Chapter 3He never showed up.
THREE
He never showed up.
Ivy
Can you muzzle a bird? Are there little tiny leather muzzles out there that you can wrap around those tiny little beaks to shut those mini noisemakers up? Because that would be something I would invest in. Bird muzzles.
“Shut up!” I scream, kicking my feet in the sheets like a petulant child. I tossed and turned all night and my alarm is going to go off in less than ten minutes but still, that’s ten whole minutes of rest.
Or it would be since bird muzzles have apparently not been invented yet.
There is a nest of scrub jay birds outside my room and right now, though I love all animals and all that shit, I want nothing more than a wild storm to hit and take them all out.
My diaphragm spasms as I let loose what feels like the tenth yawn in under a minute, but I push myself up in bed. Glaring through the curtains, I decide to get up and forgo those ten minutes. I guess the birds aren’t to blame - I didn’t sleep well. Trace didn’t show up yesterday, so I wanted to get up early and get some sketching done before I have to sketch in front of him today.
Assuming he shows up.
Either way, there’s no such thing as too much practicing. After turning off my alarm, I slip out of bed and grab my materials. I don’t typically wake this early, and when I got this apprenticeship, I planned to start my day with sketching, coffee and some light yoga from 7 until 8. But because assjacket decided to no-show yesterday, that makes today the first day.
And sketching before I get there will leave me feeling prepared and less… irritated.
It is my personal pet peeve when talented people think being talented allows them to be shitheads. No matter how creative and gifted Trace is, he’s got no right to leave Deuce high and dry. It’s complete horseshit for him to flake on a fellow artist, too.
I don’t know why it still leaves me ruffled. I should have expected it from him. It’s not like he’s got a reputation of an angel or a fucking saint. He’s known for being a boozing, egotistical prick.
Still, as I rest my sketch pad on my knees and slip my headphones over my ears, I can’t shake the frustration that rattles through me. Instead of getting rid of it, I channel it into the sketch I’m working on.
It’s a detailed graphite-on-paper sketch of a knife. My favorite kind of blade. In fact, it’s my favorite because I wear one in my boot every day.
Sure, Bluebell is a small town and we know everyone here.
Most murders are committed by someone you know, though. Just saying.
And you never know when having a knife on your person will come in handy. That isn’t a scary thing – that’s smart. Safe.
I get to work on the handle of the blade, focusing on the scratch marks near the base from the place I dropped it outside of Rhett’s apartment last year. It hit the concrete at a weird angle, and the enamel wore clean off the bottom. I was using the butt of the knife to knock on the door, since apparently he couldn’t hear my fist.
He heard the knife.
Drawing my knees nearer, I focus so hard on the tiny little imperfection on the bottom of the knife handle that I go through the last few songs on my playlist. I don’t notice there’s no music until my focus is broken by hushed, deep voices coming from outside my bedroom window.
Glaring at my clock, I see it’s hardly even 7 in the morning. Across the way, Dolly and Hudson are definitely awake, but they wouldn’t be outside our house whispering. I let my pad and pencil slide into the comforter as I crawl to the side of the bed, slip off and peer out the window.
With dust clouding their ankles and a tray of empty jam jars between them, Dash Foster and Sterling Ford stand outside. Dash yanks the tray toward him, sending the jars careening into his uniform-clad chest. Sterling’s lips hardly move, but his Adam’s apple bobs as he quietly speaks, the deep timbre felt but not heard. He tugs the tray, bringing the jars back to his own uniformed body.
I blink, watching Bluebell’s police officer and garbage man argue over a tray of Juni’s empty jam jars.
I’ve been single for a whole year yet I go into town nearly daily. Meanwhile, Juni keeps to herself and spends the majority of her time cutting, mashing and boiling fruit, and here she is with two men fighting over her.
“Damn, Juni, what are you putting in that jam?” I muse aloud as I let the curtain fall shut. Whatever they’re arguing about, it’s not my business unless they make it my business. I head out into the kitchen and begin my morning coffee, smirking at my older sister as she appears at the island, her blonde hair braided, eyes heavy with sleep.
“I’m so sorry,” she greets, closing the distance between us to pull me into a hug. “I wanted to know how your first day went but I crashed around 7.”
On her canning days, Juni wakes up really early, which means by the time 7 or 8 rolls around, she’s toast.
“Don’t even,” I drone. “I can just tell you now. It wouldn’t have been worth waiting up. Trust me.”
She arches a blonde brow as I froth my protein. “Not a good first day?” Her bottom lip juts out in disappointment.
I slide her a mug, knowing she’s going to need a cup of hot tea to start her day. She wraps her lean fingers around the Bluebell Farmers Market mug, and waits for me to fill her in.
Pouring the coffee over the protein, I sigh. “He never showed up.”
Juni makes a point to gently slam her mug into the counter, and while it could’ve broken, it didn’t. And I like the sentiment. A smirk curls my lips. “Right? My thoughts exactly.”
“What did Deuce say?” she asks, pulling the kettle from the stove. Steam wafts from her mug as she pours, curling the loose tendrils around her face that didn’t stay in the braid. “That’s bullshit, Ivy. I’m sorry. And you know that’s him being a total douche and it has nothing to do with what he thinks of you.”
Her words echo through my brain. Nothing to do with what he thinks of you . I sip my coffee and lower it to the counter. With my hands now on my hips, I glare at her. “I hadn’t even thought of it being related to me.” An image of that huge cock swings through my mind. Err, flashes through my mind. “He’s the problem,” I say, “not me.”
“Totally,” she confirms, dunking her bag of Earl Grey. “It’s not you, and that’s all I meant. He’s clearly going through something–”
I raise my hand to stop her from letting him off the hook. Hell, even if he’s not here, he doesn’t deserve it. “When I stopped by his place last night, he was “going through” a cowgirl with pink boots and a bottle of Jack,” I deadpan. “And Deuce seemed…” I shrug, recalling his reactions from the day. “Sad, maybe? Disappointed?”
Juni nods thoughtfully. “They’ve been friends a long time. I know Deuce wants to help Trace get his stuff sorted out.” She shakes her head ruefully. “I bet he’s disappointed.”
She sips her tea and I sip my coffee. The faucet drips. Outside, a bird sings. On the back patio, the wind chime sways slowly. “So you went to his place?” Juni edges after we enjoy a slice of Bluebell mornings.
“I went and told him he better show up today or else Deuce will fire him because of his contract.”
Juni’s eyes widen. “I didn’t know Ink Time had official contracts.”
I pluck a blackberry from the bowl of fruit on the counter. “I made it up.”
My sister’s smirk is contagious. “You’ve outsmarted him before day one.”
“I always do.” I shift on my feet, reaching for the coffee around my sister. As I refill my mug, ready to head back to my room and get some stretching done, I say, “Hey, by the way, Dash Foster and Sterling Ford were outside this morning arguing over an empty tray of jam jars.”
I watch my sister closely, but her eyes drop to her apparently very interesting mug of tea. “Oh, yeah, they’re just returning jars. They’re on the monthly delivery.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to study the features on her face that she’s hiding. We don’t hide anything from each other, but in the recent months, Juni has been… different.
At first I thought it was because Dahlia moved out, got married and is on her second pregnancy. That all the change disrupted her the way it would a mother having a child go to college or something. I thought that’s all it was. When I talked to Ev and Dolly about it, they agreed.
But now I wonder if it’s something else.
“Do they… live together?” I ask, realizing as much as I see both Dash and Sterling, I don’t know too much about them except Dash is Bluebell’s favorite police officer and Sterling both owns and drives for Bluebell Waste.
Her eyes lift and finally come to mine. “They do. They’re roommates.”
I nod, trying to reclassify what I saw outside with this new information. “So… two middle-aged men live together and they eat 12 jars of jam a month?”
She shrugs. “Toast is their favorite meal.”
I don’t argue that toast isn’t anyone’s favorite meal. Instead, I don’t push, because pushing Juni makes her shut down. It always has. “Anyway,” she says, sweeping her fingers through my hair. “I hope today is a great first day with your mentor. Text me and let me know if he shows up.”
“Oh, he’ll show up,” I snark, but deep in my bones, curiosity and nerves swarm. Will he show up? Will I have gone to his place and harassed him all for nothing? Does the apprenticeship only mean something to me? I smile at Juni as I move past her, out of the kitchen and down the hall.
“But I’ll text you either way.”
She calls after me. “Good! I’ll leave your lunch on the counter. Heading out to the garden!”
My bedroom door closes, and I’m left with one glaring thought: what if he still doesn’t show?