Page 39 of Yours Truly

“Thanks,” I say as Ivy and I turn sideways, slipping around each other to change spots. I sit in the chair where she sat but I push away to the desk, watching. “Sorry, man, I’m not rubbing your arm.”

He laughs, now that he knows who I am I can see he’s more interested in me than her. And I’m happy with that, even though Jeremy has an unusually low pain tolerance and questionable taste in tattoo locations. Why? Because he’s no longer wondering what color her panties are or if she’ll stroke his chest the same way she touched his shoulder.

He focuses on me for the remainder of the session, asking me questions about various designs I did for a plethora of clients he saw on the show, prodding me about behind-the-scenes secrets, then moving on to Bluebell and how I ended up here.

I keep my answers vague, mostly because I signed a nondisclosure agreement with the TV studio. But also because I’m focused on Ivy. The way her hand moves with grace as she shades, how her brows pull together with focus and dedication—I could watch Ivy work all day. All night, even.

Tattoos are art. That’s what's true in my soul, no matter what anyone else believes. To love something enough to want it etched into you for the better part of forever is a commitment, and people who commit to art that way are my people. Giving them that gift feels incredible.

But watching Ivy tattoo is like watching Monet paint. Like watching Mozart play the piano. It may just be red in the stripe of a flag, but the way she does it, the care she takes and the vulnerability she lends the art as she learns, is beautiful.

Lifting the pen, she glances my way, doing a double take as she catches me watching her.

Our eyes lock.

“And what about Goblin? He seemed so badass,” Jeremy asks of a fellow tattoo artist that was briefly on the show for a while. “He’s loaded, right?”

The corner of Ivy’s lips lift, and my entire body grows hot. My cock thickens. My stomach clenches. My pulse skips.

“Yeah,” I say to Jeremy, still looking at Ivy until she looks away a moment later. Her looking away feels like rising to the surface after a deep dive. “He’s loaded. And… yeah,” I say, processing his question. “He’s a cool guy.”

She doesn’t look my way again for the next hour and a half while she finishes the shading, taking much longer than I would but taking the time she needs. I respect that. I respect people who take their time learning instead of gaining one ounce of knowledge and boasting they’re a pro.

At the end of the session, I give Jeremy his aftercare instructions and sift through the cupboard, looking for the baggie of stuff we send clients home with.

While I’m looking for his aftercare bag, Ivy tapes him up, carefully taping him up with plastic wrap. As she does, Jeremy does something very fucking annoying.

“You done for the day?” he asks her.

She must nod, because my back is to her and I don’t hear her say no.

“Off at five?” he asks.

Again, she must nod but not hearing her drives a stake of discomfort through my back, and I grow rigid at the cupboard. Sifting through, I pull a bag out and add the last items—a pamphlet with approved antibiotic ointments, what to do and what not to do, etcetera.

When I get to my feet, I turn just in time to see Jeremy smile at Ivy, that familiar smile that every man knows about. I know, because I’ve given it many times.

It’s the ‘I want to stick my dick somewhere in your body and come’ smile.

Yeah, there’s a smile for that. Trust me.

“Would you want to go to Goode’s when you’re off? I’d love to buy you a meal and catch up.” His smile intensifies and I’m horrified to see her smile back at him. “Reminisce about high school or something.”

Taking off her gloves, she pushes her hair behind her ear, exposing the dagger inked on the side of her throat. I love that she has a tattoo so visible and it’s not like a fucking constellation or dream catcher but a fucking knife. I love her gauged ears and that she’s the only one I’ve seen in Bluebell with them.

It’s badass.

“Sure,” she replies, helping stupid baby Jeremy up.

Sure? Ivy wants to go to dinner with the guy who needs extra numbing cream and someone to hold his hand during a three-hour session?

Who is, by the way, a fucking telemarketer.

Yeah.

I slam the cupboard closed with my boot and drop the bag next to his hip. “Here.”

I don’t look at Ivy again, despite the fact her eyes prod me the entire time. I grab my phone off the side table and head for the hall, jealousy coursing through my veins like lava tearing through soil. Before I can take a second to breathe or think, I’m dialing.

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