Page 43 of Yours Truly

“Did you get the money?” one of them asks right before she spots me. Stopping in her tracks, she grabs the other girl by her wrist, stopping her too. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I dial the Bluebell police, using 911.

I proceed to tell the operator that four women were attempting to rob my employer and that I have them at knife point. They tell me, on speakerphone, that two officers are en route.

“If you try to bolt or make a move for me, I’ll fucking stab you.” I look at each one of them. “How many women do you meet with a knife in their boot?” I drag my tongue over my top teeth. “Not many.”

I’ve never stabbed anyone. But I like knowing that if I need to, I could.

While waiting for the police to arrive, I force the girl with the dark hair to grab a medical sheet from the cupboard, and drape it over Trace’s naked body.

She crouches next to him, tucking it under his bare ass. I don’t want the police to see him like this, but I don’t trust these little robbers enough to cover him myself. I think they’d bolt.

“Why is he naked?” I finally ask, scared to know the answer. I don’t want him to have gotten head from this woman, but I really don’t want to know that he had sex with her. Or any of them.

She shrugs. “Don’t know. He just started freaking out and taking his clothes off, then he just… passed out.”

The relief that hits me is indescribable.

Except, knowing he slammed a bottle of whiskey and called girls over pisses me off. A lot.

Attempting to calm myself, I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, letting my attention veer to my work station in the corner of the studio. On my desk, the chastity cage sits, next to my open sketch pad. Normally I’d have taken it with me because I’d been working on that design so much lately. But Jeremy asked me out, so I left work at work for once. The piece is important, though.

My first solo, and I really want it to be as close to perfect as possible.

The cage seems to glitter beneath the muted studio lights, and even though a light tap comes at the front door, a great idea hits me.

An idea I have to shelve for a few minutes at least.

I turn to see Dash Foster and his partner, Keanu Reeve.

Seriously.

And the wild part? They’re both kind of… Bill and Ted, if you know what I mean.

“What do we have here, Ivy?” Dash asks, walking a circle around the women who are now huddled together nervously in reception.

“I came back to make sure Trace locked up and these two,” I say, waving my knife at the culprits, “were getting into the till.” I point said knife at the camera in the corner. “It’s all recorded.”

“Fuck,” one of the women mutters.

Twenty minutes later, the women are at the Bluebell police station, and Dash is finishing up with me. He scribbles something in his notepad for what feels like eternity before finally clicking his pen shut and slipping it into his breast pocket.

“Does he need medical?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

I look over at Trace snoring beneath the blue sheet. I smile at Dash. “He's fine. Thanks.”

Dash leaves and I snap on a pair of gloves, ready to give Trace the discipline he is so clearly fucking begging for.

TWELVE

I can’t hold it back. I love the fire.

Trace

“Quit lying just to be an asshole and tell me the truth!” she shouts, the veins in her neck bulging, her eyes like fucking saucers.

I’ve seen her mad, but never like this. She reminds me of a little fuming devil in a cartoon, and with the way her upper half is jutting forward aggressively, I half expect to see plumes of smoke billowing from her ears.

I cannot help it, goddamn it, but a smirk lifts my lips as she rages. She’s a little fuzzy, and I wonder if I’m drunk or even… dreaming. I smile, realizing that I’m dreaming of her. I like that I’m dreaming of her. And because I’m dreaming, I smile and allow myself to enjoy her freely.

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