Chapter 10I’m jealous.
TEN
I’m jealous.
Trace
I peel the label from the bottle, looking at the tiny bits of adhesive and damp paper stuck to my fingers.
“Why are we here?” Deuce asks, peering around the counter at the bowling alley. “We’re the youngest here.”
It’s senior night at the bowling alley, where I asked Deuce to come meet me for a drink.
A non-alcoholic drink at that.
Sweat slides down my spine. Ivy. That’s why we’re here. She’s fucking me all up. No woman has ever pushed back, questioned me, argued with me, glared at me, made me sweat. I’ve never fantasized about waking up with a woman. Going to bed, sure, but waking up, never. I’ve always had access to women of all walks and not since my first love have I wanted to wake up the next morning with a woman… over and over. In fact, I’ve never really fantasized about a woman, period. Much less… the nonsexual aspects.
And that’s why we’re here.
“It’s safe, that’s why,” I say, plucking the last bit of label from the root beer. Deuce clinks his orange cream soda against my bottle.
“I support that, and these,” he says, making note of the bottle before lifting it to his lips for a long swig. “Damn, this is pretty good.”
I sip my root beer. “Yeah, it’s all right.”
He twists his head, one eye shut as he peers my way. His dark hair is down and messy, and he’s wearing a hoodie and gray sweats. I pulled this man from his comfortable life with his wife and son to listen to my bullshit. I tell myself I’d do the same for him, even though I’m not so sure. I also tell myself I’ll make it up to him by one day being the friend to him that he has been to me.
“Spit it out, Calhoun.”
I clear my throat and meet his gaze. “I was thinking of losing the Calhoun, actually.” I finish the warm root beer. How come I can slam a beer in ten seconds but getting through a root beer has taken me ten minutes? I’m stalling. “Since I’m here in Bluebell now, working at Ink Time, I thought I’d go back to Wade.”
A faint smile curls Deuce’s lips. He takes another sip of soda and strokes his inked hand down his beard. “In my heart, you’ve always been Trace Wade.”
I roll my eyes as he enjoys his mocking, his chest vibrating with quiet chuckles.
“I mean, Trace Calhoun is the guy on Trace Tats and Needle Ninjas .” I shrug, plucking invisible lint from my long-sleeved flannel. “I ain’t him anymore.”
Deuce makes an aggravating show of looking around us. “Last I checked, the only Trace is right here, and all versions of him are here, too.” He shakes his head, peering at the mirror backing of the bowling alley bar. Old, partially empty bottles of bright-colored alcohol rest beneath a layer of dust, and below them a rack of old beer glasses sit upside down. An older woman in a pin-striped apron works the length of the bar, where a total of nine old men are scattered about.
I hate when he goes thoughtful. Deuce is smart, and he always finds a way of hitting me with a dose of truth when I’m at my weakest. I always need it, but it brings a wave of emotion that I could live without.
Finally he faces me again after finishing his soda, catching a burp with the back of his hand. “ Needle Ninjas Trace and Ink Time Trace are the same guy. When you separate yourself into versions, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. Working here in Bluebell as a tattoo artist ain’t ever gonna be the same as what you did before. But the part you aren’t seeing is that… it ain’t supposed to be a replacement. It’s the next step. And you can look at it as going downstairs, and if you do, then that’s what it’ll be. And you’ll stay buried in bottles and pussy forever, because you’ve made yourself a victim of your situation.”
“It ain’t about losing the show,” I grumble, eager to defend myself. Habits are hard to break. Trace Calhoun isn’t wrong. He never is. That’s what the viewers liked, and that’s what my ego needed at the time. To win. Over and over and over. To prove to myself I’m not second best.
“No, it’s not. But you’re gonna use that as your reason, so you don’t gotta tackle what happened before the show,” he says, making note of the months I’d begun to spiral before I was signed to Needle Ninjas .
I don’t say anything.
He knocks his elbow against mine. “Don’t clam up. I’m in a bowling alley full of senior citizens with you. My wife is at home in bed, and my son is asleep. Don’t you dare clam up.”
Opening my mouth, I snap it closed a moment later, embarrassed.
“Spit it out,” Deuce says, voice brimming with impatience. We may be middle-aged men, but I have no doubt he’ll drag me outside and square off with me if I don’t comply. He’s got every right to be over my shit.
“It’s fucking embarrassing, man.”
From my periphery, I see his arm lift. A moment later, the old waitress appears. “Hey ya, Deuce, how ya doin’, honey? Another?”
He smiles. “Hi, Sally, yeah, I’ll take another and so will my friend.”
My eyes lift to the woman with the paper pad in her hands. She smiles at me, crow’s feet pinching the corners of her eyes. She looks like someone I kind of remember, but since I’ve never been to the bowling alley in Bluebell, and she doesn’t strike me as someone with a tattoo, it’s unlikely I know her.
“Another root beer, baby?”
“Thanks.” I dip my head.
She scribbles on the pad and scampers off.
“Sally is Lucy’s mom,” Deuce says, reading my mind. “Lucy is the waitress at Goode’s.”
I nod. “Makes sense. She looked familiar.”
“Yep, and I’m telling you because Bluebell is small, and you gotta start learning ’bout people here.” Sally returns with our drinks. After twisting off the tops, Deuce clinks the neck of his bottle to mine and continues. “Tell me what you’re embarrassed about. If you make me guess, you’re gonna leave here feeling a lot worse.” He smirks.
“Is that right?”
He nods. “You embarrassed by your ugly face?” he prods, sipping his drink to hide his smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
He gives me a minute and I need it. It’s been years but this is not something I talk about with anyone. Ever. I spin the bottle in my hand by the neck a few times, take another sip and keep my gaze focused on the bartop. “I’m embarrassed that it’s still the root of everything. That I let it control me ever, much less… for this long.”
Deuce nods, though I don’t feel brave enough to look him in the eye. “Cat?”
I haven’t said the name aloud in what feels like forever. And I haven’t heard anyone else say it, either. My heart leaps for one single beat before steadying again. I nod. “Cat.”
Deuce lets loose years worth of angst in one sight. “Where are you at with this, because I can’t help if I don’t know what level you’re on?”
I arch a brow. “Level?”
He motions with his hand. “You know, are you still madly in love or, like, you want to exact revenge or, like… you just want to move on but you can’t?”
I narrow my eyes. “Exact revenge?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know, man. You were gone for so long. I don’t know where your head is at now.”
“I’m here,” I tell him. “My head is here. I don’t want revenge. Besides, don’t you think I’m about ten years late on that?”
“Like I said, I don’t know where your head is at. You’ve been going hard for years.” He sips his drink and drops his voice. “Did you going hog wild all start with Cat and?—”
I lift a palm, not wanting him to finish that sentence. “Yes, it started because of Cat.”
“Right,” he continues, dragging out the word cautiously. “That was a long time to still be hung up on it.” The exact reason I told him I’m embarrassed.
“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, sipping my stupid root beer.
“C’mon. You aren’t in the bowling alley with my old ass because you’re doing fucking great.”
I smirk at him. “I like that you just kinda burned yourself, too.”
He sighs. “Talk to me. You want to. It’s why you asked me here. Unless you just want some quality time with me, in which case, great. I’d like to talk and the first thing I want to gossip about is you and what’s up.”
I sift my fingers through my hair, unsure of why I feel nervous and embarrassed. Deuce knows the truth, and he knew what happened all those years ago. Still, talking about it still feels… surreal. I clear my throat, finally brushing off the hesitancy.
“All these years I kept thinking that if I was rich enough, famous enough, talented enough… one day she’d…”
“Come back?” he offers quietly. Something about my best friend using his soothing tone, the one he uses for his toddler son, makes me want to cry.
Goddamn it.
I cough through the lump in my throat, using the “I’ve got allergies, I’m not emotional” cough used by people who hate emotion. “I guess so, yeah.”
“Do you want her back?”
I shake my head. “No. Fuck no. Of course I don’t.” I reflect on the last ten years. “I don’t think I ever did. But I did want her to recognize that I’m the good guy. That she chose wrong. That she was wrong.”
Deuce rests his hand on my forearm, making the backs of my eyes burn with unshed emotion. “She was wrong. You are the good guy. And you shouldn’t need her to tell you that to know it.”
I nod. “I’m realizing that.”
“Oh yeah?” Deuce asks, digging a few bills from his wallet. I smack his hand away, appreciative that the emotional moment has somewhat passed.
“I’m paying.” I scratch at the side of my stubbled jaw, then run a fingertip along the hoop in my nose, thinking. “And yeah. The thing is, I never cared about addressing shit until I came to Bluebell. When I was on the road with Needle Ninjas , I kept thinking, Cat’s gonna see this. She’s gonna realize she fucked up. It’s gonna be so fucking sweet when she reaches out and tells me how much she regrets what happened. What she did.”
“And you don’t want that anymore?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know if I ever wanted that, I just thought I did.”
“What do you want?” he prods softly.
“I want to be happy.” I face him, exposing myself in a way I never have. “I want a girl. A family. I want a routine. Weekends with the people I love, evenings around a barbecue with those same people. I want a beer to taste good because it’s hot and I’ve worked hard in my yard and earned it. I want to have sex and have it mean something. I want to create art that enriches me, fulfills me. And when I’m in the studio, I want to enrich other people with great art. Fulfill their vision. And I want that all here, in Bluebell.”
“That’s a big epiphany.”
“Nah,” I say, leaning back. “In my heart, since Cat and the bullshit with Tara,” I start. Best I can do to avoid the cringe that comes with an admission so raw is to not make eye contact, so I keep my eyes on my boots. “I’ve known what I wanted for a while. I just… didn’t think I could have it. I thought they broke me or I think I owed karma for what I did to Tara.”
“What changed your mind?” he asks, his bottle almost to his lips as I turn to face him.
“Ivy.”
“You’re really going to let me shade the entire design for your afternoon session?” Ivy asks, her eyes, today lined with bright purple, go wide. “Seriously?”
I shrug, full of nonchalance. “Why wouldn’t I?” With my sunglasses still on, my eyes drop to her breasts, which are more on display than they’ve ever been.
They’re fantastic tits, as I knew they would be, but still, it angers me that I can tell they’re fantastic.
Because if I can, so can other men.
She’s wearing some black bodysuit thing that disappears into her skirt. Her very fucking short skirt, I might add. Her legs, while covered in tights, peek through the tears in the fabric, revealing velvety unmarked flesh on one and loads of ink on the other.
Fuck, she’s hot.
With combat boots on her feet and her jet-black hair down around her face, she’s a wet dream in the flesh, I swear.
“You know,” I start, irritated and jealous at how gorgeous she looks today, at how I want her to be gorgeous for me, and me only. Except, I treat her like shit and am almost never open with her about anything, so would she ever want me back? “Acting surprised that I’m involving you in so much work tells me you’re insecure about your skills.”
I flip my sunglasses up; though I haven’t got my fill of her, I’m also not the kind of asshole who wears shades indoors all day, either. Fuck that guy.
“If you don’t want to shade the American flag?—”
“I want to,” she snaps, the excitement and happiness she held just a moment ago now in pieces on the floor. “I’m not insecure, Trace,” she hisses, the long slither of the C in my name making my cock stir. “You’re just an asshole and I was surprised you were being nice.”
“I wasn’t bein’ nice,” I say, reaching for the arm on the coffee pot behind the desk. I’ve been here on time for two weeks straight, I might add. Haven’t touched a drop of booze for that long, either. “You’re an apprentice,” I point at her, and her anger grows. “I'm,” I hook a thumb to my chest, and she goes fire engine red, “here to teach you. Part of teaching is hands-on.”
I’d like to get my fucking grubby hands all over that young, delicious little body. I’d tear those tights off, shove that skirt up her hips and rut my way inside of her all while she tore her vocal cords screaming my goddamn name.
“Did I hear you’re shading Trace’s afternoon session?” Connor questions, walking up with his shining white smile. He bugs me. He bugs me because he’s all… fucking… manners and bleached teeth and… drinks water all day and talks about running and watching the news. Fuck this guy and his ideal everything.
Connor looks my way, extending his hand to me. “Morning, Trace. How are ya?”
I’d be better if your teeth were on the floor and my boot was in your ass. Now quit flirting with Ivy . “Solid, man, thanks,” I reply, shaking his hand for the least amount of time that is socially acceptable. “And yeah, she’s shading.” I narrow my eyes at Ivy. “C’mon back and let me watch you make the stencil.”
“Good luck,” Connor tosses at her as we move down the hall toward my station.
I’m shrugging out of my leather jacket when Ivy socks me in the shoulder, her fist tiny but mighty. “I can talk, you know.”
“I’m aware,” I deadpan.
“I could’ve answered Connor.” Her eyes narrow on me in a way that makes me feel exposed. Like she knows that I’m a jealous prick hiding being ego and asshole.
“If you want to talk to Connor so bad, go talk to him,” I growl, loathing how possessive and jealous I sound. I have no claim to those emotions when it comes to Ivy. Yet here I am, balling my fists at my sides as I blink down at her, heart racing, shoulders tense. I want her to want me, not fucking Connor.
Such a bullshit name anyway.
She blinks a few times, slowly, maybe even lazily. Her thick dark lashes hypnotize me, slowing my tachy heart, putting a stop to the anger bubbling in my veins. After what feels like too long, she asks, “You want me to make the stencil now or do you want to look at the piece one more time?”
Her lips are so plump. So perfect. I love that black lipstick she wears. I’d jack off to watching her eat a popsicle. “You’re right,” I say, my voice much hoarser than expected. “I should check the design one more time.”
She reaches out, eyes still on mine, and slides my jacket off my arms the rest of the way. “I’ll hang this up, get us some more coffee and we’ll get going.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
She does what she says, hanging my coat near reception before filling two mugs with piping hot caffeine. I don’t get anything ready while she’s away. I just… watch her. I watch her and imagine how she looks in the first traces of daylight, without her purple eyeliner, black lipstick or ripped tights, her dark hair strewn over a pillow, her partially inked body covered by only a thin sheet.
“Here you go,” she says, her amber scent wrapping my cock as she sinks onto the swivel stool adjacent to mine. With the mug of coffee she poured me in my hand, I sit down next to her and sip as she sifts through my portfolio, finding just what I need.
She lays it all out and flicks on the lamp. Picking up my pencil, I blink down at the sketch, my mind a mess. What am I doing? I look at the flag rippling in an invisible wind, wondering what Ivy would look like wrapped up in a flag, in nothing but her birthday suit.
“Talk me through how you double-check,” she says, getting the ball rolling. She presses her finger to the edge of the design, where the edge of the flag nearly meets the paper. “Would it be cool to add some wear to the seam? I mean, don’t disrespect the flag or anything but… just show that it’s been relentlessly up against the elements for a long time.”
I nod. “That’d be dope.” And with her suggestion, I tuck into the sketch and start working. With her by my side, I forget everything.
The fear, the pain, everything.
Only she has that effect.
It’s not every day someone signs up to get a tattoo but shows up to the appointment horrified to go through with it. And I’m not trying to be sexist, but statistically speaking, the number of times men have been terrified of the needle? Not high.
It’s part of the reason why I’m so puzzled this afternoon, half way through the long session. The client is a twenty-five-year-old man, one who of course knows Ivy.
The Bluebell energy of everyone knowing one another is great. Cozy. But every man knowing Ivy? Eager to talk to her, desperate to hug her hello? Makes me want to take her to the biggest city in the world, get lost with her, so that no one will know her name and no one will think they have the right to hold or touch her.
“It’s all right, Jere,” Ivy soothes, using a side of her I haven’t seen much. The softness of her tone and the way she calmingly strokes his shoulder with the backs of her knuckles…
I’m jealous.
Even though I’m the one training her, I’m the one helping her shape her craft, which is arguably the most important thing to her, I’m the man sitting at her side day in and day out for the last few months. Still. I am fucking jealous. The pen vibrates in my hand, color seeping through the needle, into his skin, and still, my eyes dart back and forth between the client and her knuckles, soothing him in repetitive, gentle strokes.
“Jeremy,” I say as I turn off the machine, sitting up under the guise of stretching my spine. “You want a break?”
He peers down at me, positioned at his waist as his American flag tattoo is across his stomach. “I’m okay,” he says, the sweat on his forehead glittering beneath the overhead lamps. He does this little wimpy, shriveled smile at Ivy, then says, “Her support is really helping.”
Gag me.
I glance down at the finished ink. I’ve done the outline, I’ve done the stars and all the shading in and behind them. I had only planned on Ivy shading the red stripes and the shadow behind the flag, and I’d never put a client at risk but she can absolutely handle what’s left.
“I hope my support is just as good,” I tell him, eyeing her, lifting the plastic protected pen in my gloved hand. “You’re up.”
Her eyes widen for a moment before she recalls the jab I made about shock and insecurity. I hate that I said that because I know she was only excited. I know she isn’t insecure in her abilities but more so, she just isn’t fully comfortable with the pen yet. Which is normal.
Still, I broke her down as much as I could.
Without a single question, her blue eyes capture mine as she smiles, saying, “Perfect.”
Jeremy props himself up on his elbows, looking a little pale and a lot woozy. Ivy offers him a Jolly Rancher casually, in a way that doesn't suggest she sees how bad he feels. She’s got a bedside manner, and that's good.
I keep working. The design, for frame of reference, is about one foot wide and half a foot long. In the grand scheme of ink and pain, it’s not a mountain. It’s more like… a hill.
“You’re… you’re gonna switch?” he asks, struggling to be cool in front of me but also clinging to her battling inside him. I can see it. His gaze flicks between us, his chest moves a bit faster, and I have to pull my old cup of coffee to my lips and take a drink just to hide my satisfied smirk.
What kind of guy gets an American flag on his gut to show his badassery but whimpers when a beautiful girl won’t hold him like an infant and whisper sweet nothings? A guy named Jeremy, that’s who.
Most of the tattoos I got were without numbing cream, in silence, done by myself, absolutely sober. I invited the pain. Welcomed it when and if it came. The burn of the needle was always tolerable for me.
“Yep. Ivy here is an apprentice to the shop. She’s working with me?—”
“Hey” Jeremy sits up further. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re Trace Calhoun, from Needle Ninjas , right?” He shakes his head in dismay, like he’s just realized Tom Cruise is right in front of him. There may have been a time when I enthusiastically welcomed being recognized—basked in it, even—but now it just feels awkward.
“I am Trace Calhoun,” I agree with a singular nod of my head.
“I watched your show all the time. You are so badass,” he breathes, no longer looking at Ivy with puppy dogs eyes but now his focus is solely on me. “I saw the tattoo you did in Great Lakes, for that plane crash survivor. The phoenix rising from the plume of smoke,” he recalls, making me also recall the ink.
I remember the guy. I remember the tattoo.
I also remember it was all bullshit. Something the show paid the guy to say and do. He was never in a plane crash, and the entire storyline was contrived for TV ratings. The ink, though, was real. And it was a great tattoo. One of the only borderless tattoos I’ve done.
“Thanks,” I say as Ivy and I turn sideways, slipping around each other to change spots. I sit in the chair where she sat but I push away to the desk, watching. “Sorry, man, I’m not rubbing your arm.”
He laughs, now that he knows who I am I can see he’s more interested in me than her. And I’m happy with that, even though Jeremy has an unusually low pain tolerance and questionable taste in tattoo locations. Why? Because he’s no longer wondering what color her panties are or if she’ll stroke his chest the same way she touched his shoulder.
He focuses on me for the remainder of the session, asking me questions about various designs I did for a plethora of clients he saw on the show, prodding me about behind-the-scenes secrets, then moving on to Bluebell and how I ended up here.
I keep my answers vague, mostly because I signed a nondisclosure agreement with the TV studio. But also because I’m focused on Ivy. The way her hand moves with grace as she shades, how her brows pull together with focus and dedication—I could watch Ivy work all day. All night, even.
Tattoos are art. That’s what's true in my soul, no matter what anyone else believes. To love something enough to want it etched into you for the better part of forever is a commitment, and people who commit to art that way are my people . Giving them that gift feels incredible.
But watching Ivy tattoo is like watching Monet paint. Like watching Mozart play the piano. It may just be red in the stripe of a flag, but the way she does it, the care she takes and the vulnerability she lends the art as she learns, is beautiful.
Lifting the pen, she glances my way, doing a double take as she catches me watching her.
Our eyes lock.
“And what about Goblin? He seemed so badass,” Jeremy asks of a fellow tattoo artist that was briefly on the show for a while. “He’s loaded, right?”
The corner of Ivy’s lips lift, and my entire body grows hot. My cock thickens. My stomach clenches. My pulse skips.
“Yeah,” I say to Jeremy, still looking at Ivy until she looks away a moment later. Her looking away feels like rising to the surface after a deep dive. “He’s loaded. And… yeah,” I say, processing his question. “He’s a cool guy.”
She doesn’t look my way again for the next hour and a half while she finishes the shading, taking much longer than I would but taking the time she needs. I respect that. I respect people who take their time learning instead of gaining one ounce of knowledge and boasting they’re a pro.
At the end of the session, I give Jeremy his aftercare instructions and sift through the cupboard, looking for the baggie of stuff we send clients home with.
While I’m looking for his aftercare bag, Ivy tapes him up, carefully taping him up with plastic wrap. As she does, Jeremy does something very fucking annoying.
“You done for the day?” he asks her.
She must nod, because my back is to her and I don’t hear her say no.
“Off at five?” he asks.
Again, she must nod but not hearing her drives a stake of discomfort through my back, and I grow rigid at the cupboard. Sifting through, I pull a bag out and add the last items—a pamphlet with approved antibiotic ointments, what to do and what not to do, etcetera.
When I get to my feet, I turn just in time to see Jeremy smile at Ivy, that familiar smile that every man knows about. I know, because I’ve given it many times.
It’s the ‘ I want to stick my dick somewhere in your body and come’ smile.
Yeah, there’s a smile for that. Trust me.
“Would you want to go to Goode’s when you’re off? I’d love to buy you a meal and catch up.” His smile intensifies and I’m horrified to see her smile back at him. “Reminisce about high school or something.”
Taking off her gloves, she pushes her hair behind her ear, exposing the dagger inked on the side of her throat. I love that she has a tattoo so visible and it’s not like a fucking constellation or dream catcher but a fucking knife. I love her gauged ears and that she’s the only one I’ve seen in Bluebell with them.
It’s badass.
“Sure,” she replies, helping stupid baby Jeremy up.
Sure? Ivy wants to go to dinner with the guy who needs extra numbing cream and someone to hold his hand during a three-hour session?
Who is, by the way, a fucking telemarketer.
Yeah.
I slam the cupboard closed with my boot and drop the bag next to his hip. “Here.”
I don’t look at Ivy again, despite the fact her eyes prod me the entire time. I grab my phone off the side table and head for the hall, jealousy coursing through my veins like lava tearing through soil. Before I can take a second to breathe or think, I’m dialing.
“Yo,” my buddy John answers, noises sounding off around him. I don’t know if he’s at work. I don’t even know where he works anymore. Doesn’t matter.
“Yo, you got plans tonight?”
“Nah,” he sighs, “why? Wanna party?”
“Yep. In Bluebell, though. You got a ride?” I ask, unsure if he lost his license or not.
“Hell ya. You got booze and girls?” John asks.
I don’t yet, but that’s the easiest part of all. “I will.” I glance over to the reception desk where Deuce is quietly talking with the new girl, the till on the register open. “Be here in an hour? We’ll get it started.”
“Sure,” he says, “I’ll leave now.”
“Perfect.”
He hangs up, and the next call I make is the one I feel the worst about. Jealousy makes us do ugly, stupid things, but I can’t stop myself. Every time my finger hovers over the end call button, I see her smiling at him. I think of them across from each other at Goode’s, the way we were, and I see red.
“Hey,” I say softly, turning my back to the studio for a sliver of quick privacy. Then I proceed to invite a few people to Ink Time, telling them to be here the moment the shop closes.
Deuce lets me lock up. That means he trusts me with his space. I won’t make him regret it, but I’ll also borrow against the trust tonight.
My lips burn in anticipation, thinking of that first drink and the way it will burn through me, leaving my jagged edges fuzzy, my discomfort muted.
I want that.
I need that.
“Hey,” Ivy hedges, appearing behind me, her hand on my elbow. I jerk out of her gentle touch, causing her face to scrunch. “What?”
“Nothing, just making a personal call.” I keep my face expressionless. “What do you want?” The four words tumble out, cruel and pointed. My stomach clenches. I hate being a prick to her. But goddamn it, why did she say yes to Jeremy?
“I… uh… Deuce is taking care of Jeremy up front, then he’s heading out to pick up Ace.” Her blue eyes dance between mine, searching for why I’m being such a prick after we had such a good session together. Hell, it wasn’t just the session.
We’ve been getting along. We’ve both been trying.
“Great,” I deadpan. “I’m going in the back for a bit. Make sure the entire station is sanitized before you leave.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there in that second-skin bodysuit that makes her tits look so fucking good and that skirt that shows her toned legs, glaring up at me like I just pissed in her cornflakes. I love that sultry, nasty look on her face.
“What? You’re the apprentice. You stay and clean shit up. Why do you have that look on your face?” I shake my head, moving past her to the room in the back of the shop. Deuce mostly uses the room as a small office, but being Trace Calhoun, I have access to everything.
I don’t give her the chance to reply. I walk past her into the stuffy little space and kick the door shut. Deuce keeps a bottle in his desk for what reason, I’m not sure. Tonight it feels like kismet. I grab the bottle by the neck, spin the cap off, sending it clattering against the corkboard, and take a long, slow drink.
I was a fucking idiot to think I had a chance.
So I drink half that bottle in one sitting, because that’s what proper idiots do.