Page 10 of Yours Truly

“Good thinking, Corey,” I tell her, watching as she curls the bill and slips it between her breasts.

Out of nowhere, Ivy appears, her jet-black hair a vivid contrast to Corey and her blonde locks. She takes the twenty from between Corey’s breasts, officially locking my attention on them. Ivy takes Corey’s hand, and places a one-hundred-dollar bill in her palm.

“Get the morning-after pill, get a nice breakfast, and some heating pads.”

Corey stares at Ivy blankly for a few seconds before popping her gum and saying, “Thanks. Are you like his sister or manager or whatever?”

Ivy shakes her head. “Nope.”

Corey rolls the hundred, slipping it between her breasts again. She loops her arms around Ivy, her eyes squeezed shut as she embraces her. “Thank you, girl.”

Then the door is dinging and Corey is gone.

I look between Deuce and Ivy. Despite the fact I’m showered and mostly sober, both of them look tired and unimpressed.

That sour feeling of guilt returns, and I realize I like the way it feels even less than being hungover. Deuce leads me to the lighted sketch table in the back, and Ivy follows.

“Line work. Second half of the day is booked with a client. Line work until then,” he says, rocking on his boots.

“I thought you said I could decide the order as long as I did all the shit on the list,” I argue, hating being told what to do by anyone. I knew working for Deuce meant he’d technically be my boss, but I never expected to actually be bossed.

Can’t say I enjoy it. I’m the guy who’s in charge. That’s how I roll.

“You can. But line work is where every apprenticeship starts. Don’t you remember?”

Our eyes hold. I don’t know if he’s asking me to go back to the start, to revisit who and where I was when I began my journey as a tattoo artist. If he is, he’s asking me to jump back into the pain, either as a punishment or a reminder. I can’t decide.

My voice is hoarser than I’d like when I reply, “Yeah, I remember.”

I’ve been spending years trying to forget who taught me, and how much she meant.

I turn to face Ivy, whose black hair is knotted into two long braids, her eyes lined like a cat, large gauges filling her ears. I know it’s wild to think considering my career but I’ve never traditionally been into goth chicks.

Something about the way she’s glaring at me has me a little bricked up, though. I can’t deny that her hate is attractive, and if that doesn’t sum up my psyche, I don’t know what does.

“You ready to do some line work?”

Her face and her tone bear no emotion when she says, “I was ready yesterday.”

I cut my eyes to Deuce, then back to Ivy. I’ve apologized to my friend. He owns this place, he’s the one who brought me here. I owed him an apology and I paid my debt. I don’t owe her shit. Something tells me a smart-ass comment isn’t my play with a girl like Ivy, but I just can’t help myself.

Sliding into the leather chair on casters, I pick up my pencil and adjust the small light at the desk. “If today doesn’t work for you,” I say, splitting a smile between her and Deuce, “we can find another artist who wants the apprenticeship.”

She’s a firecracker for sure, but right now, she’s icing over. I see it happen before my eyes. Her jaw swings before locking closed, blue orbs narrowing on me so sharply I almost feel her gaze poking my chest. Her shoulders are set back, chin high with both sexy defiance and snarling attitude. “Today is perfect.”

I look down at my hand, already sketching from years of memory. I hide my smile as a few lines turn into a few more, and the outline of a pistol appears in my mind. As I sketch, a rush of coffee with raspberries and amber hit me.

The back of my neck pricks with heat and beneath the small table, my knee bounces. My cock thickens as I focus on my sketch, and not the insanely intoxicating scent that is Ivy Ellington.

“Yesterday would have been just as perfect,” she breathes, just quiet enough for Deuce to miss.

The graphite swishes against the paper as my line curves, rounding over the same spot until the hammer looks right. I feel her eyes on me. I’ve been watched while sketching a hundred times. Maybe more. I’ve tattooed in front of massive crowds, viewed on reality television by the millions.

Something about her watching me, though. I find myself more focused than I’ve been in a long time. I find myself actually caring.

I take my time on the stock lines, switching pencils halfway through. “Ink Time is outfitted with pen machines,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “When I started tattooing, the shop I was at used rotary machines. I don’t foresee technology moving past pen machines for quite some time, so take some solace in knowing you won’t have to relearn your tool. Starting with the pen makes the most sense.”

I switch pencils, opting for a sharper one with a thinner graphite tip. Finding the spot I left off, I continue on the gridded stocks on the pistol sketch.

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