Page 45 of Yours Truly

Snapping off the gloves, I unlock the necklace I wear under my clothes. It’s a silver necklace with nothing on it anymore. Years ago I thought it would be the necklace where I wore my engagement stone, but that didn’t happen, and I didn’t have the heart to take it off.

Now it serves a better purpose.

I slide the key onto the chain and put it back on my neck, immediately working Trace’s pants up his body when I’m done. As soon as his belt is buckled, Deuce enters through the back door, his own big boots crowding down the hall.

He stops at the opening between the artists’ stations, hands on hips, blinking at a passed out and now—thanks to me—clothed Trace. “What the fuck?” he says, then adds, “Not you, Ivy. Thanks for being here.” Sweeping his hand down his face he lets out a heavy sigh. “What happened?”

I nod to the receptionist station where the iPad is pulled out and the footage is queued since Dash and Keanu just viewed it. “Watch the footage while I get his shoes back on,” I say, finagling a heavy boot onto Trace’s foot. The socks were easy but the boots are a pain.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him, dragging the words out even though he’s been sawing logs for the last forty minutes.

After his boots are on and laced, I shimmy his shirt down, feeding his arms through one at a time before yanking it over his head. “Fuck, I’m sweating,” I tell a still passed-out Trace as I wipe the back of my head with the end of his hoodie.

Deuce comes to my side, outstretching his hand across his body. I slip mine into his as he says, “Thank you, Ivy. You did good.”

I chew the inside of my mouth, absorbing his praise. “Thank you.”

We both stare at a snoring Trace before I quietly ask, “Did you watch all of the footage?”

I feel his eyes on me, and I look up at him. “What are you asking?”

I look back at Trace, making sure he’s still passed out. Of course he is, but asking this definitely lets the cat out of the bag. I smooth my finger over the black nail polish on my thumb

“Did he hook up with any of those women?”

Deuce doesn’t reply until I’m brave enough to look him in the eye. When I finally do, he puts me at ease. “No, he didn’t.” He looks over at Trace. “He just drank that entire fifth in forty minutes.”

“Idiot.”

Deuce nods. “You drive his car behind me? I’ll take him in my pickup in case he gets sick.”

“You’re a good friend,” I tell him, grabbing Trace’s keys, wallet and phone from the drawer next to the table. “I’d make him puke in his own car.”

Deuce smirks. “I don’t want to be seen driving that ridiculous thing, even if it’s at night.”

At that, I snort, because Trace’s car is ridiculous for a tiny town in the sticks. “You know, it doesn’t really even suit him,” I admit.

“You’re right. It doesn’t.” Deuce bends, dragging Trace to the edge of the bench, curling his large body over his shoulder. Standing, he groans. “Not anymore anyway.”

I follow behind Deuce, inputting the code on the security system that he tells me since his hands are occupied holding Trace’s body over his. I help him get Trace in the passenger side, then slip into his little sports car, surprised to find the tank full and the radio off. The sports car definitely gave me “leave it on E with the radio blaring 80s rock” vibes, but I’m so glad to be wrong.

I follow behind Deuce until we arrive at his house. For a second, I almost forgot that Trace is living in the house next door now. I stay behind the wheel as Deuce gets Trace awake enough to stand, and guides him to the porch. He stumbles the entire way, but Deuce keeps a palm pressed to his stomach and his arm around his shoulders, helping him the whole way.

That’s when I get out and run up, helping to flick on the lights and guide Trace inside.

We lower him to a couch, one that already has a pillow and blanket on it. “His bed is being delivered this week, so this will be fine,” Deuce says, watching me eye the small home.

There’s not much, and I can tell right away that Trace didn’t bring any of the furnishings I spotted in the apartment that night, months back. What’s here is new.

“He’s starting fresh,” Deuce says, and sometimes it’s eerie how well he reads my mind.

“Is there, like… a puke bowl or something?” I ask, looking around the space again. But really, there’s not much. A few pairs of boots lined up neatly against the wall, a case of water sitting on the kitchen countertop, a TV on a stand on the floor, some pillows strewn about, and boxes. Lots of boxes stacked along the wall in the hallway. None of them are labeled, but I’m assuming since he’s just moved it’s all of his shit. Or whatever it is he wanted to take.

“Nah,” Deuce says, grabbing a few bottles from the pack on the counter. He tosses them, and we watch as they roll near the couch, next to Trace’s limp hand. “Unfortunately, I’ve seen him drink more and not get sick. He’ll be hurtin’ for sure but he’s okay.”

I swallow hard as I watch Trace’s chest rise and fall, his lips parted and his eyes fluttering. “He was doing good. From what I could see, he was doing good.”

“He’s still doing good,” Deuce says, surprising me. I pull my hair off my face, sliding the elastic from my wrist to make a ponytail. Deuce smiles, watching me, and says, “It’s a small setback.”

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