Chapter 9You have dick on the brain.
NINE
You have dick on the brain.
Ivy
“Shading.”
My mouth is so dry, confidence is challenging but I manage. “Shading,” I repeat slowly. Trace nods and I do my best not to stare at his bustling biceps and all the gorgeous ink covering them as he tightens his bun.
I especially do not glance at the tempting strip of skin between his jeans and t-shirt, and the thatch of dark hair above his waistband. I do not look at those little muscular dips of his waist, and I definitely do not pay extra attention to the heart wrapped in barbed wire inked on his belly.
Nope.
“Yeah, I mean, your first solo session ain’t too far from now, so I figure you work on the shading on today’s piece.” He rolls his neck, and the cracks make me jump.
“That doesn’t hurt?” I ask, nodding.
“If it hurt, would I do it?” he snaps back, his nostrils flaring.
“ No would’ve worked just fine.” I roll my eyes while internally flipping him the bird. Pushing past him, I move to the backlit table in the back of the shop.
He doesn’t apologize for his snarky comment and I don’t expect him to. He never does. Maybe no one taught him that simply acting like it never happened isn’t an apology. Or that gifting or giving someone something after you treated them like crap doesn’t mean it’s okay.
Settling in at the table, Trace comes and sits next to me, his large leg bumping mine beneath the top. I wonder how many tables have seen future lovers bump knees, hands sliding onto thighs. Heat swims through my leg and into my center, making my stomach clench and my pulse spike.
The scent of his pine aftershave hits my nose, and my nipples grow hard and plucky beneath my oversized DARE t-shirt. Trace reaches up, flicking on the lamp, before he pulls his portfolio out, laying a sketch across the table for us both to see.
It’s a lighthouse. So far just black and white from the graphite, but highly detailed. Sun pours over the solar valve on top, leaving a cascade of perfectly angled shadows along the tower. Small but full of detail, I pinch my gaze on the tiny window on the tower, where there are living quarters inside. A man stands with one palm pressed to the glass. He’s so small that his expression is unreadable, but the fact that the detail of a person alone in the lighthouse has been added is ethereal and eerie.
I love it.
“Not all lighthouses are red and white striped,” he adds as I continue to silently peruse the beautiful sketch. “I explained that to the client and they’d prefer black and white anyway.”
I press my finger to the base of the tower where wild grass shades the bottom of the piece. “Will I be doing this?”
A hint of whiskey hits me as Trace leans over, wrapping his hand around mine before moving it to the tower. Letting go, he leans back and says, “This is what you’ll be shading.”
I swallow thickly around excitement and surprise, both emotions I do not want him to know I feel. “That’s the main part of the piece.”
He doesn’t say anything until I turn my head to face him. He’s studying me already, his dark eyes pinched on my features, his body language relaxed. A gorgeous paradox. “I know.”
My heart thuds loudly in my ribs and I drop my palms to my thighs, wiping away the sudden slickness. “You think I’m ready?”
Trace tips his head to the side, a tiny little smile lifting only the corner of his lips. “You’re ready to do the whole thing. But they paid for Trace Calhoun to do it. So I’ll outline it and you’ll do the shading.”
I’m… shocked. Speechless. Surprised.
Flattered.
And because I’m more like Trace than I’d like to admit, I don’t say all the things I’m feeling. Instead I say, “I guess you losing your touch is advantageous to me, huh?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I’m swarmed with regret. Loads of it.
I hate his salt and snark, and yet when I’m around him, I can’t help but give it back as good as he gives.
Even though I want to say thank you, I want to say that I feel honored that he trusts me, I want to hug him even.
Instead, I watch his calm expression slip away, and right before my eyes, the wall comes up. “Yeah, well,” he says, getting up from his chair, leaving my side. I miss the heat of his body and his scent immediately, even though missing anything Trace Calhoun feels wrong. “Don’t get too cocky, Firecracker. Everyone makes mistakes.”
Firecracker.
He hasn’t called me that in a while, and I’ve missed it. Between my legs, everything grows warm and fuzzy. I swallow, reaching for an apology. One that he deserves because my comment was jerky and no matter how much of an assjacket clown he is to me, I have to do better.
I have to teach him to move past those salty quips, too. If we’re ever going to progress our relationship, we have to get past this bickering and arguing we’re always doing. He snatches the sketch away from me, and turns on the stencil printer adjacent to us.
Instead of saying I’m sorry, I say, “I’m sure I’ll fuck something up sooner than later.” After snapping on a pair of black gloves, I load the cartridge into the pen. “You’re right, everyone makes mistakes.”
The light on the machine flickers and I watch his large, dexterous hands feed it through, the pulsing in my panties still present and powerful. I practically choke on my tongue, trying not to imagine those beautiful, skilled hands working that monstrous dick of his.
Stay focused, Ivy.
“Yeah, and you’ll make a lot of them. I have no doubt,” he snaps back, yanking the thermal paper from the machine the moment it’s done. He smacks the stencil down on the table. “While we’re waiting for the client, why don’t you draw up a replica of the stencil, to practice your shading?”
I feel like Beetlejuice in the graveyard when Barbara and Adam call him there. I know my head isn’t actually spinning three hundred and sixty degrees, but it feels like it.
I was nice after I was mean. And what did he do? Was he nice back? No. No, he fucking wasn’t.
I smooth my hands down my thighs and turn to tell him he’s an asshole, but he’s already gone, standing up at reception with Deuce and the new girl he hired.
She started today. We went to high school together so I’m well aware of Sandi and what she’s about.
She’s about getting dicked down by anyone who tells her she has pretty eyes, that’s what.
Trace smooths one of his hands over his hair, the veins and ink making my mouth go dry. He’s so fucking handsome. And sexy. And God, it destroys me how talented he is. He drew up this lighthouse in an hour and it’s one of the most breathtaking maritime sketches I’ve ever laid eyes on.
And it was effortless for him.
Sandi can’t appreciate what an incredible artist he is. But something tells me all he wants Sandi to appreciate is his cock.
Jealousy spikes through me in cruel, unrelenting surges, leaving my hands and feet tingling and my mind spinning. Sandi reaches out, dusting her fingers along his forearm as she giggles about something that I’m ninety-nine percent sure isn’t funny at all. In the last few months I’ve gotten to know Trace decently well.
There’s nothing he can say at this hour of the morning when he’s still sweating off the Jack that is dab-at-your-eyes funny. Sandi, quit kissing his ass.
Deuce catches me watching, and I turn back to the sketch at hand, getting to work on the layers of wild grass beneath where the lighthouse will be.
Trace is letting me shade today.
I need to focus on that.
After forty-five minutes, the sketch is complete. Deuce and Connor appear at my back, surveying it.
“Looks…” Deuce trails off.
I turn to look up at them, sliding my pencil through my ponytail. As I work out a cramp in my palm, digging my thumb into the center, I ask, “Good?”
Connor chews his bottom lip, shares a look with Deuce, then turns back to me. “Ivy, the linework and shading are great. The work itself is done really, really well.”
“Why do I sense a but coming?”
At that moment, Sandi and Trace, who took a walk for coffee (gag me), come in through the back, ending up right behind Deuce and Connor.
Trace slides his sunglasses to the top of his head, his gold watch glittering as he points to my sketch. “Cockhouse.”
“What?” I ask, immediately spinning to face my sketch. From behind me, Sandi giggles.
“Looks like a peen.”
A hand comes down on my shoulder, squeezing. I glance at the fingers and spot a tentacle clutching a shearing knife. “Got cock on the brain, do ya?”
“What?” I blink at my sketch. My attempt at weathering the tower, in this light, does kind of look like foreskin . And when I narrow my gaze and make the whole thing the tiniest bit fuzzy, the solar cap and cupola without question look like the head of a penis, the crown surging forward excitedly out of the foreskin. I slam a hand over my mouth. “Oh god.”
There’s some subtle movement behind me, and a moment later, I’m left with just Trace and Connor.
Connor brushes his finger along one of the cracks in the tower. “I know this is wear on the tower, but if you get rid of it, that may help. And the cupola could be resized to look less–”
“Like a big cockhead,” Trace offers, a pleased smirk curling his lips. I know violence is bad and stuff, but God if there was ever a time I wanted to slap someone, it would be now.
“I once sketched a memorial design for a woman who lost her husband and the flower looked like an aroused vagina,” Connor offers with a soft smile. Trace grumbles something inaudible under his breath, but I keep my focus on Connor.
“What did you do?”
“I redid it. Thankfully I caught it before it went to skin, but it happens. Art is special but when it becomes your job, sometimes, no matter how passionate you are about your art, your mind wanders.” He shrugs. “It’s natural.”
“I wasn’t— my mind didn’t wander to…” I start, but find myself unable to say I wasn’t thinking about cock.
The truth is? I was. I was and have been since Trace showed up at Hudson’s house a few months back.
I tried not to go full Dolly. I mean, that’s not my style anyhow. But no matter how hard I tried to stay focused on art and working, helping my sister get her man, helping my other sister grow her jam business, it didn’t matter.
Knowing that the man whose work I’ve followed for years is living in my little small town, working with a family friend? I began dreaming. Seeing far-fetched things like us being a couple together, despite the fact I’d never even met him. Then after I did meet him and observed him as a human, my interest should have waned.
It should have circled the drain and slipped away instantly.
He’s arrogant. He’s pompous. He’s drunk most of the time. He sleeps around.
But God smite me down, I can’t help it.
I’ve only begun to want him more.
And what’s worse? Now that I know him, wanting him is different than it was all those years before. Because now being rejected is actually on the table whereas before, everything was just a fantasy between my fingers and the sheets.
“Focus on the shading today,” Trace says, his eyes pinned to the back of Connor’s head before they slide over to me. “Try not to make the grass look like a bunch of cocks.”
My nostrils flare. And while I want to punch his lights out, my skin heats. My lower half pulses. And I want more than anything to be pushed onto this light table and fucked ruthlessly right now.
I smile. “Hodwy.”
Trace and I did a wonderful job of avoiding one another for most of the morning. When his client came in, they watched me sterilize the space—something we do in front of clients at Ink Time so they feel comfortable with our setup.
After sterilizing the tray, I set it down wearing a new pair of gloves. Trace and the client speak quietly to one another about the way tattooing works—he explains that he isn’t an hourly artist but rather, by the piece. While they chat, they watch me. I catch Trace’s gaze here and there a few times as I affix the barrier on top of the tray. I tear off a ton of sheets of paper towel for easy access, get his favorite sterile fluid ready (I know from an interview he did with Tattoo Times that his choice witch hazel, which he uses to remove excess ink), check the design notes in the iPad to know which pigments he’s using, set out and fill the ink caps, load his cartridge into his pen, and proceed to wipe down both chairs before setting out a few bottles of water and a new box of gloves.
Trace rises, moving from the casual spot he sat to the chair where he’ll work. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him work since we started the apprenticeship but this time feels different.
Despite the bickering, we’re cohesive in our processes today and it fills me up in ways I hadn’t expected. The nerves from my upcoming shading opportunity fall away as he nods, thanking me for an excellent setup.
Excellent set up were his exact words.
I sit at his side, watching, taking in the moments he explains his strategies—less pressure, changing cartridge sizes depending on degrees of depth and darkness in design, giving the client a moment to acclimate to the longer portions of the session—and listen. I listen to his conversation with his client, which ebbs from casual to emotional every so often. He isn’t afraid to ask why when the client shares that the lighthouse holds meaning to him personally, and he isn’t afraid to stop the machine, rest his hand on the man’s arm and tell him he’s sorry when he shares his story.
Being close to him while he works is truly a magical experience.
When it’s time for me to take over, he sits behind me, peppering quiet words of wisdom in my ear, reassuring me when he senses my insecurity. And he does sense my insecurity—how? I don’t know. But when I pull back and survey what I’ve already done, and I find myself rolling my lips together in silent panic that I’m not good enough and that I’ve ruined someone’s beautiful, meaningful piece of work, his hand curves my neck and he squeezes gently.
“Imposter syndrome is all it is.” I turn to face him, finding his dark eyes soulful and focused… on me. “The work you’ve done is incredible so far.”
Speechless with my stomach aflutter and heat unfurling in my belly, I smile and nod. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t return the smile but rolls back, giving me space I don’t want. “You got it from here, Firecracker.”
And though it’s just grass in the sun below a lone lighthouse, when it’s all said and done, I think it’s the best work I’ve done yet.
As I’m repacking my lunch bag and slipping into my HUGS NOT DRUGS hoodie, Trace appears, hands shoved into his pockets.
I’m beginning to think his hands are so sexy that seeing them in pockets is like seeing a nice big cock in sweats. Tempting and arousing. And I feel like a complete creep for thinking it, and for privately sexualizing him in a way I wouldn’t appreciate if it were coming my way.
But I can’t help it.
He’s so frustrating but each day that passes, I want him more and more.
“Thought I’d see if you wanted to head across the street to Goode’s to celebrate your session today,” he says, nearly stopping my fucking heart.
Trace Calhoun just asked me to dinner.
Okay, maybe he didn’t use the word dinner and it is literally fourteen paces away from where we currently are, and we aren’t changing into nicer clothes and he isn’t picking me up but… the Kelly Kapoor in me is squealing “It’s a date!”
I shrug. “I could eat.”
Trace smirks, tapping his back pocket. “Got my wallet.” He eyes me up and down, and I stand proudly before him in my torn leather leggings and my HUGS NOT DRUGS hoodie. Landing on my slipper-covered feet, he points that gorgeous finger at me and asks, “Where’d your boots go, Firecracker?”
God, I swear, that nickname coming off his arrogant but perfectly shaped lips sends my ovaries into a tailspin. I swallow, purposely clenching my jaw to hold back the smile. I may love when he calls me that, but I don’t want him to know it.
“My feet were cold and I thought I was just going home so… I put my slippers on.” I look down at the oversized gladiator feet slippers Dolly got me last year.
He blinks a few times before meeting my eyes. The shop is empty but for us, and the lack of noise and movement has our eye contact feeling… intense. “Those are funny.”
I drape my palm over my chest in faux shock, ignoring how fast my heart is hammering. “Was that another compliment?”
“Another?” He cocks his brow, his nose ring catching the light as he flares his nostrils. God I love that he’s pierced, too.
I want piercings.
“You told me I was good in there,” I nod toward the spot where we had our session.
He moves toward the door, and the jingle of the bell as it opens into the private night causes bumps to rise up on my arms beneath my hoodie.
Grabbing my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and head out, taking a discreet breath as I walk past him in the doorway. His scent hits me between the legs, and after he locks up Ink Time for Deuce, he comes by my side. We walk across the street together in silence, and Trace opens the door for me at Goode’s, too.
I don’t think I can take sucking in his pine-laced-with-sweat scent again, so I hold my breath as I walk past him into the diner. Lucy, the waitress who’s been at Goode’s since my earliest memory, waves at me from the kitchen in the back. “Ivy! Seat yourselves.”
I smile and nod, then survey the place for the best seat.
A few old couples are here having decaf with a slice of pie but for the most part, Goode’s is quiet. I choose a table and slip into the booth, eager to sit and ease the aching between my legs.
Trace slips into the booth across from me, a rush of his scent enveloping me. It’s almost annoying how good he smells after a full day of work and it’s more annoying that he can’t at the very least wear a cologne I hate.
I love pine. I love the outdoors. And I love a man who smells like the things I love. Pine trees and hard work are essentially the formula for sex with me.
Lucy appears, sliding us two laminated menus and two glasses of ice-cold water. I’ve been here a thousand times and don’t need a menu, but I don’t know about Trace, so I tell her we need a few minutes. She agrees to come back and as she walks away, Trace stops her.
“Lucy, could I bother you for a cup of coffee?”
“Decaf or the good stuff?”
Trace chuckles. I don’t know if I’ve heard him chuckle. Snort? Yes. Snark? For sure. But an actual little chuckle? It’s deep and rich and so sexy that the pine takes a back seat as his timbre washes over me, leaving me achy and wet.
“What’s good here?” he says, his eyes moving up and down the three tiers of food broken down by breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I roll my lips together. “Well, I like the Cobb salad and the chicken tortilla soup, but really, everything’s pretty good.”
His focus is on me when I glance from Lucy across the room back to him.
“Cobb salad, huh?” he says, tearing the white paper from a straw on the table. He drops it into the glass of water Lucy brought over and takes a sip. “That actually… sounds good.”
Heat cruises up my neck. “Wow. So agreeable today.”
He clasps his hands together on top of the menu and stares at the surface of his water. “You did good shading work today.”
Inside, I’m absolutely howling. Squealing and screaming, even. “Thank you.”
He sips his water again. “I even liked the cockhouse.”
Lucy reappears. “What’ll it be?”
“Two Cobb salads,” Trace says, ordering for me, which no one has ever done. Even as a girl, my father told me I should grow up to be a strong woman, unafraid to use my voice. I was ordering Shirley Temples and tuna sandwiches on my own by age five. I don’t need to be rescued, but someone knowing my order and placing it for me? Kind of nice.
Surprisingly sexy.
Once she’s asked us about our drink orders—Trace surprisingly sticks with water and decaf coffee—she leaves us and I’m able to respond to his comment about my stupid lighthouse sketch.
“I’m embarrassed it looked so… phallic .” I choose my words carefully because I’m already swollen and aching for him. Damn pine cologne. And gorgeous hands. And cool ink. And—okay, it’s the whole package.
He shrugs. “Maybe you have dick on the brain.”
He has no clue how right he is.
Or does he?
I push hair behind my ear, tucking it there to buy me a second. After a sip of water, I agree. “I probably do.” With my eyes locked on his I say, “It’s been way too long since I’ve fucked.”
He blinks a few times, startled by my choice of words. “I guess you don’t know about that,” I add, spreading the paper napkin over my lap.
He makes no comment back, surprisingly, and instead says, “I’m moving out of my apartment.”
My heart stops.
“You’re leaving Bluebell?”
The back of my neck grows hot. The diner around me grows blurry. This is the man I’ve been idolizing for years. He’s here. And he’s leaving?
No. No fucking w— “Naa,” he says, shaking his head, his response sluicing through my chaos. “I’m moving into Deuce and Ev’s investment house.” Lucy appears with two plates, and slides one in front of each of us. Trace thanks her and takes his fork. Piercing lettuce and hard boiled egg with the tines, he says, “Gonna work on it at night instead of… being bad.”
“I bet Ev’s happy about that—she’s been wanting to get that place fixed up and on the market for a while,” I say, scared that if I comment on him being bad, he’ll shut down. Besides, I know what he means. It’s not a secret, and if it is, he does a horrible job of keeping it private.
He drinks too much and he parties too hard.
After a few bites, he finally says, “I don’t know. I just came to this conclusion with Deuce the other day. I haven’t talked to Ev.” He takes another bite and around the mouthful of food, he says, “You’re the only person I’ve told.”
“No family to tell that you’re settling down out here?” I question, because I’ve yet to hear Trace mention a mom or dad.
He shakes his head. “Folks are dead.”
“No siblings?” I ask, feeling preemptively a bit sad if he says no, because my sisters mean so much to me.
His eyes lift to mine then back to his salad. “None,” he finally answers.
From there, we eat our salads in silence, but it’s comfortable, and that should be weird but it isn’t. In sync, we pass and share the pepper, he sips decaf while I eat a piece of peach pie, and at the end, he drops a hundred-dollar bill on the table to pay.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, feeling suddenly nervous.
He walks to my car, taking a few steps back into the street as he waits for me to get inside and buckle up. With my headlights on and the door open, I say, “See you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t smile but he shoves his hands in his pockets. “See ya tomorrow, Firecracker.”
I look in the rearview and spot him watching me drive off.
Today was a very good day.