Page 5 of Yours Truly

“Breakfast is ready!”

“It’s eight o’clock at night. And I’m getting in the shower,” I mutter as I get to my feet, yanking open the door. Her eyes fall to my bare, somewhat hard cock. Without looking down I say, “It’s not you, it’s the booze wearing off.”

Her face falls. “Eggs are ready.”

“I hate eggs.”

Her green eyes narrow, the freckles scattered along her cheeks deepening with her anger. “Then why are they in your fridge?”

I smirk. “The last girl who slept over liked them.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an asshole.”

I close the door and through it, shout, “My wallet’s on the nightstand if you need some cash to get home.”

“I drove us here, asshole!” she shouts. But you know what? Her shouting asshole on her way out is a million times more tolerable than her singing 1990s country music while staying.

I never want them to stay.

Any of them.

Even the gorgeous redhead cowgirl whose name… escapes me at the moment.

I tug back the shower curtain, slowly stepping inside. My usual hangover dizziness hits. Lurching forward, I grip the wall and let the stream of hot water ease me into sobriety, washing the booze from my pores. After lathering enough times to leave my flesh red and raw, I wash my hair and step out, wrapping up in a towel.

Clean clothes sound daunting after such a hot shower, so I reroute from the bedroom to the kitchen, deciding coffee is more important than underwear at the moment. Caffeine is what I need to shake the booze and get focused.

The urgency to focus on my task tears through my body, leaving me antsy and anxious, yet for the life of me, I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be putting my energy. I just know that it isn’t on the redhead or the empty bottles on the counter.

My temples pound and my stomach curls as I enter my kitchen, a plate of browned and burned eggs on the counter. Acid climbs my throat. “Fuck no, not today,” I groan, plucking the plate by its edge, dropping it into the garbage. I stare down at the steaming stench and swallow back the Jack crawling up my throat.

Yeah, I just tossed a glass dinner plate that my mother bought me ten years ago. But that’s how fucking nasty those eggs were.

And how lousy I feel.

I reach for the carafe to discover little Winona made me coffee, too. I’d tell her thanks but the lack of purple g-string on my living room floor and inside-out jeans tell me that my dream came true: she’s gone.

Perfect.

I fill a mug to the brim and drink it unreasonably fast, living for the sobering effects that hit just minutes later.

Glancing at the front door as I refill my World’s Most Bitchin’ mug, a memory flashes behind my sore eyes.

That dark-haired Firecracker, lost in a leather jacket, her gorgeous face all twisted up with anger. Yeah. Ivy did come by. Lowering my mug to the counter, I rub my temples, trying to sort out exactly why she was here.

From the counter, my phone lights up silently. I reach for it.

DEUCE

Will I be blessed with your presence tomorrow?

I reread his message several times before reality caves in around me like a wall of crumbling bricks. “Fuuuck,” I groan, exchanging the phone for the coffee mug. I finish the second cup as sweat beads on my forehead.

The apprenticeship started today. That’s what she was going on and on about.

My work as a full-time tattoo artist at Ink Time started today.

Deuce has been a lifelong friend and one of the only people who has always been there for me. He’s like the family I thought I had.

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