Ivy

by Willa Nash

Another rejection. Another person trying to steal her control. God, she couldn’t even fuck the guy she wanted to screw. “Then leave me alone.” Ivy spun toward the bar, wrapped her hand around his wrist and lifted it off her shot glass. Then, before he could stop her, she poured the tequila down her throat. It barely burned. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Not tonight, remember?” she quipped, shoving past him, her knees wobbly. But she regained her balance once more and leveled him with a glare. “Good luck with those boundaries.” Ivy sensed him behind her as she walked for the exit. She knew he’d keep watch until she was in her car. So she held it together, using every breath to keep her emotions in check. They raged inside of her, pounding fists against her ribs to be set free. Hurt. Anger. Disappointment. Everyone wanted something from Ivy. Money. Status. Her father wanted her to be someone else. They wanted the façade. They wanted the rich, beautiful bitch. She’d thought last weekend that maybe Tate had wanted her. The real Ivy Clarence. Who was she kidding? There was no real Ivy. That Ivy was dead, killed in a car crash years ago. With Kristopher.