Chapter 2One drink.
TWO
One drink.
Trace
“ The first taste of love is—ohhh—bittersweet… and green on the vine. Like strawberry ?—”
SLAM.
The smell of improperly scrambled and definitely burned eggs causes my bottom lip to tingle with the oh-so familiar burn of nausea. Sinking onto the closed toilet, I focus on the steady hum of the shower as my head flops into my hands.
Did I dream it or… was Ivy just here?
“Knock knock,” the waitress slash aspiring singer calls through the closed bathroom door (it’s always waitress slash aspiring something—that much I’ve learned). Irritation wraps the back of my neck like an annoying hand, and my body goes tight and rigid. Do you need to say knock knock if you just fucking knock?
Letting out a sigh, I call, “What’s up?”
“Breakfast is ready!”
“It’s eight o’clock at night. And I’m getting in the shower,” I mutter as I get to my feet, yanking open the door. Her eyes fall to my bare, somewhat hard cock. Without looking down I say, “It’s not you, it’s the booze wearing off.”
Her face falls. “Eggs are ready.”
“I hate eggs.”
Her green eyes narrow, the freckles scattered along her cheeks deepening with her anger. “Then why are they in your fridge?”
I smirk. “The last girl who slept over liked them.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
I close the door and through it, shout, “My wallet’s on the nightstand if you need some cash to get home.”
“I drove us here, asshole!” she shouts. But you know what? Her shouting asshole on her way out is a million times more tolerable than her singing 1990s country music while staying .
I never want them to stay.
Any of them.
Even the gorgeous redhead cowgirl whose name… escapes me at the moment.
I tug back the shower curtain, slowly stepping inside. My usual hangover dizziness hits. Lurching forward, I grip the wall and let the stream of hot water ease me into sobriety, washing the booze from my pores. After lathering enough times to leave my flesh red and raw, I wash my hair and step out, wrapping up in a towel.
Clean clothes sound daunting after such a hot shower, so I reroute from the bedroom to the kitchen, deciding coffee is more important than underwear at the moment. Caffeine is what I need to shake the booze and get focused.
The urgency to focus on my task tears through my body, leaving me antsy and anxious, yet for the life of me, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be putting my energy. I just know that it isn’t on the redhead or the empty bottles on the counter.
My temples pound and my stomach curls as I enter my kitchen, a plate of browned and burned eggs on the counter. Acid climbs my throat. “Fuck no, not today,” I groan, plucking the plate by its edge, dropping it into the garbage. I stare down at the steaming stench and swallow back the Jack crawling up my throat.
Yeah, I just tossed a glass dinner plate that my mother bought me ten years ago. But that’s how fucking nasty those eggs were.
And how lousy I feel.
I reach for the carafe to discover little Winona made me coffee, too. I’d tell her thanks but the lack of purple g-string on my living room floor and inside-out jeans tell me that my dream came true: she’s gone.
Perfect.
I fill a mug to the brim and drink it unreasonably fast, living for the sobering effects that hit just minutes later.
Glancing at the front door as I refill my World’s Most Bitchin’ mug, a memory flashes behind my sore eyes.
That dark-haired Firecracker, lost in a leather jacket, her gorgeous face all twisted up with anger. Yeah. Ivy did come by. Lowering my mug to the counter, I rub my temples, trying to sort out exactly why she was here.
From the counter, my phone lights up silently. I reach for it.
DEUCE
Will I be blessed with your presence tomorrow?
I reread his message several times before reality caves in around me like a wall of crumbling bricks. “Fuuuck,” I groan, exchanging the phone for the coffee mug. I finish the second cup as sweat beads on my forehead.
The apprenticeship started today. That’s what she was going on and on about.
My work as a full-time tattoo artist at Ink Time started today.
Deuce has been a lifelong friend and one of the only people who has always been there for me. He’s like the family I thought I had.
He’s helping me finally “rebuild”—his Chicken Soup for the Soul prognosis, not mine. Yet here I am, halfway between a bottle of Jack and a pot of coffee, naked in my shitty apartment, trying not to vomit.
It’s right then and there I make a commitment to show up at Ink Time. To show up for Deuce the way he shows up for me - the way a brother should.
And it’s got nothing to do with that little Firecracker and her tight ass.
“Where you at, my man?” John laughs through the receiver, the commotion of a full bar roaring in the background.
“Bluebell,” I repeat, considering I told him this last week when he called. “Working for my buddy Deuce at his place here.”
“Yeah?” John asks. “What for? You got the big exec connections, why are you in the sticks doing tramp stamps, dude?”
At that, I snort. Because it’s an apt assessment of small town tattoo parlors. Though I haven’t fully immersed myself in Bluebell, from what I’ve seen, Ivy Ellington and Deuce may be the only ones sporting real ink.
If I stay here to rebuild, I very well may be stuck doing tribal tramp stamps and baby feet on biceps for the rest of my career.
It’s safe.
But boring as hell.
“I can’t keep going at that pace, man,” I tell him, in reference to the colorful life I was leading for the last seven years as the star of the reality show, Needle Ninjas . I traveled around the world, creating unique pieces for unique people, and let the network film me while doing it. My art is incredible - that, for once, isn’t my ego talking, just the truth. But the show? It made me somewhat of a celebrity. I now have a line of pre-made designs I sell to tattoo shops around the world so that anyone can have Trace Calhoun’s ink on their body.
But I was burning out.
Partying nonstop and somehow fucking even more. There were drugs, sleepless weeks, loud music, fast cars, nice jewelry, paparazzi and money. So. Much. Money.
So much that I got myself into trouble, lost the show and now I’m here. Trying to live the humble life as an artist in a small town.
I pull my sports car into a parking spot behind Ink Time, and stare through my windshield at the small parlor. It’s closed now, since it’s nearing nine at night, and all the lights are off. I don’t know why I’d halfway expected Deuce to be here.
This place is exactly what I know I need.
Small space, eager minds, easy clients. And the shop itself? Clean, new, nice and safe. All the things I should want. Especially since I’ve had the rest—filthy, worn, naughty and dangerous. I’ve lived the most wild, off-the-beaten-path life that any tattoo artist could ever dream of. It’s the natural progression to slow and settle down at this point in my career.
I shouldn’t want to be pulled away from this, and it shouldn’t be as easy as four words.
“Wanna get a drink?” John asks, the simple question rendering me motionless inside my sports car.
No. I don’t want to drink. I want to go home and get to bed so I can show up in the morning– for Deuce, and for myself. I want to go into Ink Time with a coffee in my hand and teach that little Firecracker everything she doesn’t know. I want to shine at Ink Time, and show the world that leaving the spotlight doesn’t mean leaving the art.
But not as much as I want to feel warm and fuzzy, and forget all the reasons why I’m here in the first place.
And besides, it’s just one drink.
I won’t get drunk.
I’ll get back early.
It’s just one drink.
“All right,” I muse, throwing my car into reverse. “One drink. Where are you?”
“Oakcreek,” John replies. “I’m so glad you’re coming out. I can’t wait to fuckin’ party, man.”
Adrenaline spears through my arms and fingers, making me tingly and warm. The high has already started, and I haven’t even touched a drop. “Just one drink,” I tell him, lying to both of us but fooling neither.