11: She Plays the Shy Thing So Well

Ivy’s POV

The lie came easier than I thought it would. Maybe because I had done it before.

I’d walked into my mum's room, fed her some nonsense about last-minute school supplies, and just like that, she handed me two thousand dollars without question. No interrogation, no suspicion. Just a casual be more responsible next time advice.

Maybe I should have asked for the full five thousand. But that would’ve raised red flags, and questions, and I couldn’t afford any of those right now. Two thousand was enough to get me closer, and not enough to fix everything.

But enough to keep the panic at bay a little bit. For now.

I was inside my room, on my bed, with my breath escaping in a shaky exhale.

The money sat in my hands, crisp bills that felt heavier than they should.

I had managed to scrape together a thousand from selling one of my old novels. Add this two thousand from my mom, and that made three.

Still short by two grand.

I stared at the cash, my fingers curling around it as dread pooled in my stomach.

Where the hell was I supposed to find the rest?

I couldn’t show up with just three thousand. Demi had been very clear about that. Or else there'd be “consequences."

My hands clenched, a shudder running through me.

I had to find the rest of the money.

The next morning, I woke up feeling like the weight of the entire world had settled on my chest.

Like I hadn’t slept at all. Like I’d spent the entire night drowning in thoughts that refused to let me breathe.

My limbs felt heavy, my body sluggish with exhaustion. Every part of me screamed to stay in bed, and save what little I had left of my dignity.

But staying back wasn’t an option.

So, I dragged myself out of bed, freshened up, got dressed, and headed out to the meeting place.

A diner in town which was too nice for someone like Demi.

It had that polished, cozy charm—the kind of place rich kids brought their dates to impress them. Warm lighting, neatly arranged booths. It smelled like coffee and fresh-baked bread, like a safe place.

But not for me.

Because in the back corner, ruining the atmosphere entirely, was them.

Three of them. Loud. Lewd. Greasy-looking, just like him.

I spotted them instantly, their crude laughter rising above the rest of the diner’s noise. Demi sat in the middle of the booth, his arms sprawled lazily over the seat like he owned the place.

The second I walked in, his head lifted, his gaze locking onto mine. That slow, knowing smirk spread across his face.

My stomach twisted, and every cell in my body wanted to turn around, to walk out and never look back. But I forced myself forward.

Demi’s smirk widened as I reached the table. He didn’t stand, didn’t even acknowledge me beyond a slow up-and-down look, like I was nothing more than a thing to be observed.

“Took you long enough.”

I didn’t respond. Just slid into the booth beside him, keeping my movements measured, controlled. They had ordered already.

Typical.

The moment I sat, his arm draped over my shoulder, the weight of it suffocating.

“Boys,” he drawled, his voice smug, like this was all some kind of game. “You remember Ivy, don’t you?”

One of them, a dark-haired guy with a sharp nose, grinned.

“Straight-A Ivy? No way. Still can’t believe you’re hittin’ that, man.”

Demi laughed, tightening his grip around me. “Yeah, well. She’s full of surprises.”

Oh my God.

I swallowed hard, nausea crawling up my throat, but I forced it down.

The sight of greasy fries and half-eaten burgers made my stomach churn, but I forced myself to pick at the fries shoved in front of me. Anything to keep my hands busy.

Anything to distract myself from the way Demi’s fingers were tracing slow, lazy circles against my shoulder.

The conversation around me was loud, obnoxious—crude jokes, bursts of laughter. I let myself tune it out, sinking into my own head, focusing on anything else.

Until I heard it.

“She’s a screamer too.”

My breath caught.

Demi smirked, basking in the way his friends erupted into hollers and laughter. Then, as if remembering I was there, he turned to look at me.

“Kinky. But you wouldn’t think so, would you?” he mused. “She plays the shy little thing so well.”

Heat rushed to my face—hot, mortifying, suffocating.

One of his friends, the blond one with a scar above his brow, turned to me, his gaze lingering too long, his eyes raking over me like I was something to be evaluated.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Still can’t believe you two are dating. She’s a fucking straight-A student, man. And you pulled her. That’s crazy.”

My fingers tightened around my fork, my nails digging into my palm so hard it hurt.

I couldn’t breathe.

Demi chuckled, nudging me slightly. “C’mon, babe. You’re being too quiet. Back me up.”

My throat was dry. My heart pounded against my ribs.

I said nothing.

Demi laughed, shaking his head like I was being adorable. “See? Always shy about talking about sex. But get her naked, and it’s a whole different story.”

His friends howled, and I wanted to disappear.

The blond one took a slow sip of his beer, then exhaled. “Man, you’re lucky as hell.”

Demi smirked. “Yeah.” Then, as if struck by a brilliant idea, he leaned forward, dropping his voice just enough to be heard over the noise.

“You know what?” His smirk deepened. “Maybe next time, she won’t mind an audience.”

As if Demi had just given them a blank check to cash in on any fantasy they wanted, his friends exchanged wide-eyed looks of pure excitement.

“You for real, man?” Scarred Guy asked, eyes gleaming like Demi had just handed him a fucking gift.

Demi didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned to me, his smirk never faltering.

“You don’t mind, do you, babe?”