Chapter 6I’ll talk to my best friend Jack. He always listens.
SIX
I’ll talk to my best friend Jack. He always listens.
Trace
Last night was the last night.
The stench of coffee burns my nose hairs as I suck down yet another paper cup. The shit here at Ink Time is just that—shit—and I’m gonna let Deuce know.
Just as soon as I get my bearings.
I’m a little… off this morning.
Tired and a tiny bit hungover.
Just a tiny bit.
But my sour stomach and throbbing head are not what I’m focused on.
For an incredibly annoying reason that I wish not to name, I’m worried Ivy will recognize the signs, see I’m hungover again, and hate me more.
She does hate me. I feel it in the pinch of her gaze, the shortness in her words, the subtext in her body language.
She loves my work, there’s no questioning that. And I do take pride in the fact that someone as incredibly talented as Ivy looks up to me. But otherwise, she can’t stand me.
She’s in good company feeling that way.
I crumple the third paper cup and toss it into the wastebasket. “Good morning,” she says, passing me on her way in.
I got here early today. Not just for copious amounts of coffee but to specifically make sure I wasn’t late. Again.
I lift my eyes and welcome the expected drop of my stomach when she doesn’t bother looking down as she walks past.
Of course she doesn’t look at you, fucking dum-dum. You’re a prick to her all the time . “Look who's late now,” I chide as she slides her little black-and-purple lunch bag under her desk. It’s got an ice pack in it, and whenever she takes it out of her bag, I wonder if she’s ever used it on any of her boyfriends after giving them a black eye.
“I’m not late, I’m on time,” she says, adding, “nice try, Trace .”
Shit. Ivy saying my name makes me shiver. The way it slithers off her tongue, full of venom but deeply intriguing. My dick perks up.
Not wanting my hard-on to intensify, I finish my fourth cup, crumple it and toss it into the wastebasket. “I have a morning session today,” I tell her, but as I do, she nods, flipping open her little black spiral planner.
“I’m aware. I booked it.”
Did she? I stare at her day planner as a moment from last week crashes through my memory. Me hungover after I’d been in Oakcreek the night before. I went to find a cool place to sketch and connect with nature, but I found a bar with $3 shots instead. The next morning I barely held it together. Ivy forced me to finish the project I was working on, didn’t let up when she wanted her lesson on depth of needles in the skin, and she never once asked me how I was feeling.
That same day, she did ask if I could do a morning session this week.
I remember now.
“What’s the note on the session?” I ask as I find myself following her to the reception desk. Deuce runs reception for now since we haven’t hired anyone, and though Ivy is my apprentice, she does a lot for the shop itself. Including running reception when she can.
She opens the computer and starts swiping and typing. It’s office work, nothing grand, but something about the way she owns and destroys all the spaces she’s in— she reminds me of a young, eager me. Only… smarter and, honestly? More talented.
The tattoo she gave herself on her inner ankle the other night is incredibly good, and not just for a newbie. I mean, it’s just plain good.
A serrated knife piercing a chopped-off tree trunk, with wild vines growing around the handle. I don’t know what it means to her, if anything, but I haven’t been able to stop stealing little glances at it. It’s the kind of artwork that makes you want to think, and it’s unusual to find young artists creating pieces like that.
“This,” she finally says, making my gaze jump from her inner ankle up to her glaring eyes. She definitely caught me looking, but we both ignore it in favor of the design on-screen. “He emailed it over. You have two hours to sketch it and stencil it.”
I look at the screen for a second, then my eyes veer back to her, where her lips twitch. “You’re not on TV anymore, Trace. These are the things the people of Bluebell want.”
I narrow my eyes at her, both hating and loving how satisfied she is by this.
I was creating large-scale, custom Alphonse Mucha style pieces – ethereal and beautiful, bold colors and sweeping shapes to highlight the chiseled features of a woman, usually some sort of warrior or champion. Wild flowers or animals would accompany each piece, and when I was done, people would stare in awe, cupping their hand to their mouth, sending photos to their friends, writing on message boards, recording the episode on their DVRs to show their own tattoo artists.
And now I am tattooing a large belt buckle replica that says “HOWDY” with a rope and spurs beneath the words.
“Great,” I say finally after I take in the large brass belt buckle image for a minute. It may not be what I’m used to—typically people come to see me and they want what I have to give them—but I realize in a small town, people don’t care much about my art. They just want a capable tattoo artist.
That’s me.
“A lot will let you create whatever you want. But they have to trust you first, or know of you. Just… hang in there,” she says softly, as if reading my mind. I hate that she knew what I was thinking.
“Did you get dimensions?” I ask Ivy as she gathers herself a cup of coffee from the snack station behind reception.
She sips her steaming brew. “Dimensions are in the file, which you can access from the iPad at your workstation.”
I blink at her, twirling my favorite sketching pencil in one hand.
“You can’t use an iPad?” she asks, and it’s just now I’m noticing her long, dark hair is wavy today. But, like, curled wavy. And her lashes are darker. My eyes drop to her pouty lips, and I notice their usual pale color is now dark and bold, brave like permanent dark ink.
I was so into her just being here earlier that I didn't even notice her looks.
Awareness jolts through me, and I reactively sink into my seat at the sketch table and give her my back. I move my pencil from memory, knowing I need to see the damn buckle again but right now, I can’t look at her. I can’t talk to her. I can’t do anything with or related to Ivy Ellington.
Because I didn’t notice her black lips and curled hair.
I was thinking of her. Will she notice me? Will she acknowledge I’m not late? Will she approve of me?
Those are questions that only come when I give a shit.
“I can use an iPad, Ivy, I’m not four,” I gripe, the shape of the buckle already easily visible on my paper. “Print me the image and leave it here,” I tell her, still keeping my back to her.
I don’t want to look at how fucking beautiful she looks today. So I reach under my desk and grab the little flask I have taped to the underside. I feel a bit like a junkie hiding booze but moments like this, I’m relieved. I take a quick swig and return it.
I have no business doing anything but getting comfortable at Ink Time in Bluebell. I need to find comfort and stability and happiness in this type of tattooing. I need to stop drinking. I need to focus my efforts now on being a local legend, not the guy who once was.
And falling for someone just like her… who reminds me so much of the woman who destroyed me… that’s not part of the plan.
A moment later, a printed image of the belt buckle is pushed onto the desk next to me.
“Thanks,” I grumble, and am surprised when a gruff tone replies.
“Welcome,” Deuce says.
Swiveling, I look up at my friend. I’ve known him before his hair went salty and lines filled in around his eyes. I knew him when he didn’t know Everly, when Ink Time was just something we talked about in the back of our buddy’s van while we passed a joint and stewed on dreams.
Now he’s wise and mature. He’s a father and a successful business owner. The thing I’m most proud and jealous of is his role as a husband.
We always thought it’d be me first.
It was going to be me first.
“You ready for a full morning session?” he asks, his eyes darting around my station. Thankfully the flask isn’t out.
“I’m not drunk, or even hungover,” I say, leaving off the ‘anymore’ weighing guiltily on my subconscious.
“Not what I meant per se,” he says, thumbing through a stack of sketches on my desk. It’s the stack of stuff I’ve told Ivy I need to get through. The stuff she wants me to look at. The truth is? I’ve looked at every single piece of art in that pile at least ten times.
I can’t bring myself to tell her how good they are, how good she is— so instead I pretend I’m too busy to even look at them.
It’s fucked up, I know.
“Those are hers,” I comment on the sketches as Deuce plucks one from the stack, holding it up to the lamplight on my desk.
“I know,” he says, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the sketch. A woman—one who reminds me of Ivy herself—lots of ink, long wavy hair, a scowl on her face, plump lips and a stubborn little nose— holds tight to a circular piece of wood, knives sticking out of the board. Beneath the sketch of the salty woman having withstood a barrage of knives, two words written in beautiful cursive. Magician’s Assistant.
That one’s my favorite. Deuce turns the piece so I can see it, nodding as he says, “She’s good.”
I shrug, focusing on the rope I’m currently sketching. “She’s not bad,” I say, hating that I can’t just agree with him. She’s not even around. It would be okay to admit to Deuce that Ivy is incredible. Hell, it would actually be the best time to do it. Get it off my chest, make her look good to her boss, which she absolutely deserves, and purge it from my soul so I don’t accidentally slip and tell her she’s good or something.
I lower my pencil to the paper and get to my feet, facing my friend. Looking over the stations, I don’t see Ivy but still, I keep my voice low.
“You picked the right person for the program. She’s a gifted artist.”
There.
Easy.
The right thing to do is now done.
In my mind, I’m swiping my hands together to be rid of the guilt, and patting myself on the back for giving her the credit she deserves.
Maybe I’m not such an asshole after all.
Deuce claps a hand on my shoulder. “I already knew that, asshole. Why don’t you tell her instead of me?” He glances down at the sketch I’m working on then back at me, adding, “Good luck on your morning session today. I was only asking if you’re ready because it’s been a while since you did a few hours.”
I nod. “I’m good.”
He moves out of my space, toward the front. “Good. Because I’m heading out. I’ll be back around lunch. Ivy, too.”
I arch a brow. “She’s not going to watch my session?” I scratch at the back of my head, trying to ignore the free fall of disappointment in my stomach that she won’t be here this morning. “Isn’t that, like, the point of the apprenticeship?”
“The point is to learn the business and art of tattooing, which she’s doing.”
“So where’s she goin’?” I ask, ignoring the urge to look around the studio. She was just here, so where the fuck is she now and why isn’t she staying?
“Connor is taking her to look at needles at the supply store twenty minutes North.”
“Oakcreek?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry and uncomfortable.
Deuce nods. “Yeah. She’ll probably be our buyer once she’s ready and secure—and Connor is dying to pass off the responsibility. He did it at the last shop we were at and he said he’d do it in Bluebell to get us on our feet but he doesn’t want to be our buyer. And Ivy would be great at it.”
“You’re offering her a job when she hasn’t even graduated from the apprenticeship?” Why I am arguing against Ivy when I know firsthand she’s capable of doing anything, I don’t know.
“She’s talented and sharp, and she works hard. And last time I checked, I don’t need your permission to run my business. That opportunity came and went years ago, didn’t it?” Deuce says before pushing open the front door with a ding, disappearing onto the sunny sidewalk.
At one point, Ink Time was our dream.
But I met Cat and everything else happened so fast.
By the time I signed onto Trace Tats , Deuce had already put down money for a lease on the first two shops.
The shop falls silent without Deuce. I guess Ivy must’ve slipped out the back when she went to meet with Connor.
Connor. Psh. I know she didn’t choose him over me, she just chose to learn a new task today instead of sit and observe. I can’t fault her for that. Truth be told, I think it’s sexy as shit that she’s so hungry to learn the business.
I’m not mad because she’s not here.
I’m disappointed.
And that’s way fucking worse.
Three hours later and I’m pacing the small strip of space between my station and the reception area. Ivy and Deuce still aren’t back yet, and neither is Connor.
This has never happened to me. Never.
I thought I’d get whiskey dick and not be able to get it up with a woman before this ever happened.
Honestly.
I run my fingers through the sides of my hair for the millionth time, the sound of my boots shuffling on the tile driving me mad. I look down at my phone sitting atop the reception desk. Where the fuck are they?
“Find it yet?” Angus asks from the tattoo chair where he’s patiently waiting for me to find the antibiotic ointment. I look down into my hand where the brand-new tube waits.
“Not yet,” I call, sweat making my t-shirt cling to my back.
As if the heavens open and a ray of beauty and truth shines down on me, the shop door opens and Deuce trudges inside, smelling like french fries.
“Hey,” he greets, sipping from his cup, the top of the straw chewed up. “How’d it go?”
He sets his cup down at the reception desk as he shrugs out of his leather jacket, eyeing the tube in my hand. “He’s still here?” Deuce drops his jacket on the hooks behind the desk, eyeing my client still at my station. “Took more time than you thought, huh? Well, how’s your wrist?”
Deuce knows my wrist gets sore if I go a few weeks without working. Tattoo artist’s undiagnosed carpal tunnel. I shake my head and grab him by the arm, dragging his big ass into the hall.
I lick my lips, staring at my friend who’s brows are pulled together. “What?” he questions, confused but smart enough to keep his voice private.
“I… fucked up.”
Deuce’s eyes fall to my hands, where he watches them for a second. I know what he’s looking for. I snap.
“I’m not drunk,” I say defensively, though in truth if I were, at least that would make sense for what’s coming. I lick my lips and swallow the shame lodged in my throat. “I fucked up his ink.”
Deuce blinks, glancing over where Angus is lying down, then back to me. “The belt buckle?”
I nod.
“How’d you fuck that up? It was simple. I’ve never known you to fuck up a single design.” He leans in, sniffing around my mouth.
“I said I’m not drunk,” I growl defensively, hating that I don’t truly have the right to be super angry at the thought or accusation because for a long time, I’ve been drunk more than not.
His brows raise as he rocks back on his feet, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. “Okay. So you messed up the buckle. How bad can it be?”
My nostrils flare. The front door sails open as Ivy strolls in, pink heart frames resting on her face, her inky hair full of body from being outside. My chest tightens as she pushes the frames to the top of her head, drops her bag and another white bag on the ground before settling into the reception desk.
She never even looks my way.
I move so my body acts as a shield from her as I whisper, “Go fucking look.”
Deuce snatches a pair of black gloves from the station and snaps them on, settling into the rolling stool near the bed. He moves the lamp and takes the ointment from my hand, smoothing it over the edge of the buckle as he makes small talk with Angus, the client.
“How’s your daddy’s ranch out there faring since the last storm, Angus?” he asks. This entire town knows each other. Everybody goes to a farmers market together out at Ivy’s neighbor’s place every weekend. It’s wild how close small towns are. How safe they are.
I loved the chaos and fury in cities when I was on the road. Everyone knew me no matter where I went but I didn’t owe them anything but a good time and an experience, since my presence was always fleeting. Here in Bluebell, though, everyone knows everyone. And there’s permanency and comfort in that.
Angus and Deuce make small talk as Deuce smooths the ointment over the ink, still not meeting my eyes. After a few minutes, he tells Angus he came by to say hello, and that I’ll be back to wrap up the design.
He pinches me by the elbow, my stomach in knots, and drags me back into the hall. I should be focused on how to fix this, but instead, all I can think is… Ivy won’t be able to hear this, will she?
“That is…” But he can’t finish his sentence, because Ivy appears, a grin on her lips.
“HODWY?” she mimes, spelling in the air, “H, O, D, W, Y. What is hodwy, Trace?”
Deuce levels his gaze on Ivy, providing a barrier between her amusement and my shame. “A great learning opportunity,” Deuce says. “You want to take your first stab at a correction?”
Her amusement at my mistake immediately falls away. “Seriously?”
Deuce nods. “Seriously. He’ll walk you through it. I’ll go talk to Angus while you get ready.” Deuce looks my way. “Let me worry about Ang, you devise a plan and help her.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Ivy disappears, going to put her hair up and wash her hands, leaving just me and Deuce in the hall. “How’d it happen?”
My gaze follows Ivy down the hall, watching her plump ass test the fabric of her leather leggings. “I don’t know.”
Only I do know. I was so busy thinking about how I feel about Ivy, I fucked up.
Deuce squeezes my shoulder. “Draw something up, get with Ivy, and meet me in a few. Don’t worry about Ang. Trust me.”
She fucking did it. She turned my epic disaster into a beautiful scroll, error-free. Where cowboy lettering once read HODWY, now amazing cursive spells HOWDY over an old parchment scroll, detailed with tear and wear.
It looks better than the original design, if I’m being honest, and I’m sort of peeved I hadn’t thought of the alteration myself.
Right before we sat down, I heard her questioning me leading her through the fix. She’d said to Deuce, “Shouldn’t you walk me through the fix?” Deuce told her that everyone makes mistakes, and that my mistake changes nothing. I’m still an incredible artist and she’s still here to learn.
She didn’t give me a single word of grief while she did the fix. We sat thigh to thigh, the harsh light of the lamp creating a glow for us to live in for an hour. Silent but side by side, she worked and I watched, every single second comfortable and easy. When she was done, I asked her to take off her gloves and I shook her hand.
“You did good work,” I said.
She just nodded.
Now, Deuce is walking Angus out as I sink into the reception desk, reaching for a cold can of Coke instead of the flask in my boot. Ivy appears, pulling the clip from her hair, dark waves falling all around her face and shoulders.
“Thanks for letting me work on a person today,” she says quietly, her jaw tight. I think she’s using every ounce of willpower not to taunt me, and right now, with how shitty I feel, I appreciate it. I don’t deserve it, but I appreciate it.
“Thanks,” I say, sipping the overly carbonated drink.
The door closes and Deuce treads back toward us, sighing. “Well, the first few are usually rocky.”
I snort. “No, it’s not. You don’t gotta say shit to make me feel good. I fucked up, and it’s on the house.”
Deuce grips the edge of the desk. “What?”
This is the part I’m not used to—not making the rules as I go. Deuce has rules. And now? I have to follow them. “Sorry—I’m not used to house rules. I told him the piece was free, because of the mistake.”
“We fixed the mistake,” Deuce says, “and I never told him it was going to be free.”
“The final piece was better than what he brought in,” Ivy inserts, giving me a reason to finally look her way. God she looks beautiful, traces of ink smeared up her forearms, accomplishment and pride lifting her shoulders. Her dark hair is messy from being down then up then down, and her black lipstick is faded in the center from where she sipped her drink.
The drink that matches Deuce’s. Meaning, Ivy, Deuce and Connor all caught lunch together while they were out.
“That was a 1700-dollar piece and your entire morning,” she chides, her hands going to her hips. Feeling defensive and angry and not at all jealous that they all went and enjoyed lunch without me, I snap back.
“If you were so worried about the fucking money, where were you? Hmm? Off playing footsies with Connor was more important to you this morning, so don’t stand here all mighty and righteous now.” I pull my wallet from my back pocket and grab out a few hundred-dollar bills. I slam them down on the reception desk. “There. That’s what you care about.”
I turn on my heel and stomp back to my station, where I begin sanitizing the area. We spend the rest of the day in complete silence but for the times Ivy needs to ask me questions about where the ink caps are at and how many I need for tomorrow’s setup.
She gives me the personal silent treatment and I think Deuce does, too.
It’s fine. I don’t need to talk to them.
Once I’m out of here tonight, I’ll talk to my best friend Jack. He always listens.