Page 46 of Yours Truly

I nod, bending down to unlace my boots.

“You’re staying?” he asks, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” I reply cooly, “I know you said he’ll be okay but…” The key hanging around my neck suddenly feels heavy, and I’m hit with the urge to lie down on the floor and rest, and watch Trace sleep. “I’m gonna stay a few hours. Just to make sure those women don’t come here, or, I don’t know.”

Deuce’s smirk fills me with uncomfortable, self-consciousness. He’s onto me. I know he is. “Uh-huh.” He nods. “Got that knife in your boot?”

I glance down at the shining handle sticking out of my boot. “Yep.”

He scratches his head as he moves to the front door, resting his hand on the knob. “It was you going out with Jeremy,” he finally says, and my mouth opens reactively so damn fast it makes Deuce chuckle. He lifts a hand to silence what he knows will be an angry defense.

“No, no—I’m not saying it’s your fault.” His wide eyes hold mine with clarity. “I’m saying, the idea of you with another man drove him back to his comfort vices.”

My heart races uncontrollably as I tug on a sweater, feeding my hands through the sleeves, keeping them tucked at my sides as I nod. “I know,” I admit. “Or, I mean, I put that together after I said yes.”

“You gotta teach him, Ivy. You’re the only one who gets through to him.”

I laugh at Deuce as he pulls open the front door, letting in a steam of cool air. Smells like horseshit and grass, but I love the smell of Bluebell. “I get through to him?” I look at Trace, whose body is now fully slipping from the couch.

Deuce grips the doorframe. “Teach him better ways to get jealous than booze and–”

“Hookers?” I offer with a syrupy sweet smile.

“Right.” He claps his palm against the doorframe to say goodbye. “You two will work it out. Good night Ivy. And thank you for everything.”

“Night, Deuce.”

After he closes the door, I get to work laying out pillows and blankets all over the ground near the couch, so if Trace slips off, he’s as comfortable as he can be.

That stupid asshole.

I have zero plans to spend the night here, but I want to make sure this jerk is safe and comfortable. I feed my fingers through his sweaty hair, hating how soft it feels despite the perspiration. His eyes flicker open for a moment as I slip the pillow behind his head, keeping him propped up in case he gets sick.

“Hi,” he breathes, all smoke and rasp, making my attention leap to him.

“Hi,” I quietly reply.

His eyes search mine. Through the fatigue and fog, he really looks at me. A smile curls his lips, then mine. Then he’s out again.

“God you suck,” I sigh. After pulling off his boots and socks then nearly breaking my back getting off his hoodie and shirt, I leave him to sleep, tugging the old blanket up over his body.

The cabinets in his kitchen are so sadly bare that I almost feel bad, except I remind myself that he just moved in and he’s got more money than everyone in my family combined, so his lack of a stocked kitchen speaks more to his lifestyle than anything.

Still, I dig around the one cupboard with miscellaneous items until I find a bottle of Advil. Leaving three pills near the bottles of water, I push his hair off his face and touch the key swinging at my throat.

“See you tomorrow, dummy,” I whisper, before taking his car keys, locking his front door, and driving his sports car home.

He’ll hate that I took his car.

But that won’t seem like much compared to the fact that I have his dick, too.

FOURTEEN

A tiny torturous birdhouse for dicks.

Trace

The world comes into focus a moment later and I’m not in the tattooing chair.

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