Page 2 of Yours Truly

I shouldn’t have had that second handful of Kisses last night before bed. That’s why my guts are twisted up in some sort of complicated sailor’s knot.

It’s not nerves.

I am a total badass artist with confidence and charisma. Baddies like me do not get nervous.

No way.

“Knock knock,” my sister Juniper chirps through the door after softly knocking.

Traipsing toward the door, I pull it open, met with a steaming hot cup of coffee, mixed perfectly with my protein. Just the way I like it.

Juni transfers the mug to my hands. “Good morning,” she greets with a wide smile, her blonde hair braided around her crown, the rest down in waves.

“Sorry,” I mumble, apologizing for my slight grouchiness. There are two people who do not deserve my mood, and one of them is standing at my door having just delivered me coffee. “Just… ate too much chocolate last night.” I place a hand on my lower stomach, over my black leggings and long, acid-wash t-shirt. “My stomach is kinda queasy.”

Sisters and spouses—the two S’s that can decode your feelings, despite your best efforts. Juni smirks. “Okay, well, the coffee and some toast may help.” She ushers me into the hall, the smell of breakfast meeting my nose. A rumble turns over in my belly as I follow her into the kitchen.

“I can’t wait to hear how day one goes,” she says as she slides me a plate of dry wheat toast and an open jar of my favorite jam—Juni’s Jams, the flavor Ruby Rhubarb. Slathering the preserves onto the toast, I lift my shoulders in indifference.

“I have no idea what to expect. I mean, the only apprenticeships at tattoo shops I’ve seen have been on reality TV. And we all know how fake reality TV is.”

My eyes lift to Juni’s just in time to catch her arched brow. “Did you watch his show?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say staunchly. “Never.”

“How’d you know who he was back when you saw him at Hudson's house with Deuce?” Juni asks, recalling the first time Trace showed up at Dolly’s husband’s house ages ago.

“I subscribe to this tattoo and artistry website called Smeared Ink. A lot of his stuff was posted there and I became a huge fan. He was one of the only artists whose new pieces I really liked seeing. After staring at them for what seemed like hours, I’d sketch and sketch until my hand was numb trying to recreate them, just to try and figure out his process.” I slow the admissions tumbling past my lips, realizing I said all of that in a single breath. “Anyway, when I read in the comments section one time that he was a reality star, all I did was say two words to myself.”

Juni nods and in unison we say, “Ariana Grande.”

A total Ariana Grande situation. We loved her music even though the three of us typically only shared a taste for jam. We stumbled across her stuff one day when cleaning the house, and fell for her hard.

We then made the rookie mistake of reading an article about her, sending us head first down a rabbit hole of interviews and snippets. Turns out, knowing Ariana makes a habit out of sleeping with other people's husbands and boyfriends makes her music far less enjoyable.

We should never have googled her. And I learned my lesson. When it came to Trace Calhoun, his pieces were so good and he had so much name recognition for not just tattoos but his drawings, I knew I could never, ever google him.

I knew he would be ruined for me if I looked him up.

Funny that I worked so hard to protect his image and within the first ten seconds of meeting him, I knew exactly who he was.

Arrogant. Egotistical. Selfish. Maybe even narcissistic.

The type of person who doesn’t just think they’re always right, but needs to get in the last word to remind you of their alleged rightness. The type of person no one would ever want to be around unless they had no choice.

Like me.

And even with one of his hands glued to a bottle and the other to some woman’s ass, with his arrogant smile and infuriatingly sexy unkempt style, I will never deny that he is the most talented artist I know. Better than any magazine or TV special, his work is more detailed, creative and involved than any other tattoo artist I’ve seen.

I should be happy that the maestro of tattooing is my mentor. That I will be lucky enough to work with him for the next 12 weeks.

Yet as I nibble Ruby Rhubarb and listen to Juni whistle the theme song to Friends, I can’t help the overwhelming feeling of dread that washes over me.

It’s not just that he’s a shithead.

He’s a damn hot shithead.

And my toxic trait?

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