Page 12 of Yours Truly

It’s fucking incredible. “It’ll work for this. We’re throwing out the stencil anyway,” I add, the callousness of my words burning my throat. I don’t watch for her response, though, because I’m feeding the paper through the machine, moving forward. “The button on the top is the power button–”

“Wow,” she says quietly. “Let me write that down.”

I turn to find her still sitting at the table, arms folded over her chest, eyes locked to mine. I’m being a prick, so she’s being a brat. No one’s ever challenged me in my career. When you’re making a network millions, you live like a king. And women never argue with me, because they wanna suck my dick so bad.

But Ivy.

Ivy doesn’t give a crap about who I am.

She stormed over to my apartment last night.

She’s rolling her eyes at me.

“Show me already, you’re not the only one with things to do,” she snaps, yanking me from my thought which was masquerading as a deep glare.

I put my hand on my hip, the other one hovering over the start button. “You’re my apprentice. What else do you have to do?”

She rises, and my heart pumps in the hollow of my throat. For some reason, my dick twitches a little, too.

“I work for Deuce, and so do you. When you’re not training me, I have things to do around the shop.” She closes the few feet between us with heavy steps in her combat boots. “Believe it or not, not everything is all about you, Trace.”

With my eyes on hers, I press the start button. Her breath is warm against my chin as she blinks up at me, angry and defiant. The stencil machine works behind us, and only after a few seconds does she break her gaze and look back at it.

“It’s fast,” she comments, recentering us.

“Yeah,” I say, still staring down at her. Freckles sweep her cheeks, curving the bridge of her nose, and her lashes are thick and long, making each blink of her eye intoxicating. That amber scent hits me again, and I step back, lifting the warm thermal paper from the tray. Handing it to her, I watch her eyes study the stencil of her work.

It’s a sketch that took five minutes to show how the machine works.

It’s nothing.

It will go in the garbage.

But I watch as her eyes rake over the paper, taking in each messy line and delicate curve. With one hand, she clutches the stencil like it’s holy, using the other to lightly dust her fingers over the design. A knot forms in my throat as she blinks up at me, fighting moisture in her eyes.

“It’s…” She clears her throat. “It’s cool seeing my sketch as a stencil.”

Heat flares in my chest, sending a shot of desire down my sternum, into my groin. Witnessing someone’s amazement– that first hit of excitement in a new business– that’s all my response is. It’s not her. It’s the symbolism. It reminds me of the best time of my life.

That’s all.

And I get it.

And I feel that amazement for her, through her. My hands burn, itching to reach out and hold her against my chest and tell her yes, it is cool, you’re great, this is where you belong.

Instead, I swipe the stencil from her hands, causing her gaze to jerk up to mine, an angry pinch between her brows.

“There will be hundreds more. It’s nothing to cry about.” I let the stencil sail into the garbage can directly under my hand as I release it, then say, “Now you know how the stencil machine works.”

She swallows thickly, folding her arms over her chest, hiding that acid-washed and torn-up Metallica t-shirt from my sight. “Got it.”

The door whooshes open, the little bell tied to the arm jingling only when it sails closed. From the front, Deuce hollers, “Trace, your mid-day appointment is here.”

“You gonna watch me draw it up and ink him or you gonna sweep floors because, you know, you’re the shop apprentice and not just mine?”

I give her credit - she’s quick to release the tight set of her jaw and the anger in her brow. “I’m glad to hear you acknowledge that you know I’m not yours. But yes, I’ll be watching you work today since you’re actually here.”

And then she’s pushing past me, stomping down the hall with her ripped tights and her salty attitude.

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