Page 18 of Yours Truly

I’ll talk to my best friend Jack. He always listens.

Trace

Last night was the last night.

The stench of coffee burns my nose hairs as I suck down yet another paper cup. The shit here at Ink Time is just that—shit—and I’m gonna let Deuce know.

Just as soon as I get my bearings.

I’m a little… off this morning.

Tired and a tiny bit hungover.

Just a tiny bit.

But my sour stomach and throbbing head are not what I’m focused on.

For an incredibly annoying reason that I wish not to name, I’m worried Ivy will recognize the signs, see I’m hungover again, and hate me more.

She does hate me. I feel it in the pinch of her gaze, the shortness in her words, the subtext in her body language.

She loves my work, there’s no questioning that. And I do take pride in the fact that someone as incredibly talented as Ivy looks up to me. But otherwise, she can’t stand me.

She’s in good company feeling that way.

I crumple the third paper cup and toss it into the wastebasket. “Good morning,” she says, passing me on her way in.

I got here early today. Not just for copious amounts of coffee but to specifically make sure I wasn’t late. Again.

I lift my eyes and welcome the expected drop of my stomach when she doesn’t bother looking down as she walks past.

Of course she doesn’t look at you, fucking dum-dum. You’re a prick to her all the time. “Look who's late now,” I chide as she slides her little black-and-purple lunch bag under her desk. It’s got an ice pack in it, and whenever she takes it out of her bag, I wonder if she’s ever used it on any of her boyfriends after giving them a black eye.

“I’m not late, I’m on time,” she says, adding, “nice try, Trace.”

Shit. Ivy saying my name makes me shiver. The way it slithers off her tongue, full of venom but deeply intriguing. My dick perks up.

Not wanting my hard-on to intensify, I finish my fourth cup, crumple it and toss it into the wastebasket. “I have a morning session today,” I tell her, but as I do, she nods, flipping open her little black spiral planner.

“I’m aware. I booked it.”

Did she? I stare at her day planner as a moment from last week crashes through my memory. Me hungover after I’d been in Oakcreek the night before. I went to find a cool place to sketch and connect with nature, but I found a bar with $3 shots instead. The next morning I barely held it together. Ivy forced me to finish the project I was working on, didn’t let up when she wanted her lesson on depth of needles in the skin, and she never once asked me how I was feeling.

That same day, she did ask if I could do a morning session this week.

I remember now.

“What’s the note on the session?” I ask as I find myself following her to the reception desk. Deuce runs reception for now since we haven’t hired anyone, and though Ivy is my apprentice, she does a lot for the shop itself. Including running reception when she can.

She opens the computer and starts swiping and typing. It’s office work, nothing grand, but something about the way she owns and destroys all the spaces she’s in— she reminds me of a young, eager me. Only… smarter and, honestly? More talented.

The tattoo she gave herself on her inner ankle the other night is incredibly good, and not just for a newbie. I mean, it’s just plain good.

A serrated knife piercing a chopped-off tree trunk, with wild vines growing around the handle. I don’t know what it means to her, if anything, but I haven’t been able to stop stealing little glances at it. It’s the kind of artwork that makes you want to think, and it’s unusual to find young artists creating pieces like that.

“This,” she finally says, making my gaze jump from her inner ankle up to her glaring eyes. She definitely caught me looking, but we both ignore it in favor of the design on-screen. “He emailed it over. You have two hours to sketch it and stencil it.”

I look at the screen for a second, then my eyes veer back to her, where her lips twitch. “You’re not on TV anymore, Trace. These are the things the people of Bluebell want.”

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