Chapter 27“There’s always a blonde.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“There’s always a blonde.”
Ivy
With the towel draped around my shoulders and clipped under my chin, I tip my head forward, peering at my blonde roots. I give the bottle another shake and start applying, the dye is cool through the rubber gloves, and cold against my scalp.
Today is the last day that I’m an apprentice at Ink Time. Tomorrow? I’m a resident artist.
That fact still gives me chills.
I’m excited—Juniper and Dolly want to take me to the art supplies store after work and treat me to a whole slew of new pencils and pads. Deuce texted me this morning saying he’s got a bottle of champagne with my name on it. Ev came by the house this morning with celebration donuts. Hudson had Bear and Honey hold a congratulations sign and text me a picture.
Trace says he has a surprise for me.
And I’m excited.
I am.
But my stupid, overthinking mind can’t let go of the fact that there were three days and nights this week where we didn’t see each other. He even missed a day of work.
He said he was sick and that he didn’t want me to catch anything and give it to Dolly, and at first I thought that was incredibly thoughtful.
I know I don’t have a reason not to trust Trace. Since the first time we fooled around, he’s been loyal to me, emotionally and physically. We drew the relationship line a few weeks ago, becoming an official couple. He shouted it around the shop. And the day after he took that photo of our boots on his porch, he posted it to his social media. The first time he’s posted in over a year.
The caption read “It’s not the where, it’s the who” with a smiley face emoji. He changed his profile name from Trace Calhoun to Trace Wade, and now, in his bio, it says “Livin’ the dream somewhere in Cali.”
I shouldn’t have questions in my mind. But as I slather the eclipse shade onto my hair, I can’t help but wonder, did he slip up and drink on one or all of those days and is he ashamed to tell me?
Don’t think that way, Ivy. Don’t let your belief in him falter, because he’ll see it. He knows you well by now and he will see the doubt in your body language.
Juniper pushes into my room with a yawn. “You’re up early,” she says.
“Want to look good for my last day. I know we’ll take pictures,” I tell her. “Why are you so tired? Weren’t you in bed by 7?”
She blinks at me, her hands tightening around her mug of tea. Her hair is messy, like she tossed and turned all night, which is unlike Juniper. Once she goes to bed, I don’t hear a peep.
“I, uh, had company last night, after you got home from Trace’s and went to bed.”
I didn’t sleep over last night, knowing I wanted to do my roots this morning. And if I’m being honest? I can’t stop wondering about those three days, so the decision to sleep at my own house felt even worse.
“Company?” I stop dying my roots and look at my older sister who, for as long as I can remember, has been single. At thirty-one, she’s got a thriving business and has never seemed interested in more than exploring nature, hikes, long drives and making jam.
Her cheeks turn to bubble gum. “Yeah…” she trails off, sipping her tea to buy time. But I’m five minutes into a forty-five-minute hair dyeing session at six in the morning so I’ve got time. Lots of it. And I’m also starved for a distraction.
“Juni, you realize you need to spill, right?”
She sets her mug down next to my bottles of perfume on my dresser and takes a seat on the foot of my bed, behind where I’m sitting at my vanity.
“Promise to not judge me?” she asks, biting her thumbnail.
I twist in my seat and face her. “If we didn’t judge Dolly for all the crazy shit she’s done over the years, what makes you think I’d judge you?”
She tucks her messy golden hair behind her ears, nodding. With a huffed-out breath, she says, “I’m actually seeing two guys, not just one.”
I blink. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirps, I swear it does.
“You’re fucking two guys?” I breathe, both surprised and proud. “Damn, Juni, get it! ”
She brings her hands to her face, hiding away as she shakes her head. “No, no, we’re not… fucking .” Spreading her ring and middle finger apart, she blinks at me through her hand. “Yet.”
I slap her knee and return to facing the mirror, adding more eclipse to my ends. “Who are they?”
Over the top of her mug, in the mirror reflection, Juniper smirks. “Actually, you know them both. You saw them here once, returning empty jars to me.”
A few faces run through my mind. A lot of customers come out here to return Juni her jars—she offers a discount off her order for reusing them. But it’s mostly old ladies and churchgoers.
My eyes widen as that morning from a few months ago rushes back. “Dash Foster and Sterling Ford?” I ask, remembering how Bluebell’s favorite police officer and only garbage man stood out front, whispering and… well, bickering. “Aren’t they roommates too?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
Where blonde pokes through the old dye, I smother it in new dye. “Dash is my age,” I state, as if she doesn’t know. “And Sterling…”
“He’s thirty-four,” she adds, her voice a little lower than a moment ago. I meet her eyes in the mirror.
“Juniper!” I squeal. “You’re with a younger and older man!”
She smiles. “Well, we’re not, like, official or anything. But I have a connection with them both.”
I lick my lips. “Do they, you know, do stuff with each other?”
She shakes her head. “No, I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think so? It’s still new. I mean, it’s… complicated,” she says, going distant for a moment.
“When you’re ready to share, I’m here,” I offer.
“Thanks,” she adds, getting back up to retrieve her tea. From the doorway she says, “I can’t believe it’s your last day already. I’m so proud of you, Ivy. You did it.”
“Thanks,” I reply, squirting the last bit of dye onto my head.
Juniper leaves, and instead of focusing on the fact that today is my day, a day to celebrate all that I’ve done, my mind goes back to those same three days and the same thought— was he really sick?
Expecting to walk into a slow studio with Connor tucked away in the corner with a client, Trace and Deuce chatting over coffee, I’m blown away with what greets me.
Trace, dressed in his usual dark jeans and black t-shirt, his hair down and damp from a shower, brown boots on his feet. Waiting at the door, he weaves his fingers through mine and pulls me into the studio, crowded with my family and friends.
Hudson and Dolly are here, Honey in Hud’s arms, Bear running around the place. Juniper is here, and now I know why she was up despite having not slept. Connor and his friends stand in one corner, lifting their mimosa cups to me as I take in the space. Rochelle is here, with her partner/sub, and so is Jeremy. Between clients and friends, there’s hardly room for me to move, but Trace pulls me through until we’re at reception.
“Look,” he says, motioning to a banner hanging from the eaves.
My eyes immediately blur with heat, and a knot forms in my throat. Ivy Inks is drawn out, clearly by Trace because I’d recognize his work with a blindfold on. The I in my name and Inks is a dagger, ornate and detailed, the same one I keep in my boot. “I made it for you, to celebrate your last day,” he says, his lips pressed to my ear as he wraps his arms around me, lifting me up.
“I’m so proud of you,” he adds, and I don’t get the chance to say anything because I’m on my feet again and he’s whistling, garnering the attention of everyone in the space. I spot Deuce, who winks, and points to Trace, mouthing, “He planned all of this.”
“Listen up,” Trace shouts. “Ivy’s here, and we’re all here to celebrate her, so please, first, a round of applause for Bluebell’s most talented artist,” he says, clapping as the room follows suit.
When the cheering settles, he looks down at me and amidst the hushed room, says, “Ivy, you are talented and hardworking, and you’re good with clients. Watching you grow into a role you were destined to fill has been an honor and a privilege. Thank you for letting me be your mentor, for teaching me things when I should’ve been teaching you.” He lifts a champagne flute full of juice as someone nearby shoves one into my hand. “To Ivy.”
The room echoes “To Ivy” and then we’re sipping mimosas, and Juniper is wheeling out a cart covered in plates and napkins, with fruit, muffins, scones, cookies, cupcakes and jams everywhere.
I turn to face Trace. “You did all this for me?” A knot of emotion lodges itself beneath my words, and I’m afraid to say more, because I don’t want to cry. I just… I can’t believe it. Trace did this for me, and everyone is here, for me.
He lowers his mouth to mine, kissing me as his hand takes my chin. “Ivy, you deserve all this and more.”
I blink up at the banner he made. “You made that for me,” I breathe, taking in how accurate the knife is to the one in my boot.
He smiles. “I had to sneak out of bed a few nights and study your knife so I could get the sketch just right,” he admits with a wink.
I point to the gold and black balloons around the shops, and the crepe paper draped from station to station. “You did all this?”
He nods, his chest puffed with pride. “I did. If you felt a little distance over the last week it’s because I was doing this.” He looks around at the decorated space full of people before his gaze lowers to mine, wide and shining, full of sincerity. “And it still doesn’t feel like enough. I wish I knew a better way to celebrate you and all the amazing things you are.”
“Trace,” I start, unable to speak.
“Thank you for being my girlfriend, and congratulations.” He pulls me into the fairly empty hall and hands me a box with a red bow. I flip it open, but tears blur my eyes so fast I have to blink to see. Inside is a tattoo machine, the handle wrapped in pink, ready for me to use. “It’s the same one I use,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I breathe, turning the machine over in my hands. It’s the best. One I couldn’t afford or wouldn't be able to afford for years. “Thank you, Trace.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and sink into his chest, closing my eyes at the feel of his palms skating up my back.
“You’re welcome, Firecracker.”
We break apart and he smiles. “The party's all day. Everyone will be here all day. And guess what? You have a full schedule. Every hour you have a dealer's choice session booked.”
New tattoo artists are rarely left to their own devices, instead assigned to do the client’s choice. But today, they’re letting me do my own thing, and that’s a huge deal. I know Trace is to thank.
I rock to my toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you,” I tell him, feeling overwhelmed by all that he’s done. And he was planning this while I was thinking he’d relapsed, or worse. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, the guilt gnawing at my toes.
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” I say, glancing up at the door as a petite woman filters in. “Being distant last week, I guess.”
“You had a lot on your mind. Graduating your apprenticeship is a big deal. Being able to ink freely is huge. Don’t worry, Firecracker, I understand.”
He places a kiss on my forehead and steps back, motioning to reception. “Today ain’t about us, it’s about you, so I’m gonna let you mingle and work. Your first session is here. I had Juniper bring your sketchbook.” His grin makes my stomach tighten and my heart bloom behind my ribs. I love this man, of that I have no doubt. “Lunch is coming from Goode’s, but me and you? We reconvene tonight. When the party’s over.” He presses his soft lips to mine. “Then we celebrate.” He dances his eyebrows.
I rock on my feet, holding my new tattoo machine in my hands. I’m giddy with all this excitement and what he’s done for me, so with a grin from ear to ear, I say, “Thank you.”
I am exhausted but in the best ways. Okay, maybe not the best because the best way to be tired is from sex, but tattooing? Close second.
Today I’ve inked a skull swamped by wild vines, a shooting star, a treasure chest, a pirate’s map, a mermaid, a pistol and a Care Bear. It’s been the most professionally fulfilling and emotionally uplifting day of my life. A day I'll never forget.
Nearing five o’clock, I slip into the bathroom to touch up my lipstick, smothering on another layer of black. After finger-combing my dark waves, I adjust my tits in my black bodysuit, turn to make sure my ass is still looking fire in my cutoff shorts, and pluck at the tears in my tights, making sure they align to show off my tattoos.
Looking good, feeling good, I head back out to the studio to find a fresh wave of people there to celebrate. Lots of friends from the farmers market, the woman who owns the art supply store, my eighth grade art teacher, and so many other familiar faces.
Today is the best day ever. And I cannot wait to show my gratitude later.
After another few hours of visiting, taking photos, giving out tiny tattoos, my very pregnant sister decides she needs to get off her feet, so with my nephew’s hand in mine, I walk her out. Hudson straps Honey in the car seat as I kiss Bear goodbye, hugging Dolly last.
“I’m so excited for you, Ivy,” she says tearfully, her hormones getting the best of her. “You did what you set out to do, and you’re in love!” She shakes her head, swiping beneath her eyes at the unending stream of tears. “Everything turned out so perfect. Like a fairy tale,” she hiccups.
I stroke my hand down her hair, smiling. “Tattoos and fairy tales,” I reply, “it all worked out.”
“Tell Trace we said goodbye. I couldn’t find him in there,” my sister says before pulling me into a final hug.
Hudson collects her, helping her into the cab of the truck. The four of them wave through the windows, and drive off into dusk. I watch until their taillights are gone, and stay beneath the streetlamp an extra minute, soaking up everything that was today.
Sucking cool fresh air in through my nose, I exhale, blinking at the red lettering painted on the window across from Ink Time. Goode’s Diner. I smile at the diner, knowing that my favorite place in Bluebell is now just steps away from where I work. That I can go there anytime and get my hometown comfort food and see Lucy whenever I want. Twisting, I peer into the busy and bustling tattoo shop, full of friends that are there to celebrate me.
A year ago I was chasing after a dream I wasn’t sure I could catch, grappling with the idea of giving up Bluebell for a cityscape, thinking it may be the only way to become a tattoo artist.
And now I’m here.
In the town I know and love, across from my favorite place, a building full of the people I love just feet away, the man I love at the helm of this massive celebration.
I don’t know if I deserve it, but tonight, it feels like I have it all. And I’ve never been happier or more grateful.
One last lungful of fresh country air and I’m spinning at the curb, ready to head back inside and finish the last hour of the party. As much fun as I’m having, the nearer the end of the night becomes, the more eager I am for this to be over.
So I can go home with Trace and thank him for everything. Jesus, my pussy clenches at the promise.
Two paces from the front door, my arm outstretched, I stop in my tracks.
Through the glass, my eyes lock to the very back corner of the shop. People move about the space, temporarily blocking me from what I know I saw. My heart in my throat, I stay there, on the sidewalk, my eyes burning from how hard I’m staring.
With a shaky breath rattling my chest, I rub my eyes, needing to be sure of what I’m seeing.
I drag a closed fist up my sternum, desperately trying to knead life back into my chest. But my breath is caught, suspended somewhere inside me, keeping my throat tight and my mouth dry.
Here of all places, after inviting everyone I know and love, he’s doing this here.
“Oh my god,” I murmur, catching the words with my hand as I bring it to my face, cupping it there, hiding the shock. My eyes are wide and as much as it would serve me to look away, I can’t take my eyes off of them.
My brain taunts me, going back to those three questionable days where Trace told me he was unwell, then told me he was planning this very party. God I’m so stupid. How could I honestly think a chastity cage and some back talk was going to fix him? Did I seriously think I could heal his broken heart, and cure him of years of struggle?
My body sways as I blink, gaze still fixed on them. Fire stings the backs of my eyes, and I stammer around on the sidewalk a minute before gripping the wall.
And then I torture myself and watch as a former tattoo client—one of the first clients he had at Ink Time—slides her fingers through his hair, which I guess at some point he put in a knot, and rocks to her toes, pressing her lips to his.
His arms are around her, but I can’t see his hands, they’re blocked by the partition the two of them are standing behind.
She isn’t thanking him for the tattoo. Their mouths open and even from back here, on the other side of the glass, I see the pink of their tongues thrashing together as the overhead light shines against his nose ring.
Finally, after watching for what feels like an eternity, I turn, my hand still covering my mouth.
A visceral shudder racks my core, making me cry out and gag all at once. “You fucking idiot!” I scream, the dam broken, tears streaking my cheeks. I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself, or maybe both of us.
But the knife in my boot burns against my flesh, calling for me, begging to deliver retribution. Reaching down, I pull it out and stalk down the sidewalk about ten feet, right to where Trace’s stupid car is parked, shiny, fancy and fucking pretentious.
With my knife firm in my fist, I slip between the parked cars and stare through the windshield, to the white leather seats. How could he? Why would he? And at my party, too. Did he want to hurt someone the way that he hurts? I don’t understand why he would do this.
“I don’t understand,” I murmur, the first strike of the butt of my knife coming down on the driver’s side of the windshield. The glass spiderwebs into a million beautiful shatters, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is my heart in my ears, and the way he proudly announced me as his girlfriend.
“No!” I scream, my neck filled with strain as I scream, over and over, that I have no clue why he would do this, why he would hurt me this way. Another hard strike of the knife’s handle, this time against the driver’s side window, the glass crumbling with the blow, falling to the buttery leather seat. I reach in, pulling the sharp blade through the soft leather, screaming, “No, no, no!”
Sweat coats my back. There’s a hush of voices. I’m no longer slashing his seats but now, tipping the blade of the knife to his car, I make a full circle around it, careful not to bump any of the surrounding cars. “Why did you do that?” I hear myself ask as the knife tears away a new layer of paint. “Why are you ruining everything?” I ask, rearing back, stabbing the knife into the tire, a fresh wave of tears hitting as air rushes out of his tire, into the night.
Making my way to the headlight, I crouch, rearing back again as I crush the butt of the knife against it. It doesn’t shatter, but I only want to hit it harder, so I rear back and hit it again.
And again.
And I cream the plastic light over and over, my knife slipping in my palm as my wild sobs echo through downtown Bluebell.
“Holy shit,” I hear a voice, a moment after the door dings open a few feet away. I don’t recognize the voice so I don’t turn. Instead, I rear back and pop the other headlight, smiling through tears as it flies off the car, tumbling through the street.
“Ivy,” Juniper’s voice wavers, slicing through the chaos. I rear back, slightly aware of a vibration running up my forearm, starting in my wrist.
Bam. My hand and the butt of the knife come down in the center of the hood, this time sending my knife flying through the air and onto the sidewalk somewhere. There’s a splatter of blood over the hood, near the new dent in the center, and I lift my hand to see it’s drenched, soaked in red.
A wide groove centers my palm, and when I look over at Trace’s car, I see blood splattered everywhere.
“Ivy, sweetie,” my sister’s soothing voice finds me, causing my head to jerk up. She’s standing in her long white sundress on the sidewalk, closing the few feet between us. She wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into her as she tells me that everything is going to be okay.
“I don’t—I don’t want to m-m-mess up your d-dress,” I stammer, and when did I start sobbing? Snot is slick beneath my nose as I bury my face against my sister’s, the quiet plunk, plunk of blood dripping onto the ground a soundtrack to our moment.
“Shh,” she says, smoothing her hand down my hair.
“Whoa,” another voice sounds, but I keep my face pressed into my sister, a heartbeat throbbing in the center of my palm. I don’t remember cutting my hand.
“Okay, get her in my truck,” the first voice says. “The four of us need to get out of here,” he adds.
“I can’t—I can’t walk away from this,” the other voice says.
“Please,” Juniper begs, her soft tone lower and more personal than I’ve ever heard it. “Please,” she tries again, still smoothing her fingers down my hair.
The first voice speaks to the second voice. “We know there aren’t cameras out here, okay? We know this, remember?” he says, pressing the other man. “So help Juniper get her into the truck, and I’ll find the knife.” He drops his voice. “C’mon, Dash, this is what’s right, you know it.”
Dash.
My mind spins.
I pull my face from Juniper’s chest and turn to see Sterling Ford standing behind Trace’s crumpled sports car, taking in the damage from his spot in the street. Dash Foster stands near the hood, eyes wide as he takes in the disfigured, bloody car.
“It’s just a car, it’s not a person,” Sterling says to him, and the two of them share eye contact.
“Your guys,” I whisper to my sister.
“Yes,” she says, her tone still soft and detached from the moment, soothing me. “My guys. And they’re going to help, okay? It’s going to be okay,” she promises, using the word okay at least a hundred times.
A moment later, Juniper is helping me into the back seat of a lifted pickup truck, sliding onto the bench seat with me. Using the bottom of her dress, she wraps up my injured hand, blinking at me in the mercurial moonlight.
“What happened?”
I peer out, and watch Dash and Sterling walking around the car, ducking down to look underneath. Dash even peers inside the car, swiveling his head.
They’re looking for my knife. “It’s on the sidewalk,” I tell Juniper, ignoring her question. “It slid down past the shop on the sidewalk,” I reiterate. She rolls down the truck window, whisper-hissing my secret into the night. The men go for it, and Juniper returns her focus to me.
“What happened, Ivy?”
“There’s a blonde,” I start, and Juni shakes her head.
“There’s always a blonde.”
I sniffle. “He tattooed her a few weeks ago. Maybe a month or more, I can’t remember.”
“Okay,” Juni draws out.
I wave my good hand over the front seat, toward Ink Time. “I saw Trace holding her, kissing her, in the back of the shop. I watched from the sidewalk. I saw their tongues. She put her hands in his hair the way I do.” Tears streak my cheeks as Juniper pulls me toward her body, attempting to absorb my shock and pain.
“That motherfucker,” she retorts as the truck dips, Sterling sliding behind the steering wheel, Dash taking the passenger side.
With black gloves on, he holds up my knife. “We got it.”
Sterling throws the truck in reverse, and the men stay quiet, and so does Juniper, holding tightly to the pressure on my hurt hand. One flash of his lips pressed to hers and blackness envelops me, and I sink into a much-needed adrenaline-crash slumber against my sister, in the arms of someone who actually loves me.