Page 32 of Yours Truly

My nostrils flare. And while I want to punch his lights out, my skin heats. My lower half pulses. And I want more than anything to be pushed onto this light table and fucked ruthlessly right now.

I smile. “Hodwy.”

Trace and I did a wonderful job of avoiding one another for most of the morning. When his client came in, they watched me sterilize the space—something we do in front of clients at Ink Time so they feel comfortable with our setup.

After sterilizing the tray, I set it down wearing a new pair of gloves. Trace and the client speak quietly to one another about the way tattooing works—he explains that he isn’t an hourly artist but rather, by the piece. While they chat, they watch me. I catch Trace’s gaze here and there a few times as I affix the barrier on top of the tray. I tear off a ton of sheets of paper towel for easy access, get his favorite sterile fluid ready (I know from an interview he did with Tattoo Times that his choice witch hazel, which he uses to remove excess ink), check the design notes in the iPad to know which pigments he’s using, set out and fill the ink caps, load his cartridge into his pen, and proceed to wipe down both chairs before setting out a few bottles of water and a new box of gloves.

Trace rises, moving from the casual spot he sat to the chair where he’ll work. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him work since we started the apprenticeship but this time feels different.

Despite the bickering, we’re cohesive in our processes today and it fills me up in ways I hadn’t expected. The nerves from my upcoming shading opportunity fall away as he nods, thanking me for an excellent setup.

Excellent set up were his exact words.

I sit at his side, watching, taking in the moments he explains his strategies—less pressure, changing cartridge sizes depending on degrees of depth and darkness in design, giving the client a moment to acclimate to the longer portions of the session—and listen. I listen to his conversation with his client, which ebbs from casual to emotional every so often. He isn’t afraid to ask why when the client shares that the lighthouse holds meaning to him personally, and he isn’t afraid to stop the machine, rest his hand on the man’s arm and tell him he’s sorry when he shares his story.

Being close to him while he works is truly a magical experience.

When it’s time for me to take over, he sits behind me, peppering quiet words of wisdom in my ear, reassuring me when he senses my insecurity. And he does sense my insecurity—how? I don’t know. But when I pull back and survey what I’ve already done, and I find myself rolling my lips together in silent panic that I’m not good enough and that I’ve ruined someone’s beautiful, meaningful piece of work, his hand curves my neck and he squeezes gently.

“Imposter syndrome is all it is.” I turn to face him, finding his dark eyes soulful and focused… on me. “The work you’ve done is incredible so far.”

Speechless with my stomach aflutter and heat unfurling in my belly, I smile and nod. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t return the smile but rolls back, giving me space I don’t want. “You got it from here, Firecracker.”

And though it’s just grass in the sun below a lone lighthouse, when it’s all said and done, I think it’s the best work I’ve done yet.

As I’m repacking my lunch bag and slipping into my HUGS NOT DRUGS hoodie, Trace appears, hands shoved into his pockets.

I’m beginning to think his hands are so sexy that seeing them in pockets is like seeing a nice big cock in sweats. Tempting and arousing. And I feel like a complete creep for thinking it, and for privately sexualizing him in a way I wouldn’t appreciate if it were coming my way.

But I can’t help it.

He’s so frustrating but each day that passes, I want him more and more.

“Thought I’d see if you wanted to head across the street to Goode’s to celebrate your session today,” he says, nearly stopping my fucking heart.

Trace Calhoun just asked me to dinner.

Okay, maybe he didn’t use the word dinner and it is literally fourteen paces away from where we currently are, and we aren’t changing into nicer clothes and he isn’t picking me up but… the Kelly Kapoor in me is squealing “It’s a date!”

I shrug. “I could eat.”

Trace smirks, tapping his back pocket. “Got my wallet.” He eyes me up and down, and I stand proudly before him in my torn leather leggings and my HUGS NOT DRUGS hoodie. Landing on my slipper-covered feet, he points that gorgeous finger at me and asks, “Where’d your boots go, Firecracker?”

God, I swear, that nickname coming off his arrogant but perfectly shaped lips sends my ovaries into a tailspin. I swallow, purposely clenching my jaw to hold back the smile. I may love when he calls me that, but I don’t want him to know it.

“My feet were cold and I thought I was just going home so… I put my slippers on.” I look down at the oversized gladiator feet slippers Dolly got me last year.

He blinks a few times before meeting my eyes. The shop is empty but for us, and the lack of noise and movement has our eye contact feeling… intense. “Those are funny.”

I drape my palm over my chest in faux shock, ignoring how fast my heart is hammering. “Was that another compliment?”

“Another?” He cocks his brow, his nose ring catching the light as he flares his nostrils. God I love that he’s pierced, too.

I want piercings.

“You told me I was good in there,” I nod toward the spot where we had our session.

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