from Dakota’s room slides open, and a very sweaty, very naked Bobby fills the doorway.
“You knew that was him all along, didn’t you!” she accuses.
I don’t say anything as I drive, because she’s right. I did recognize Bobby’s gruff voice. I just didn’t know how to bring it up without Ivy losing her mind, like she is right now.
“God, why him? She’s a beautiful woman who could have anyone she wants, and yet . . . him!”
“Why do you care? You know she has . . . eclectic tastes.”
She sinks into the car seat. And frowns. “I don’t know. I guess . . . I guess I still blame those guys for what happened to Ned. They shouldn’t have let him gamble.”
“Ned was a grown man who made his own decisions.” And they have nothing to do with what happened to him.
“I know. I just . . .” She shudders.
I can’t help it, I start to laugh.
“Oh, you think this is funny?”
I can’t stop laughing, even as I pull into the driveway behind Carl’s pickup truck. Carl is on the front porch, having a smoke, the phone pressed to his ear, a wide grin on his face. I’m guessing that’s Bobby on the other end, warning him to stay on Ivy’s good side because she’s already pissed off.
I climb the steps behind her.
“How’s it going in there?”
Carl has managed to wipe the smile off but there’s still amusement there. He’s a decent enough guy. Less rough looking than the others, with short, dark curly hair and a clean-shaven face. “Almost done. Another day to dry and sand again. Plastering is tricky.”
“And then it’ll be ready for you to paint and clean?” Carl’s already said he’s “not painting any goddamn walls,” but the way Ivy delivers it, you’d think she’s seriously expecting it.