Page 3 of Yours Truly

Being insanely interested in and jealous over hot shitheads.

“How long are you his apprentice again? Remind me?” Juni asks as she swipes a damp cloth over the counter. As the oldest of the three of us, she’s always taken on the motherly role, even when our parents were alive. It’s what fits her best and I can’t wait for her to make my sister Dolly and I aunties. She’ll be a really great mom.

“Twelve weeks,” I tell her, an image of Trace in a torn, fitted white tee and black jeans with unlaced motorcycle boots fogging my mind. My neck grows hot, urging me to reach past the coffee to a canteen of water. Chugging it back, my senses cool and I get to my feet, itching to get out of this house for a lungful of fresh air. “Thanks for breakfast,” I tell my sister, giving her a hug before snatching my lunch from the counter.

She stands at the doorway as I make my way to the car. “Bye,” she waves me off. “Have a good first day!”

Despite the knot in my belly, I smile, telling myself it will be a good day. After all, I’m not nervous to spend twelve weeks with the hottest, most talented artist I’ve ever known.

I just ate too much chocolate, that’s all.

“And after you finish the total, you tap tender?—”

With a curt smile, I nod, stopping Deuce from repeating himself yet again. “I know,” I tell him.

He smiles at me before his eyes slide to the door, where we both fix our gazes for another hungry moment. Still, nothing and no one. A pigeon walks by, a piece of chocolate donut peeking from his beak. A shadow paints the sidewalk and for a second, my breath catches, thinking this is finally it.

He finally showed.

Except when the black boots come into view, they’re not attached to a good-looking artist with greasy hair and a smarmy smile. They’re attached to a man in all navy, a gold badge pinned to his chest and a holster of gear slung around his waist. Dash Foster, the police officer who has been pining after Juni for the last few weeks, appears, tipping his aviators up. He blinks into the reflective glass before he continues on, thumbs looped in his belt as he strides by.

“You can go grab something to eat over at Goode’s,” Deuce offers, likely feeling the weight of Trace’s absence directly on his shoulders.

I hate when people do this. When they do something selfish, knowing how it’s going to affect other people but not caring anyway. If this is how this apprenticeship is going to go, I’m going to need a lot of Ruby Rhubarb and Kisses to get through it. Because fuck Trace Calhoun and his lack of respect for anyone.

“No,” I say sternly. “I’m here to be an apprentice. So.. even if he’s not here, let me do apprentice things.” I lift the broom by the handle, from where it’s tucked between the desk and wall. “I’ll sweep and mop, I’ll wipe down chairs and clean the glass doors.”

Deuce smiles, but it doesn’t lift his usually happy eyes. “Thanks, Ivy. And… sorry he didn’t show.” He scratches the back of his head where his long hair is tangled in a man bun. “Probably got the days confused.”

Our gazes linger for just one moment but we share the same unspoken sentiment.

He didn’t get anything confused. He just doesn’t give a shit about anyone.

But himself.

The slam of my car door echoes through the quiet little parking lot. Through the fog, I glare up at apartment number four, my eyes stinging from the cold. I usually like this time of year, when nighttime floods the sky around evening, making it feel much later than it actually is. It’s the perfect vibe to cozy up in bed with my headphones on and my sketch pad out.

Tonight, though, the overwhelming darkness at just six in the evening feels foreboding. Ominous, even. I shake it off, literally giving my shoulders a quick shimmy, making the zippers on my worn leather jacket clink. Treading across the quiet lot, I make my way up the cement stairs, all the while wondering how many women have made this same walk with a whole other intention. The banister is so cold it stings my hand, making me quickly stash it into my jacket pocket. With my free hand, I make a fist.

Then knock.

No footsteps. No quiet chatter. No signs of life.

“No way,” I murmur, roiling anger keeping me toasty in the cool breezeway. I knock again. This time, hard. So hard that my knuckles ache a little, and the door rattles noisily. Perfect.

Still… nothing.

Another hefty knock—the type of knock that would have neighbors calling the police if there were any neighbors. Based on the fact there’s a vacancy notice on the apartment across from his, and open windows showcasing an empty unit below, I think I’m safe.

Though if I’m being honest, I don’t really care right now.

I lift my fist to hit the door again but before I can, it opens. Standing in the doorway is a leggy woman wearing nothing but a wrinkled, oversized t-shirt, her long red hair tangled around her face, her full cheeks ruddy and pink, her long lashes taking slow, heavy blinks.

It’s six p.m. and I woke her up.

“Where’s Trace?” I ask, bypassing any greetings or name exchanges. She blinks at me a few times before turning on her heel to walk away. And I watch her completely naked lower half head down the hall, back to whatever stinky rotten sex hole she came from.

“Trace,” I hear her call as I step toward the open apartment door, peering in cautiously.

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