Page 4 of Yours Truly

I jerk back, replacing my momentary curiosity with my simmering anger as Trace appears in the hallway…. Completely nude.

Suddenly my throat is tight, my pulse is tacky, despite the unfortunate pulsing between my legs.

He makes his way toward the open door with his head tipped down, long, stringy hair curtaining his expression. While he focuses on walking ten feet without falling over, I focus on his third leg.

Stay mad, Ivy.

Stay. Fucking. Mad.

You know those moments in movies where the sexy guy is walking through the crowded restaurant, and all the clatter of plates fades away, the heavily conversed room becomes hushed, and everything is fuzzy and out of focus, except him?

That moment always seemed so stupid to me.

But as Trace stumbles on a pair of bejeweled jeans with a pink cowboy boot still attached to them, I don’t hear the litany of curse words stringing from his mouth. I don’t hear that heavy thud of him steadying his feet.

I don’t see anything but his massive, thick, long, veiny, mouthwateringly perfect cock.

I bring my black combat boots together, forcing myself to believe the rippling waves of heat coursing through my lower half is simply my body trying to stay warm.

Not the fact that in the last ten seconds I just envisioned myself naked, on all fours, that inked hand yanking my head back, that third leg filling me so full that I can’t even speak as his body slaps against mine.

His eyes come to mine, and I watch his brain sort through the fog for a moment before familiarity hits. “Ivy.”

I step toward him, still staying clear of the apartment threshold. “Our apprenticeship started today.” I roll my lips together to keep the quiver in my chin at bay. “Be there tomorrow at 9 a.m. or don’t come back.”

The little pop of his head that he does when he smirks is beyond enraging. “You can’t fire me.”

Another step toward him for intensity purposes and I’m knocked back by a wave of Jack Daniel’s and knock-off perfume. I wave my hand between us, pushing away his stink. “Read your contract. One more missed day and you’re out.” I glare at him, refusing to notice the way his eyes never leave mine, and the subtle twitch of his lips as he listens. “Deuce may be your friend, but Ink Time is his business.” I take a few steps back, ready to turn and take the stairs before I add, “You’re not God’s gift and your shit does stink, so show up to your job or get fired, asshole.”

And with that, I’m taking the stairs two by two, a little high flitting through my veins.

There’s no contract but I’d be willing to bet that Trace Calhoun has not given a single iota of thought to this apprenticeship, so it’s a gamble I’m ready to roll on.

As I drive home, I think about the sketches I’ll be working on tomorrow—line work is where the apprenticeship begins, so I focus on the Wharncliffe blade in my boot, and how perfectly it lends itself to being the ideal subject.

I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.

And I really do not think about that third leg.

Nope, not even once.

TWO

One drink.

Trace

“The first taste of love is—ohhh—bittersweet… and green on the vine. Like strawberry?—”

SLAM.

The smell of improperly scrambled and definitely burned eggs causes my bottom lip to tingle with the oh-so familiar burn of nausea. Sinking onto the closed toilet, I focus on the steady hum of the shower as my head flops into my hands.

Did I dream it or… was Ivy just here?

“Knock knock,” the waitress slash aspiring singer calls through the closed bathroom door (it’s always waitress slash aspiring something—that much I’ve learned). Irritation wraps the back of my neck like an annoying hand, and my body goes tight and rigid. Do you need to say knock knock if you just fucking knock?

Letting out a sigh, I call, “What’s up?”

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