Glancing at me for permission, Ivy took my coffee cup off its saucer and put the ice cream in its place. I pulled it closer, feeling the tension start to ease. I didn’t have a spoon, but my fork worked, and I wasn’t going to ask Becky for one.

Ivy carefully cut the point from her pie and pushed it away to eat last. “I propose we pull a Kevorkian,” she said, and I went cold from more than the ice cream.

“That’s illegal,” Jenks said quickly.

“Only if you get caught,” Ivy said, eyes on her pie. “I have a friend of a friend—”

“No.” I set my fork down. “I’m not going to help a vampire cross over. I won’t. Ivy, you’re asking me to kill someone!”

My voice had risen, and Ivy tossed her hair from her eyes. “He’s twenty, and he’s in so much pain he can’t use the can without someone helping him.”

“No!” I said louder, not caring people were starting to look. “Absolutely not.” I turned to Jenks and Nick for support, appalled to see their acceptance of this. “You guys are sick!” I said. “I’m not going to do that!”

“Rachel,” Ivy said persuasively, brown eyes showing an unusual amount of emotion. “People do it all the time.”

“This people right here doesn’t.” Flustered, I pushed the ice cream away, wondering if it had been part of her plan to get me to accept. She knew I was a sucker for ice cream. I scowled at the laughter from the bar, turning to see Becky gossiping to the truck drivers, bent over with her rear in the air. It occurred to me they probably thought I had just been propositioned for something even a redheaded nympho would say no to. Crossing my arms in front of me, I glared at Ivy.

“He’d do it himself,” Ivy said softly. “God knows he has enough courage. But he needs his life insurance check to set himself up, and if he kills himself, he loses it. He’s been waiting a long time.”

“No.”

Ivy’s lips pressed together. Then her brow smoothed. “I’ll call him,” she said softly. “You talk to him, and if you still feel the same way, we’ll call it off. It will be up to you.”

My head hurt. If I didn’t say yes now, I would look meaner than Satan’s baby-sitter. “Alexia,” I said loud enough for the bar to hear. “You are one sick bitch.”

Her smile widened. “That’s my girl.” Clearly pleased, she picked up her fork and ate another bite of pie. “Can you make a charm to make someone look like little professor here?”

Nick stiffened, and Jenks chuckled, “Little professor …” as he dumped a fourth packet of sugar into his coffee. I felt like I was in my high school lunchroom, plotting a prank.