Chapter 5Is my thing being a masochist?
FIVE
Is my thing being a masochist?
Ivy
“Seems like a dumb reason to celebrate,” I say, stuffing my socked feet into my boots. Dolly nudges me with her elbow from her spot next to me. We’re sitting on my bed, catching up before dinner.
“One month is a milestone!” she says, watching me feed the laces around the hooks before tugging them tight and tying them in a bowed knot. “You know… it’s my house you’re coming to. You didn’t need to put your boots back on.”
Now that Dolly is married to Hudson, the neighbor’s house is now my sister’s house. The age gap and quick onset relationship would make some families nervous. Not me. I had years to process that the older man next door would definitely be related to me by marriage one day. I knew it from the first time she snuck into his house to taste his leftover coffee.
When my sisters or myself set our sights on something, we achieve . Even if that achievement is making someone ours.
“It’s not that I’m not comfortable,” I explain, pulling my hair out of the braids I’d worn them in today. “It’s just… I don’t know. I don’t feel like going out at all. And if I have my boots on, I’ll come home quicker so I can take them off again.”
Dolly wraps her arm around me, the smell of Hudson’s cologne so overwhelming I think my pores are clogged. “You smell like you just took a bath in Hudson’s cologne.”
A wicked grin sweeps her pink lips. “We just made love.”
I push against her shoulder, sending her careering into the mattress as she giggles. “I don’t want to know about it.” Now that Hudson is our brother-in-law, the specifics have slowed and I’m grateful. Something about watching your sister’s husband and baby daddy cut the Christmas turkey when you know where his other hand has been is… surreal.
She sits up, smoothing her hands through her hair, her blonde waves tangling on that massive ring on her finger.
“Okay, food’s gonna be ready in forty-five minutes. I’m gonna waddle down to the creek and let the guys know. See you in a few?” She rises and moves to the doorway, where she spins on her bare feet to face me, waiting for my confirmation.
Sighing, I smile. “See you in a few.”
As soon as I hear the front door open and close, I flop back on my bed and let loose a wild sigh. One I’ve been holding in since yesterday when that jerk let me know just how unimportant this job is when he no-showed. It’s only the second time since the first day, but still.
Obviously as Dolly’s stalking enabler for the last few years, I knew as soon as Hudson was officially hers, they’d be worse than bunnies in spring. They’re already on their second pregnancy together. But having to hear about all the good, hot, wicked sex she’s having with the man of her dreams? While I had to hunt down Trace to get him to come to work? I’m a little grouchy. And I will be happy to celebrate Dolly taking backshots from Hudson all day long.
I’m just not there yet.
I wish I was. It’s not about being grossed out—I realize Dolly is a woman with needs. Just because she’s my flesh and blood doesn’t mean that urges aren’t there. I’ve been next door to her rubbing one out plenty of times.
It’s their happiness that made me put my boots back on.
I love it for Dolly so much, and I’m stoked that she got what she wants for her life. I am. Truly. I am not an asshole that can’t be happy for someone else, or who feels threatened by other people’s wins. I’m not.
But right now, maybe it’s starting this gig, I don’t know, but whatever it is, I’m not strong enough to pretend it doesn’t affect me.
I long for a partner to leave his scent on my clothes, for his touch to linger on my skin all day, to slip my hand into my pocket only to find a random love note, to find my car with a full tank and a playlist just for me. I’m at the point where I want more than Juni to come home to, I want to plan vacations with more than just my feet in the sand - I want someone to take them with.
Someone to rub against me and ask me how sore I am after he fucked me ruthlessly the night before.
Trace comes into my mind, and I slap my palm over my forehead to knock him free. Only, he of course defies me even in a fantasy; standing casually at the reception desk at Ink Time, one elbow bearing his weight as he leans over, right leg stacked against the other. His hair is down and wavy, the vivid ink on his throat nearly glowing as he tosses his head back in raucous laughter.
Why does he have to be the one to pop in my head directly following the “fucked me ruthlessly” thought? Dolly’s thing is stalking. Is my thing being a masochist? Do I really want to embark on having the hots for a total turd of a human being?
I roll over onto my stomach, pulling my phone from my pocket. Google is open and my fingers are ready.
Do I want to do this?
I looked up Rhett after we met a few times. Learned everything there was to know. Every last detail. And what happened? He cheated on me, but before that, he never expended energy getting to know me. There was no chance in hell that Rhett was ever holed up in his room, googling me because he was so interested.
I’m not doing that anymore.
I’m energy matching.
In the capacity in which I know Trace Calhoun, he is a total butthole, skeevy, gaslighting, self-indulgent jackhole— wait, I already used hole —jack ass .
I don’t need to search Google for some semblance of redemption so I can write off his shitty qualities, obsess over the one good one, fall in love with him, then get my heart broken when he undoubtedly doesn’t share my same feelings.
No. No fucking way.
I shove my phone away before I google, and move through the house toward the door, only dragging my Doc Martens a little on the way.
I know they just want to celebrate me and the hard work I’ve been doing at Ink Time for the last month. I love them because of it.
I have learned a lot, and it was day one of the official apprenticeship when I realized that I don’t just like art—I actually do love tattooing too. But all of that “I’m chasing the right dream” high has been smothered by the aggravating, intense, annoying, and irritatingly sexy Trace.
If he isn’t playing devil’s advocate with everything I say, he’s ignoring me or glaring at me from across the studio.
I’ve given the mental middle finger more times in the last month than I have given the actual finger in my entire life.
And that’s saying something.
Fresh air stings my eyes as I lock the front door behind me, turning to head just twenty feet away. But I stop in my tracks when my eyes catch Deuce slipping from his truck, heading toward Hudson and Dolly’s place.
As if he senses me frozen, he twists his head to meet my gaze and nods. “He’s not coming,” he says, adding, “don’t worry. I didn’t invite him.”
“Good,” I breathe, dropping my head, watching clouds of dust coat the tips of my boots as I close the space between us. We walk to the front door together but he stops me before he opens it, his large hand covering the knob in entirety.
“Good,” he repeats, studying my eyes intensely.
“Yeah,” I say as a bead of nervous sweat slips down my spine beneath my oversized t-shirt. “Good.”
Deuce’s eyes remain lost in mine, searching for something as they volley back and forth. Without another word, he pushes the door open and the weirdness dissipates as Dolly wraps her arms around me.
“You came!”
I snort. “You were at the house, like, five minutes ago watching me get ready. Of course I came.” I tuck my waves behind my ear, making my way to the barstools in the kitchen. It’s where Dolly and I always sit when we talk.
“They’re at the creek skipping stones until dinner,” Dolly says to Deuce, without him needing to ask. She checks on Honey in the playpen, kissing her cheeks a million times before returning to me.
“And my–” Deuce’s sentences dies on the vine as Evelyn comes out from the hall, a sleepy toddler tucked into her chest and nape. “There’s my whole world,” he croons softly, his soft tone throwing bumps along my bare arms and the side of my neck.
I don’t have a thing for Deuce.
But there’s baby fever in the air, between Ev and Deuce and Dolly and Hudson, and I think it’s very contagious. Because my insides tighten at the pink-cheeked baby folded into his mom, and the tender way Deuce greets them both, his strong hand sweeping gracefully down his son’s back as he presses his lips to Ev’s.
I want that. It’s shitty timing to want a relationship and a family so badly because I’m starting my career and all, but still, I can’t deny that the clock inside me isn’t ticking— it’s ringing loudly, begging to be noticed.
I’ve wanted to be married and have a family since I was too young—just eighteen. But I promised myself I’d wait– finish school, start my career, all those things.
I wanted Rhett to be the one.
But he turned out to be a total lizard instead.
“Heading out to see Hud and Bear at the creek,” Deuce repeats to Ev, who nods knowingly, her wide eyes fresh and sparkling.
“Okay,” she whispers, “we’re just waking up from a nap so it’ll take him a minute to adjust anyway.”
Deuce and Ev share another private goodbye consisting of soft kisses and hushed words, and then it’s just us girls and the babies. Ev sets her son down next to Honey in the playpen permanently laid out in the living room– I say permanent because my sister is so fucking obsessed with her husband, I can’t see a time when she won’t always be pregnant.
Seriously.
Breeding kink on steroids over here.
“I relate,” I say, nodding to my tired niece as I bite into a fresh strawberry. Dolly has a full spread of fruits, chips, cheeses, breads and nuts laid out, and suddenly I feel bad for having dragged my toes to come tonight.
“What do you mean?” Ev asks, smoothing her fingers through her hair as she takes a seat next to me.
“Ace needing a few minutes to calibrate,” I repeat, adding, “I need that when I get to work every day. A few minutes before I can fully process Trace Calhoun.”
She snorts as she reaches for a bowl of barbeque chips, taking a few at once. “How’s it going, by the way? I kept meaning to come take you to lunch and find out how you’re enjoying it but,” she motions to the playpen with an orange chip, “he’s kept me so busy lately.”
“It’s going good,” I reply, unsure of what’s socially acceptable to bitch about. Her husband owns the place and is my boss, after all.
“I don’t see her car at home until 11 sometimes,” Dolly says, dipping her own chip into guac.
“Barbecue and guac?” I question, my nose wrinkling at the abhorrent combination.
“Some combos are so obvious. Like hot dogs and ketchup. It’s the less obvious combos that really win for me.” She dunks another chip into guac. I’m not sure if she and Hudson are part of this metaphor, or if it’s me and Trace. But… Why would she put me “with” Trace? She wouldn’t. Because there’s no… “us.” Not like that. “This is one of them. And also, it could be a gross pregnancy craving,” she finishes.
“I’ll have to just trust you.” I dunk my tortilla chip into guac. “And the reason I’m home so late some days is because Trace drags his scraggly ass in hours late. And I force him to stay so that I can get the full eight hours.”
Ev arches her brow. “Force him?” Her lips quiver with a smirk.
Smiling, I tell her another reason why I really like her husband as a boss, and as a human. “I keep reminding him of the contract he signed with Ink Time when he took the job—” We pause and think back to the story of Deuce signing Trace.
He was drunk, it was a catastrophe and ended up with Deuce making many promises of good faith to the Bluebell Police Department.
“Well, we all know he can’t remember and the fact that he can’t is really his own fault,” I say, grinning, completely ignoring the tiniest bit of guilt in my stomach. I’m sort of tricking him, even though it’s true that he’s a moron and a half for not knowing basic information about his employment.
I guess when you’re loaded stuff like that doesn’t matter.
“Oh my,” Ev says, going for Dolly’s barbecue and guac combo. Her face scrunches as she says, around a mouthful, “Not for me.” She wipes her mouth with the white paper napkin, her brows pulling together as she eyes me. “What does Deuce say?”
My smile widens. “He… goes along with it.” I laugh as I recall Deuce this morning. Trace was late–only eight minutes but still, I’ve established myself as the thorn in his side and I like it there. I’m cozy.
I reminded him of his contract and Deuce said, and I quote, “You better listen to her.”
“Your husband is so cool,” I sigh, my heart rattling as Trace flashes through my mind.
He has beautiful hands.
A wedding band would look sexy as hell on his finger.
Wait, what the fuck? Metaphorically I shake my head, refocusing on what I should. His hands touching me, not what they’d look like with a ring on.
His hands… okay, his hands .
Fuck his hands are hot.
His fingers would feel so good inching up my thighs, swiping my panties aside.
“Hello?” Dolly makes me jump.
“Huh?”
“You just zoned out.” Dolly presses her finger into my chest, and I notice Ev is no longer across from me. “You better not have a crush on Deuce,” she warns.
“What?” I jump up, looking around for Ev.
“She’s checking on Ace.” She licks her lips. “You were fantasizing. I saw it in your beady pupils.”
My hands fly to my hips. “My beady pupils?” I scoff.
She nods. “Yeah, so tell me who if it isn’t Deuce.”
I roll my eyes. My beady eyes, apparently. “Trace, you idiot. Of course I wouldn’t fall for a married man.” I step toward her, lowering my voice. “That’s grounds for murder.”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“Anyway,” I veer back to the topic at hand. “Don’t… I don’t know. Just… don’t say anything or talk about it or think about it or… fuck, don’t even remember I told you, okay? Just, like, forget it.” Sweat beads on my upper lip and my heart is suddenly racing. I feel like I’m hooked up to a polygraph and she’s the tester.
I feel so exposed.
I’ve admitted out loud, and that makes it real.
I do like Trace. It’s almost all physical, with a tiny, itty, teensy bit more. Still…
He’s a complete fucking asshole to me and I want him bad… what does that say about me? I swipe my hand along my forehead and take a deep breath. “Please just don’t say anything.”
She pulls her fingers through my long, wavy tangles. “I would never.”
Ev returns, settling back in her spot, taking her glass of white wine by the stem. “I love that he doesn’t even know and you’re using that. And I love my husband for going along with it.” She takes a sip, and her eyes wrinkle as she grows thoughtful.
“I think discipline is what a guy like Trace needs,” Ev finally says, slow and intentional, like she’s thought about it before.
I can’t help but ask, “You… Think about what Trace needs?” I hope it doesn’t come across as jealousy.
But I am.
I am seething with ridiculous levels of jealousy that Everly knows Trace so well that she even has the ability to form an opinion about his life and what he may or may not need.
She gets access to an intimate side of him that I don’t, and I hate her for it.
Even though I love Everly through and through.
Right now, my fingers curl into my thighs as I breathe through the intense wave of jealousy that washes agonizingly slow over me.
Ev nods. “I do because he means so much to Deuce.” She sips her wine, then seems to urgently correct herself as her gaze bounces between me and Dolly. “I mean, of course I care about Trace,” she amends. “But Deuce has this bond to Trace that I’ll never understand.”
Is there a side to Trace that is even deeper than what she gets?
A new level of jealousy for me to reach?
As I think of Deuce, I’m suddenly angry to know they share some secret, intimate connection. My body burns to be the one intimately connected to his talented brain, his skillful hands and his jagged heart.
He has to have a broken heart. He has to.
It’s the only way to explain how he behaves. Sleeping around endlessly, always drunk. The signs are there that something is off.
But then again, it’s been years. He’s been doing this for years.
“Discipline is what he needs,” Dolly agrees finally, shaking us from our silence. “He needs something to control him a little, even if he doesn’t realize it.”
Control him.
That’s something I’d love to do. God, I’d love to be the one finally playing devil’s advocate to him, while he’s somehow at my mercy. I’ll never be the one to mentor him in tattooing, but if in some reality I can be at the helm of his well-being and sanity, so help me I’ll do it.
To torture him the way he tortures me, constantly critiquing me.
“Yeah,” Ev says after another sip of Pinot grigio. “He needs a woman to take control of things and shape him the hell up. The only woman who broke his heart did lasting damage but he’s beyond a simple repair now. He needs tough love.”
“I thought I saw he was engaged not too long ago,” I say, recalling what Ev told me before Trace moved here, and something I briefly saw online. I usually don’t pay attention to tabloids, and this time was no different.
Ev dismissively waves it off. “Yeah, that… wasn’t what it looked like. Trust me, Trace was the victim there as much as Tara.”
I stuff my face with chips to hide my smile. He didn’t cheat and he needs tough love. I like both of those things, especially the tough love.
I want to be the one who does that.
I will be the one who does that.
Ivy Ellington is absolutely fucking good enough for reality star Trace Calhoun.
The urge to look him up is stronger than ever.
All of these thoughts I’m having about Trace have been so hard to suppress— tonight it feels like I no longer can.
It feels like I have to make him understand he’s a total asshole, but also make him understand I want him to be my total asshole.
That I like him despite the hole-ery.
He was hungover at work today. Every time he leaned over my shoulder, I smelled last night’s whiskey. And a trace of perfume.
I’m vibrating with jealousy on a daily basis.
But from his perspective, I’m just full of attitude.
Lying in bed, stomach sated from Dolly’s delicious dinner, I cave and snatch my phone from the nightstand. Typing his name into Google, I wait for the top result to be his Wikipedia page and for the next one to be the network page for his now off-air show.
I’ve never read his Wikipedia, but I know he has one.
And I know he was on a reality show.
But the way I know Trace is his uploaded art. I watched his feed. I didn’t get involved in any media version of him—I fell for his work.
And when I met him? I was sad to find out… he is my exact type.
Brooding and grouchy, sullen but not without purpose. Inked and immersed in art, a passion for consuming other art forms—my dream guy.
I’d deny ever saying that, though.
Results flood the page and my eyes burn from the sheer volume glaring back at me, bold blue colored links littering each listing.
TRACE CALHOUN’S BODY COUNT.
Sickness creeps up the back of my throat, burning my nose. My eyes mist over. I hate myself for having such a visceral reaction to this. Obviously he’s a womanizer.
And obviously I have no claim to him.
Still. The knife I keep in my boot? It feels like it’s burrowed in my stomach right now, and I hate what that means.
I really like Trace.
I drop my phone onto my stomach and drape my arm over my eyes. I sigh, because I haven’t really liked anyone like this… ever.
He will be a challenge, but he will be mine.
He has to be. I don’t waste my feelings.