Yours Truly (Twisted Sisters Book 2), page 1
YOURS TRULY
TWISTED SISTERS
BOOK 2
DAISY JANE
For anyone who has ever loved a man,
but been sick of his shit, too.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.
Chapter 2
One drink.
Chapter 3
He never showed up.
Chapter 4
Ivy doesn’t give a crap about who I am.
Chapter 5
Is my thing being a masochist?
Chapter 6
I’ll talk to my best friend Jack. He always listens.
Chapter 7
Does it do something with a banana?
Chapter 8
It’s time to get better.
Chapter 9
You have dick on the brain.
Chapter 10
I’m jealous.
Chapter 11
Tantrum-y baby man whore
Chapter 12
I can’t hold it back. I love the fire.
Chapter 13
You gotta teach him, Ivy.
Chapter 14
A tiny torturous birdhouse for dicks.
Chapter 15
“Trace… But you can call me God.”
Chapter 16
But I’m keeping the key
Chapter 17
Boss’s orders.
Chapter 18
Like a puppy
Chapter 19
“I’m all yours, Firecracker.”
Chapter 20
I’d do anything for this woman.
Chapter 21
I’ve never met anyone like you, Firecracker.
Chapter 22
It is my favorite. She is my favorite.
Chapter 23
“Explosive.”
Chapter 24
Howdy, hodwy.
Chapter 25
“I wanna smell you on me tomorrow.”
Chapter 26
Can we keep this between us?
Chapter 27
“There’s always a blonde.”
Chapter 28
There is only one me.
Chapter 29
“He’s dead to me.”
Chapter 30
Not for the rest of our lives.
Epilogue
If You Liked This Story…
About the Author
Also by Daisy Jane
Copyright © 2024 by Daisy Jane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
No part of this was brainstormed, written, designed, plotted, or in any way whatsoever created using AI.
Copy and line editing | Rumi Khan
Cover design | Daisy Jane
Original publication 2024.
PROLOGUE
"I’m the part of the equation that doesn’t work."
Trace
Two weeks ago
The sound of her heels clicking along the tile has me on my feet, grabbing at the back of my neck, trying to corral the irritation galloping rampantly inside me.
“Thank you for coming,” I say as soon as she turns the corner and we lock eyes. “I know you didn’t have to come, but thank you.”
Tara, in blue jeans and black heels, a one-strap shirt clinging to her breasts, folds her arms over her chest. Her long dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she looks great.
Gorgeous, really.
A burp hits me, and I smother it with my hand, willing the sickness to go away for the next five minutes.
“I don’t have long. I’m leaving town today, so whatever this is, make it fast,” she says.
“I’m leaving, too.” I fall into the couch and quit pretending to be sober and feel great. Besides, Tara knows the truth. “The show released me from my contract.” The truth is, I told them I wanted out two years ago. But until yesterday, they needed me as their cash cow. Now? I’m a liability to their image, and they don’t want a cheater on the payroll.
Tara sighs, clicking her way to the couch, sitting down on the edge, next to me. “Did you ever love me?” she asks, fear trembling in those words.
I should tell her yes, because it will hurt her to hear the truth. But in the long run, it serves us both if I don’t lie. “No,” I say slowly, hating myself for letting the network talk me into an engagement I didn’t even want. “I loved the idea of loving someone again.”
She nods. “You know, I get that. Because… I don’t know. When I saw you with her—” She stops, shaking her head. Tara believes, like the world, that I was caught with my assistant, cheating. “Doesn’t matter, don’t need to rehash. My point is, we would’ve been a bad marriage, me and you.”
I nod. “You’re going to be a great wife. I think I’m the part of the equation that doesn’t work.” That tracks. I’ve had two relationships and Tara is one of them.
She rests her hand on my thigh, the spot where her engagement ring once glittered now empty and untanned. “Good luck, Trace. A little therapy, less booze, you’ll be okay.”
I nod as she presses the ring onto the table. She must’ve been holding it, ready to give it back before she even entered the room.
“I won’t tell the press anything,” she says from the doorway. “Or, anything more, at least.”
“Thank you,” I reply, because I don’t deserve the generosity she’s offering me. Even though she doesn’t know what she saw, I don’t bother trying to set her straight again. She doesn’t believe me, and that’s okay.
I know what’s true.
And right now, as Tara clicks her way back down the hall and out of my life, I know what’s real for me. Not only am I done with fame and reality TV, but I’m done with the city and everyone here. I pick up my phone and call my only friend.
“How you doin’, Trace?” Deuce greets as he answers.
“Remember how you told me Bluebell might serve me well?” I ask as last night’s whiskey swims up my throat.
“Yeah, get your head fixed. You can’t be fucked up out here with all these clear skies and open pastures.”
That sounds awful. I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh. “You still opening up the parlor?”
“Yeah. And I need someone to come bring it to life.”
I flop down on the couch and ready myself for a ‘don’t puke’ nap, then say, “I’ll be out there in a few weeks.”
ONE
I do not think about the pantiless cowgirl.
Ivy
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
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?
Being insanely interested in and jealous over hot shitheads.
“How long are you his apprentice again? Remind me?” Juni asks as she swipes a damp cloth over the counter. As the oldest of the three of us, she’s always taken on the motherly role, even when our parents were alive. It’s what fits her best and I can’t wait for her to make my sister Dolly and I aunties. She’ll be a really great mom.
“Twelve weeks,” I tell her, an image of Trace in a torn, fitted white tee and black jeans with unlaced motorcycle boots fogging my mind. My neck grows hot, urging me to reach past the coffee to a canteen of water. Chugging it back, my senses cool and I get to my feet, itching to get out of this house for a lungful of fresh air. “Thanks for breakfast,” I tell my sister, giving her a hug before snatching my lunch from the counter.
She stands at the doorway as I make my way to the car. “Bye,” she waves me off. “Have a good first day!”
Despite the knot in my belly, I smile, telling myself it will be a good day. After all, I’m not nervous to spend twelve weeks with the hottest, most talented artist I’ve ever known.
I just ate too much chocolate, that’s all.
“And after you finish the total, you tap tender—”
With a curt smile, I nod, stopping Deuce from repeating himself yet again. “I know,” I tell him.
He smiles at me before his eyes slide to the door, where we both fix our gazes for another hungry moment. Still, nothing and no one. A pigeon walks by, a piece of chocolate donut peeking from his beak. A shadow paints the sidewalk and for a second, my breath catches, thinking this is finally it.
He finally showed.
Except when the black boots come into view, they’re not attached to a good-looking artist with greasy hair and a smarmy smile. They’re attached to a man in all navy, a gold badge pinned to his chest and a holster of gear slung around his waist. Dash Foster, the police officer who has been pining after Juni for the last few weeks, appears, tipping his aviators up. He blinks into the reflective glass before he continues on, thumbs looped in his belt as he strides by.
“You can go grab something to eat over at Goode’s,” Deuce offers, likely feeling the weight of Trace’s absence directly on his shoulders.
I hate when people do this. When they do something selfish, knowing how it’s going to affect other people but not caring anyway. If this is how this apprenticeship is going to go, I’m going to need a lot of Ruby Rhubarb and Kisses to get through it. Because fuck Trace Calhoun and his lack of respect for anyone.
“No,” I say sternly. “I’m here to be an apprentice. So.. even if he’s not here, let me do apprentice things.” I lift the broom by the handle, from where it’s tucked between the desk and wall. “I’ll sweep and mop, I’ll wipe down chairs and clean the glass doors.”
Deuce smiles, but it doesn’t lift his usually happy eyes. “Thanks, Ivy. And… sorry he didn’t show.” He scratches the back of his head where his long hair is tangled in a man bun. “Probably got the days confused.”
Our gazes linger for just one moment but we share the same unspoken sentiment.
He didn’t get anything confused. He just doesn’t give a shit about anyone.
But himself.
The slam of my car door echoes through the quiet little parking lot. Through the fog, I glare up at apartment number four, my eyes stinging from the cold. I usually like this time of year, when nighttime floods the sky around evening, making it feel much later than it actually is. It’s the perfect vibe to cozy up in bed with my headphones on and my sketch pad out.
Tonight, though, the overwhelming darkness at just six in the evening feels foreboding. Ominous, even. I shake it off, literally giving my shoulders a quick shimmy, making the zippers on my worn leather jacket clink. Treading across the quiet lot, I make my way up the cement stairs, all the while wondering how many women have made this same walk with a whole other intention. The banister is so cold it stings my hand, making me quickly stash it into my jacket pocket. With my free hand, I make a fist.
Then knock.
No footsteps. No quiet chatter. No signs of life.
“No way,” I murmur, roiling anger keeping me toasty in the cool breezeway. I knock again. This time, hard. So hard that my knuckles ache a little, and the door rattles noisily. Perfect.
Still… nothing.
Another hefty knock—the type of knock that would have neighbors calling the police if there were any neighbors. Based on the fact there’s a vacancy notice on the apartment across from his, and open windows showcasing an empty unit below, I think I’m safe.
Though if I’m being honest, I don’t really care right now.
I lift my fist to hit the door again but before I can, it opens. Standing in the doorway is a leggy woman wearing nothing but a wrinkled, oversized t-shirt, her long red hair tangled around her face, her full cheeks ruddy and pink, her long lashes taking slow, heavy blinks.
It’s six p.m. and I woke her up.
“Where’s Trace?” I ask, bypassing any greetings or name exchanges. She blinks at me a few times before turning on her heel to walk away. And I watch her completely naked lower half head down the hall, back to whatever stinky rotten sex hole she came from.
“Trace,” I hear her call as I step toward the open apartment door, peering in cautiously.
I jerk back, replacing my momentary curiosity with my simmering anger as Trace appears in the hallway…. Completely nude.
Suddenly my throat is tight, my pulse is tacky, despite the unfortunate pulsing between my legs.
He makes his way toward the open door with his head tipped down, long, stringy hair curtaining his expression. While he focuses on walking ten feet without falling over, I focus on his third leg.
Stay mad, Ivy.
