I ignore the way my blood starts to boil over. Great timing as always, Dad, I snipe inwardly. “He’s got less than a year left before he’s up for parole. What’s even the fucking point?”

She picks at a loose thread on her thigh as she shrugs. “I can’t imagine a cop has it easy inside, especially right now with everything going on in this country.”

My mouth ticks up in a humorless smile. “Maybe I’ll get lucky then, and someone will off him before then.”

Her mouth tries to twitch into a smile, but misses the mark. “Maybe.”

It’s not the first time I’ve had the thought or even voiced it. I wish I could say I actually wish that would happen. But Ivy knows as well as I do, I don’t mean it, even if she’s too nice to point that out.

Pathetic much?

I glare down at my boots, letting the weaving metal rungs supporting me distort and blur my vision.

“Hey,” she says softly, before there’s a faint pressure on my arm. I didn’t even hear her move. “It’s okay to be scared, you know.”

I grind my teeth. “I’m not scared, Ivaiah.”

I’m fucking pissed.

At my dad for being a fucking asshole. At myself for still holding on to hope that he’ll suddenly be the father I never had. At the world for turning a blind eye until it was almost too late.

But I don’t tell her any of that. She wouldn’t understand. Not really.

“Right,” Ivy says so softly I nearly miss it. I don’t fool her. I never could.

After a moment, she grabs my cold hand with her much smaller one, squeezing it. “I’ve got your back, Waylon James. Always. Don’t forget, okay?”

My lip twitches at that. It’s an odd sight, her five foot nothing comforting my six feet nothing. And despite what many assume when they first meet her, this pixie of a girl wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s like a kitten who’s gotten wet one too many times in life so her claws are perpetually out and ready to strike. With all the chains and black, lacey and leathery things that make up the majority of her wardrobe, the array of tattoos, dark make-up, and what she likes to call her Resting Bitch Face—or RBF—she’s got that whole “don’t fuck with me” thing down to an art form.

We all have our battle armor, I suppose.

Hers is shallow intimidation.

Mine? Girls, whiskey, and bad humor.

“I know you do,” I whisper, holding a small smile in place, despite the anxiety still pooling in the pit of my stomach.