I rock on my feet, holding my new tattoo machine in my hands. I’m giddy with all this excitement and what he’s done for me, so with a grin from ear to ear, I say, “Thank you.”

  I am exhausted but in the best ways. Okay, maybe not the best because the best way to be tired is from sex, but tattooing? Close second.

  Today I’ve inked a skull swamped by wild vines, a shooting star, a treasure chest, a pirate’s map, a mermaid, a pistol and a Care Bear. It’s been the most professionally fulfilling and emotionally uplifting day of my life. A day I'll never forget.

  Nearing five o’clock, I slip into the bathroom to touch up my lipstick, smothering on another layer of black. After finger-combing my dark waves, I adjust my tits in my black bodysuit, turn to make sure my ass is still looking fire in my cutoff shorts, and pluck at the tears in my tights, making sure they align to show off my tattoos.

  Looking good, feeling good, I head back out to the studio to find a fresh wave of people there to celebrate. Lots of friends from the farmers market, the woman who owns the art supply store, my eighth grade art teacher, and so many other familiar faces.

  Today is the best day ever. And I cannot wait to show my gratitude later.

  After another few hours of visiting, taking photos, giving out tiny tattoos, my very pregnant sister decides she needs to get off her feet, so with my nephew’s hand in mine, I walk her out. Hudson straps Honey in the car seat as I kiss Bear goodbye, hugging Dolly last.

  “I’m so excited for you, Ivy,” she says tearfully, her hormones getting the best of her. “You did what you set out to do, and you’re in love!” She shakes her head, swiping beneath her eyes at the unending stream of tears. “Everything turned out so perfect. Like a fairy tale,” she hiccups.

  I stroke my hand down her hair, smiling. “Tattoos and fairy tales,” I reply, “it all worked out.”

  “Tell Trace we said goodbye. I couldn’t find him in there,” my sister says before pulling me into a final hug.

  Hudson collects her, helping her into the cab of the truck. The four of them wave through the windows, and drive off into dusk. I watch until their taillights are gone, and stay beneath the streetlamp an extra minute, soaking up everything that was today.

  Sucking cool fresh air in through my nose, I exhale, blinking at the red lettering painted on the window across from Ink Time. Goode’s Diner. I smile at the diner, knowing that my favorite place in Bluebell is now just steps away from where I work. That I can go there anytime and get my hometown comfort food and see Lucy whenever I want. Twisting, I peer into the busy and bustling tattoo shop, full of friends that are there to celebrate me.

  A year ago I was chasing after a dream I wasn’t sure I could catch, grappling with the idea of giving up Bluebell for a cityscape, thinking it may be the only way to become a tattoo artist.

  And now I’m here.

  In the town I know and love, across from my favorite place, a building full of the people I love just feet away, the man I love at the helm of this massive celebration.

  I don’t know if I deserve it, but tonight, it feels like I have it all. And I’ve never been happier or more grateful.

  One last lungful of fresh country air and I’m spinning at the curb, ready to head back inside and finish the last hour of the party. As much fun as I’m having, the nearer the end of the night becomes, the more eager I am for this to be over.

  So I can go home with Trace and thank him for everything. Jesus, my pussy clenches at the promise.

  Two paces from the front door, my arm outstretched, I stop in my tracks.

  Through the glass, my eyes lock to the very back corner of the shop. People move about the space, temporarily blocking me from what I know I saw. My heart in my throat, I stay there, on the sidewalk, my eyes burning from how hard I’m staring.

  With a shaky breath rattling my chest, I rub my eyes, needing to be sure of what I’m seeing.

  I drag a closed fist up my sternum, desperately trying to knead life back into my chest. But my breath is caught, suspended somewhere inside me, keeping my throat tight and my mouth dry.

  Here of all places, after inviting everyone I know and love, he’s doing this here.

  “Oh my god,” I murmur, catching the words with my hand as I bring it to my face, cupping it there, hiding the shock. My eyes are wide and as much as it would serve me to look away, I can’t take my eyes off of them.

  My brain taunts me, going back to those three questionable days where Trace told me he was unwell, then told me he was planning this very party. God I’m so stupid. How could I honestly think a chastity cage and some back talk was going to fix him? Did I seriously think I could heal his broken heart, and cure him of years of struggle?

  My body sways as I blink, gaze still fixed on them. Fire stings the backs of my eyes, and I stammer around on the sidewalk a minute before gripping the wall.

  And then I torture myself and watch as a former tattoo client—one of the first clients he had at Ink Time—slides her fingers through his hair, which I guess at some point he put in a knot, and rocks to her toes, pressing her lips to his.

  His arms are around her, but I can’t see his hands, they’re blocked by the partition the two of them are standing behind.

  She isn’t thanking him for the tattoo. Their mouths open and even from back here, on the other side of the glass, I see the pink of their tongues thrashing together as the overhead light shines against his nose ring.

  Finally, after watching for what feels like an eternity, I turn, my hand still covering my mouth.

  A visceral shudder racks my core, making me cry out and gag all at once. “You fucking idiot!” I scream, the dam broken, tears streaking my cheeks. I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself, or maybe both of us.

  But the knife in my boot burns against my flesh, calling for me, begging to deliver retribution. Reaching down, I pull it out and stalk down the sidewalk about ten feet, right to where Trace’s stupid car is parked, shiny, fancy and fucking pretentious.

  With my knife firm in my fist, I slip between the parked cars and stare through the windshield, to the white leather seats. How could he? Why would he? And at my party, too. Did he want to hurt someone the way that he hurts? I don’t understand why he would do this.

  “I don’t understand,” I murmur, the first strike of the butt of my knife coming down on the driver’s side of the windshield. The glass spiderwebs into a million beautiful shatters, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is my heart in my ears, and the way he proudly announced me as his girlfriend.

  “No!” I scream, my neck filled with strain as I scream, over and over, that I have no clue why he would do this, why he would hurt me this way. Another hard strike of the knife’s handle, this time against the driver’s side window, the glass crumbling with the blow, falling to the buttery leather seat. I reach in, pulling the sharp blade through the soft leather, screaming, “No, no, no!”

  Sweat coats my back. There’s a hush of voices. I’m no longer slashing his seats but now, tipping the blade of the knife to his car, I make a full circle around it, careful not to bump any of the surrounding cars. “Why did you do that?” I hear myself ask as the knife tears away a new layer of paint. “Why are you ruining everything?” I ask, rearing back, stabbing the knife into the tire, a fresh wave of tears hitting as air rushes out of his tire, into the night.

  Making my way to the headlight, I crouch, rearing back again as I crush the butt of the knife against it. It doesn’t shatter, but I only want to hit it harder, so I rear back and hit it again.

  And again.

  And I cream the plastic light over and over, my knife slipping in my palm as my wild sobs echo through downtown Bluebell.

  “Holy shit,” I hear a voice, a moment after the door dings open a few feet away. I don’t recognize the voice so I don’t turn. Instead, I rear back and pop the other headlight, smiling through tears as it flies off the car, tumbling through the street.

  “Ivy,” Juniper’s voice wavers, slicing through the chaos. I rear back, slightly aware of a vibration running up my forearm, starting in my wrist.

  Bam. My hand and the butt of the knife come down in the center of the hood, this time sending my knife flying through the air and onto the sidewalk somewhere. There’s a splatter of blood over the hood, near the new dent in the center, and I lift my hand to see it’s drenched, soaked in red.

  A wide groove centers my palm, and when I look over at Trace’s car, I see blood splattered everywhere.

  “Ivy, sweetie,” my sister’s soothing voice finds me, causing my head to jerk up. She’s standing in her long white sundress on the sidewalk, closing the few feet between us. She wraps her arm around my shoulders, pulling me into her as she tells me that everything is going to be okay.

  “I don’t—I don’t want to m-m-mess up your d-dress,” I stammer, and when did I start sobbing? Snot is slick beneath my nose as I bury my face against my sister’s, the quiet plunk, plunk of blood dripping onto the ground a soundtrack to our moment.

  “Shh,” she says, smoothing her hand down my hair.

  “Whoa,” another voice sounds, but I keep my face pressed into my sister, a heartbeat throbbing in the center of my palm. I don’t remember cutting my hand.

  “Okay, get her in my truck,” the first voice says. “The four of us need to get out of here,” he adds.

  “I can’t—I can’t walk away from this,” the other voice says.

  “Please,” Juniper begs, her soft tone lower and more personal than I’ve ever heard it. “Please,” she tries again, still smoothing her fingers down my hair.

  The first voice speaks to the second voice. “We know there aren’t cameras out here, okay? We know this, remember?” he says, pressing the other man. “So help Juniper get her into the truck, and I’ll find the knife.” He drops his voice. “C’mon, Dash, this is what’s right, you know it.”

  Dash.

  My mind spins.

  I pull my face from Juniper’s chest and turn to see Sterling Ford standing behind Trace’s crumpled sports car, taking in the damage from his spot in the street. Dash Foster stands near the hood, eyes wide as he takes in the disfigured, bloody car.

  “It’s just a car, it’s not a person,” Sterling says to him, and the two of them share eye contact.

  “Your guys,” I whisper to my sister.

  “Yes,” she says, her tone still soft and detached from the moment, soothing me. “My guys. And they’re going to help, okay? It’s going to be okay,” she promises, using the word okay at least a hundred times.

  A moment later, Juniper is helping me into the back seat of a lifted pickup truck, sliding onto the bench seat with me. Using the bottom of her dress, she wraps up my injured hand, blinking at me in the mercurial moonlight.

  “What happened?”

  I peer out, and watch Dash and Sterling walking around the car, ducking down to look underneath. Dash even peers inside the car, swiveling his head.

  They’re looking for my knife. “It’s on the sidewalk,” I tell Juniper, ignoring her question. “It slid down past the shop on the sidewalk,” I reiterate. She rolls down the truck window, whisper-hissing my secret into the night. The men go for it, and Juniper returns her focus to me.

  “What happened, Ivy?”

  “There’s a blonde,” I start, and Juni shakes her head.

  “There’s always a blonde.”

  I sniffle. “He tattooed her a few weeks ago. Maybe a month or more, I can’t remember.”

  “Okay,” Juni draws out.

  I wave my good hand over the front seat, toward Ink Time. “I saw Trace holding her, kissing her, in the back of the shop. I watched from the sidewalk. I saw their tongues. She put her hands in his hair the way I do.” Tears streak my cheeks as Juniper pulls me toward her body, attempting to absorb my shock and pain.

  “That motherfucker,” she retorts as the truck dips, Sterling sliding behind the steering wheel, Dash taking the passenger side.

  With black gloves on, he holds up my knife. “We got it.”

  Sterling throws the truck in reverse, and the men stay quiet, and so does Juniper, holding tightly to the pressure on my hurt hand. One flash of his lips pressed to hers and blackness envelops me, and I sink into a much-needed adrenaline-crash slumber against my sister, in the arms of someone who actually loves me.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  There is only one me.

  Trace

  How I ended up in an intimate conversation with Rochelle the domme? I have no goddamn clue. And as much as I admit I avoided her before, now I don’t want our talk to end.

  “I can’t believe the freedom in submission,” I tell her, my gaze moving from her to her partner. He doesn’t speak, and I’ve learned that their dominant and submissive roles span all of their lives, not just in the bedroom. It’s wicked interesting.

  “I know, right? Most men don’t want to try it because they hear submissive and they think weak,” she says, using her thumb to stroke her partner’s hand, their fingers woven together.

  I nod. “Yeah, that’s definitely how I felt about it. But I realized there’s a certain headspace to it⁠—”

  Deuce’s hand comes down on my shoulder, jerking me back from the convo.

  “Excuse me,” I say to Rochelle, turning to face Deuce. “What’s—” His eyes are wide, and his chest is heaving, out of breath. “Is everything okay?” I look him up and down. “Are you all right?”

  He swallows. “Don’t freak out,” he starts.

  I roll my eyes, panic blooming in my bones. “Oh, okay, because tearing me away by saying ‘don’t freak out’ is a great way to start a calm conversation.”

  He bypasses my sarcasm, which has heat spiking up my spine. He never misses an opportunity to talk shit to me. “Someone destroyed your car.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your car…” He glances through the crowded studio toward the sidewalk and back to me. “It’s fucked up, man. Done for.”

  I look around the shop. “Where’s Ivy?”

  Deuce shakes his head. “I-I don’t know. Connor was leaving and he came back in, said your car is fucked up, completely destroyed.”

  “She left,” Connor says, approaching us from the crowd.

  “Thought you were taking off,” Deuce says to him. Connor shakes his head.

  “Wanted to make sure Trace is okay,” he says, leveling his gaze on me. “Pretty vicious attack on you, man, are you okay?”

  My head spins. “Wait– Ivy left?”

  He nods. “I saw Juniper and her getting into a truck out front.”

  Why the fuck would Ivy leave her own party? Why would she leave without saying goodbye? But… Why would she leave? It doesn’t make any sense. We were going to go back to my place together, have a romantic night. The celebration of her was only just getting started. I sift a hand through my hair, the back of my neck slick with nervous sweat. My stomach clenches.

  “Holy shit,” Connor sputters. I look up and follow his eyes to a man moving through the crowd toward us. A man I know despite all my efforts to unknow him.

  “Hey, brother.”

  Immediately Deuce steps between us, pressing his hand into the center of my chest, anticipating a lunge. But I don’t move. I just stand there, staring into the eyes of my twin brother, the one I have purposely not seen in over a year.

  I don’t have to ask him how he found me. He holds up his phone, my reactivated social media account glaring on his screen, the photo of mine and Ivy’s boots front and center. “You made it easy, brother,” he says, wearing his usual slimy smirk.

  I notice that he’s copied my tattoos, his neck and hand matching mine. He’s probably trying to pass himself off as me for pussy, which is par for the course for this pathetic asshole. Derek has shown me that blood doesn’t make family, but loyalty makes family. And he’s not loyal.

  “Oh shit,” Jeremy draws out, picking the worst time to appear. “So you were the one making out with the blonde,” he motions this thumb between us, relief softening his features. “I was gonna say, cheating on Ivy is not cool, man,” he says, eyeing me.

  “Wait—” I face my twin brother. “You were making out with someone here?”

  He tips his head to the side. “White tank, black skirt.”

  The four of us follow his orders and find the woman matching his description on the other side of the shop.

  “She was a client of mine a few weeks ago,” I say, irritation running through my veins. “I’m going to take a stab and say you let her believe that you’re me?”

  His white teeth and broad grin make me sick. I grab his wrist, holding his hand out. Connor, Jeremy, and Deuce stare at it. Releasing him, I stick my hand out, and even though he takes his back without me holding him there, they see it.

  “And I’m sure it goes without saying, but I’m gonna say it, I got mine first,” I say to them, earning a scoff from my twin.

  “You always were cooler than me,” Derek says with a smile. He can act like he’s being facetious, but I know him. He’s always thought less of himself. Always living in my shadow.

  By fucking choice.

  Derek was always a lazy, cruel troublemaker who was jealous of everything I did when he had every opportunity I had to make something of himself.

  And he did.

  He made his life becoming my dark shadow, the one I deny, the one who’s done nothing but trail me and ruin things for me. Derek is the reason my life was turned on its head twice, and he married my first love.

  Jeremy claps a hand on my shoulder. “God, though, you do really look like identical twins. I mean, sometimes twins look less alike as the elder⁠—”

  “Elder?” I cock a brow. “I’m thirty-eight and—oh fuck.” My sentence dies on the vine as everything falls into place.

  Ivy left.

  Derek is here, and he’s using my name to get laid. Or attempt to.

  Interrupting my train of thought, my brother says, “I thought you’d like to know, me and Cat got separated. Legally. Getting the big D.”

 

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