Chapter 1I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.
ONE
I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.
Ivy
I shouldn’t have had that second handful of Kisses last night before bed. That’s why my guts are twisted up in some sort of complicated sailor’s knot.
It’s not nerves.
I am a total badass artist with confidence and charisma. Baddies like me do not get nervous.
No way.
“Knock knock,” my sister Juniper chirps through the door after softly knocking.
Traipsing toward the door, I pull it open, met with a steaming hot cup of coffee, mixed perfectly with my protein. Just the way I like it.
Juni transfers the mug to my hands. “Good morning,” she greets with a wide smile, her blonde hair braided around her crown, the rest down in waves.
“Sorry,” I mumble, apologizing for my slight grouchiness. There are two people who do not deserve my mood, and one of them is standing at my door having just delivered me coffee. “Just… ate too much chocolate last night.” I place a hand on my lower stomach, over my black leggings and long, acid-wash t-shirt. “My stomach is kinda queasy.”
Sisters and spouses—the two S’ s that can decode your feelings, despite your best efforts. Juni smirks. “Okay, well, the coffee and some toast may help.” She ushers me into the hall, the smell of breakfast meeting my nose. A rumble turns over in my belly as I follow her into the kitchen.
“I can’t wait to hear how day one goes,” she says as she slides me a plate of dry wheat toast and an open jar of my favorite jam—Juni’s Jams, the flavor Ruby Rhubarb. Slathering the preserves onto the toast, I lift my shoulders in indifference.
“I have no idea what to expect. I mean, the only apprenticeships at tattoo shops I’ve seen have been on reality TV. And we all know how fake reality TV is.”
My eyes lift to Juni’s just in time to catch her arched brow. “Did you watch his show?”
I shake my head. “No,” I say staunchly. “Never.”
“How’d you know who he was back when you saw him at Hudson's house with Deuce?” Juni asks, recalling the first time Trace showed up at Dolly’s husband’s house ages ago.
“I subscribe to this tattoo and artistry website called Smeared Ink. A lot of his stuff was posted there and I became a huge fan. He was one of the only artists whose new pieces I really liked seeing. After staring at them for what seemed like hours, I’d sketch and sketch until my hand was numb trying to recreate them, just to try and figure out his process.” I slow the admissions tumbling past my lips, realizing I said all of that in a single breath. “Anyway, when I read in the comments section one time that he was a reality star, all I did was say two words to myself.”
Juni nods and in unison we say, “Ariana Grande.”
A total Ariana Grande situation. We loved her music even though the three of us typically only shared a taste for jam. We stumbled across her stuff one day when cleaning the house, and fell for her hard.
We then made the rookie mistake of reading an article about her, sending us head first down a rabbit hole of interviews and snippets. Turns out, knowing Ariana makes a habit out of sleeping with other people's husbands and boyfriends makes her music far less enjoyable.
We should never have googled her. And I learned my lesson. When it came to Trace Calhoun, his pieces were so good and he had so much name recognition for not just tattoos but his drawings, I knew I could never, ever google him.
I knew he would be ruined for me if I looked him up.
Funny that I worked so hard to protect his image and within the first ten seconds of meeting him, I knew exactly who he was.
Arrogant. Egotistical. Selfish. Maybe even narcissistic.
The type of person who doesn’t just think they’re always right, but needs to get in the last word to remind you of their alleged rightness. The type of person no one would ever want to be around unless they had no choice.
Like me.
And even with one of his hands glued to a bottle and the other to some woman’s ass, with his arrogant smile and infuriatingly sexy unkempt style, I will never deny that he is the most talented artist I know. Better than any magazine or TV special, his work is more detailed, creative and involved than any other tattoo artist I’ve seen.
I should be happy that the maestro of tattooing is my mentor. That I will be lucky enough to work with him for the next 12 weeks.
Yet as I nibble Ruby Rhubarb and listen to Juni whistle the theme song to Friends , I can’t help the overwhelming feeling of dread that washes over me.
It’s not just that he’s a shithead.
He’s a damn hot shithead.
And my toxic trait?
Being insanely interested in and jealous over hot shitheads.
“How long are you his apprentice again? Remind me?” Juni asks as she swipes a damp cloth over the counter. As the oldest of the three of us, she’s always taken on the motherly role, even when our parents were alive. It’s what fits her best and I can’t wait for her to make my sister Dolly and I aunties. She’ll be a really great mom.
“Twelve weeks,” I tell her, an image of Trace in a torn, fitted white tee and black jeans with unlaced motorcycle boots fogging my mind. My neck grows hot, urging me to reach past the coffee to a canteen of water. Chugging it back, my senses cool and I get to my feet, itching to get out of this house for a lungful of fresh air. “Thanks for breakfast,” I tell my sister, giving her a hug before snatching my lunch from the counter.
She stands at the doorway as I make my way to the car. “Bye,” she waves me off. “Have a good first day!”
Despite the knot in my belly, I smile, telling myself it will be a good day. After all, I’m not nervous to spend twelve weeks with the hottest, most talented artist I’ve ever known.
I just ate too much chocolate, that’s all.
“And after you finish the total, you tap tender?—”
With a curt smile, I nod, stopping Deuce from repeating himself yet again. “I know,” I tell him.
He smiles at me before his eyes slide to the door, where we both fix our gazes for another hungry moment. Still, nothing and no one. A pigeon walks by, a piece of chocolate donut peeking from his beak. A shadow paints the sidewalk and for a second, my breath catches, thinking this is finally it.
He finally showed.
Except when the black boots come into view, they’re not attached to a good-looking artist with greasy hair and a smarmy smile. They’re attached to a man in all navy, a gold badge pinned to his chest and a holster of gear slung around his waist. Dash Foster, the police officer who has been pining after Juni for the last few weeks, appears, tipping his aviators up. He blinks into the reflective glass before he continues on, thumbs looped in his belt as he strides by.
“You can go grab something to eat over at Goode’s,” Deuce offers, likely feeling the weight of Trace’s absence directly on his shoulders.
I hate when people do this. When they do something selfish, knowing how it’s going to affect other people but not caring anyway. If this is how this apprenticeship is going to go, I’m going to need a lot of Ruby Rhubarb and Kisses to get through it. Because fuck Trace Calhoun and his lack of respect for anyone.
“No,” I say sternly. “I’m here to be an apprentice. So.. even if he’s not here, let me do apprentice things.” I lift the broom by the handle, from where it’s tucked between the desk and wall. “I’ll sweep and mop, I’ll wipe down chairs and clean the glass doors.”
Deuce smiles, but it doesn’t lift his usually happy eyes. “Thanks, Ivy. And… sorry he didn’t show.” He scratches the back of his head where his long hair is tangled in a man bun. “Probably got the days confused.”
Our gazes linger for just one moment but we share the same unspoken sentiment.
He didn’t get anything confused. He just doesn’t give a shit about anyone.
But himself.
The slam of my car door echoes through the quiet little parking lot. Through the fog, I glare up at apartment number four, my eyes stinging from the cold. I usually like this time of year, when nighttime floods the sky around evening, making it feel much later than it actually is. It’s the perfect vibe to cozy up in bed with my headphones on and my sketch pad out.
Tonight, though, the overwhelming darkness at just six in the evening feels foreboding. Ominous, even. I shake it off, literally giving my shoulders a quick shimmy, making the zippers on my worn leather jacket clink. Treading across the quiet lot, I make my way up the cement stairs, all the while wondering how many women have made this same walk with a whole other intention. The banister is so cold it stings my hand, making me quickly stash it into my jacket pocket. With my free hand, I make a fist.
Then knock.
No footsteps. No quiet chatter. No signs of life.
“No way,” I murmur, roiling anger keeping me toasty in the cool breezeway. I knock again. This time, hard. So hard that my knuckles ache a little, and the door rattles noisily. Perfect.
Still… nothing.
Another hefty knock—the type of knock that would have neighbors calling the police if there were any neighbors. Based on the fact there’s a vacancy notice on the apartment across from his, and open windows showcasing an empty unit below, I think I’m safe.
Though if I’m being honest, I don’t really care right now.
I lift my fist to hit the door again but before I can, it opens. Standing in the doorway is a leggy woman wearing nothing but a wrinkled, oversized t-shirt, her long red hair tangled around her face, her full cheeks ruddy and pink, her long lashes taking slow, heavy blinks.
It’s six p.m. and I woke her up.
“Where’s Trace?” I ask, bypassing any greetings or name exchanges. She blinks at me a few times before turning on her heel to walk away. And I watch her completely naked lower half head down the hall, back to whatever stinky rotten sex hole she came from.
“Trace,” I hear her call as I step toward the open apartment door, peering in cautiously.
I jerk back, replacing my momentary curiosity with my simmering anger as Trace appears in the hallway…. Completely nude.
Suddenly my throat is tight, my pulse is tacky, despite the unfortunate pulsing between my legs.
He makes his way toward the open door with his head tipped down, long, stringy hair curtaining his expression. While he focuses on walking ten feet without falling over, I focus on his third leg.
Stay mad, Ivy.
Stay. Fucking. Mad.
You know those moments in movies where the sexy guy is walking through the crowded restaurant, and all the clatter of plates fades away, the heavily conversed room becomes hushed, and everything is fuzzy and out of focus, except him?
That moment always seemed so stupid to me.
But as Trace stumbles on a pair of bejeweled jeans with a pink cowboy boot still attached to them, I don’t hear the litany of curse words stringing from his mouth. I don’t hear that heavy thud of him steadying his feet.
I don’t see anything but his massive, thick, long, veiny, mouthwateringly perfect cock.
I bring my black combat boots together, forcing myself to believe the rippling waves of heat coursing through my lower half is simply my body trying to stay warm.
Not the fact that in the last ten seconds I just envisioned myself naked, on all fours, that inked hand yanking my head back, that third leg filling me so full that I can’t even speak as his body slaps against mine.
His eyes come to mine, and I watch his brain sort through the fog for a moment before familiarity hits. “Ivy.”
I step toward him, still staying clear of the apartment threshold. “Our apprenticeship started today.” I roll my lips together to keep the quiver in my chin at bay. “Be there tomorrow at 9 a.m. or don’t come back.”
The little pop of his head that he does when he smirks is beyond enraging. “You can’t fire me.”
Another step toward him for intensity purposes and I’m knocked back by a wave of Jack Daniel’s and knock-off perfume. I wave my hand between us, pushing away his stink. “Read your contract. One more missed day and you’re out.” I glare at him, refusing to notice the way his eyes never leave mine, and the subtle twitch of his lips as he listens. “Deuce may be your friend, but Ink Time is his business.” I take a few steps back, ready to turn and take the stairs before I add, “You’re not God’s gift and your shit does stink, so show up to your job or get fired, asshole.”
And with that, I’m taking the stairs two by two, a little high flitting through my veins.
There’s no contract but I’d be willing to bet that Trace Calhoun has not given a single iota of thought to this apprenticeship, so it’s a gamble I’m ready to roll on.
As I drive home, I think about the sketches I’ll be working on tomorrow—line work is where the apprenticeship begins, so I focus on the Wharncliffe blade in my boot, and how perfectly it lends itself to being the ideal subject.
I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.
And I really do not think about that third leg.
Nope, not even once.