Page 21 of Yours Truly

And that’s way fucking worse.

Three hours later and I’m pacing the small strip of space between my station and the reception area. Ivy and Deuce still aren’t back yet, and neither is Connor.

This has never happened to me. Never.

I thought I’d get whiskey dick and not be able to get it up with a woman before this ever happened.

Honestly.

I run my fingers through the sides of my hair for the millionth time, the sound of my boots shuffling on the tile driving me mad. I look down at my phone sitting atop the reception desk. Where the fuck are they?

“Find it yet?” Angus asks from the tattoo chair where he’s patiently waiting for me to find the antibiotic ointment. I look down into my hand where the brand-new tube waits.

“Not yet,” I call, sweat making my t-shirt cling to my back.

As if the heavens open and a ray of beauty and truth shines down on me, the shop door opens and Deuce trudges inside, smelling like french fries.

“Hey,” he greets, sipping from his cup, the top of the straw chewed up. “How’d it go?”

He sets his cup down at the reception desk as he shrugs out of his leather jacket, eyeing the tube in my hand. “He’s still here?” Deuce drops his jacket on the hooks behind the desk, eyeing my client still at my station. “Took more time than you thought, huh? Well, how’s your wrist?”

Deuce knows my wrist gets sore if I go a few weeks without working. Tattoo artist’s undiagnosed carpal tunnel. I shake my head and grab him by the arm, dragging his big ass into the hall.

I lick my lips, staring at my friend who’s brows are pulled together. “What?” he questions, confused but smart enough to keep his voice private.

“I… fucked up.”

Deuce’s eyes fall to my hands, where he watches them for a second. I know what he’s looking for. I snap.

“I’m not drunk,” I say defensively, though in truth if I were, at least that would make sense for what’s coming. I lick my lips and swallow the shame lodged in my throat. “I fucked up his ink.”

Deuce blinks, glancing over where Angus is lying down, then back to me. “The belt buckle?”

I nod.

“How’d you fuck that up? It was simple. I’ve never known you to fuck up a single design.” He leans in, sniffing around my mouth.

“I said I’m not drunk,” I growl defensively, hating that I don’t truly have the right to be super angry at the thought or accusation because for a long time, I’ve been drunk more than not.

His brows raise as he rocks back on his feet, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. “Okay. So you messed up the buckle. How bad can it be?”

My nostrils flare. The front door sails open as Ivy strolls in, pink heart frames resting on her face, her inky hair full of body from being outside. My chest tightens as she pushes the frames to the top of her head, drops her bag and another white bag on the ground before settling into the reception desk.

She never even looks my way.

I move so my body acts as a shield from her as I whisper, “Go fucking look.”

Deuce snatches a pair of black gloves from the station and snaps them on, settling into the rolling stool near the bed. He moves the lamp and takes the ointment from my hand, smoothing it over the edge of the buckle as he makes small talk with Angus, the client.

“How’s your daddy’s ranch out there faring since the last storm, Angus?” he asks. This entire town knows each other. Everybody goes to a farmers market together out at Ivy’s neighbor’s place every weekend. It’s wild how close small towns are. How safe they are.

I loved the chaos and fury in cities when I was on the road. Everyone knew me no matter where I went but I didn’t owe them anything but a good time and an experience, since my presence was always fleeting. Here in Bluebell, though, everyone knows everyone. And there’s permanency and comfort in that.

Angus and Deuce make small talk as Deuce smooths the ointment over the ink, still not meeting my eyes. After a few minutes, he tells Angus he came by to say hello, and that I’ll be back to wrap up the design.

He pinches me by the elbow, my stomach in knots, and drags me back into the hall. I should be focused on how to fix this, but instead, all I can think is… Ivy won’t be able to hear this, will she?

“That is…” But he can’t finish his sentence, because Ivy appears, a grin on her lips.

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