I stiffen my posture. “Wait, are you, like… a biker?”
He laughs a belly laugh that is way too loud for this quiet space. I grimace as Jaci glances over with a furrowed brow. “Nah, don’t stress. I’m not patched. I just work there. That’s it. No club ties beyond that.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter, mostly to myself. But his smile slips a little.
“They’re not bad guys, Alex,” he says, more serious now. “They helped my mom out when she was struggling. I basically grew up around them. They’vealwaystreated me like family.” I don’t say anything, but he keeps going. “They’d never hurt anyone I cared about. They look out for their own.Honestly?They’re solid guys. Better than most of the assholes walking around free. You don’t have to be scared of them just because someone with a badge tells you to be. That’s some pretty self-righteous thinking, don’t you think?”
I clear my throat and nod. That’s true. I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. People judge me for the way I look, so I shouldn’t judge his friends for the patch they wear. I know bikers are all about family, and it means everything to them.
“Okay, fair call. Maybe I’ll come in and get a tatt from you one day.”
“I’d love that, Ireallywould.” His smile is genuine, and I see he truly loves his job and that slinging some ink into my skin would give him some honest pleasure. I figure this is a safe zone—tattoos are something we both know about, and they give us a great place to start.
“Can you show me some of your work?” I ask, and his face lights up.
“Sure.” Logan pulls up his sleeve and rests his arm on the table, showing me his forearm, which is covered in a complete sleeve. The artwork contains every tattoo style imaginable, not artistic like mine, but very old school and mostly black and gray. Not my style—it has no vibrancy, no life. The portraits and symbols are a mishmash, as if someone threw random pieces together. It hasn’t been planned out at all. For an artist like me, it’s a nightmare, but of course, I would never say anything.
“So, this right here…” He points to what I’m assuming is Donald Duck. It sort of like the character, but the likeness isn’t quite there. “This was the first tattoo I ever did. That’s why it’s so shit,” he says with a slight chuckle.
Ah, that explains it.
I smile and nod. “The first one you ever did was on yourself?”
“Yeah, didn’t wanna fuck up anyone else’s skin, so I thought I’d better do it on myself. Thank fuck I did, ’cause Donald is a piece of shit. But in my defense, I was only sixteen.”
“You started tattooing at sixteen?”
He nods. “Biker brat and all, I was working in the shop then. Being the tidy-up lacky and shit. They taught me the basics until I became an apprentice, grew my skills, and became proficient at drawing and slinging ink. Now I do shit like this…” Logan rolls up his sleeve a little higher to show me a portrait of a young boy, maybe in his teens. I furrow my brows, trying to figure out if it’sa portrait of him or not. It looks like him, but not quite. Either way, it is incredible. So lifelike.
“Wow! Logan, that’s beautiful…” I pause when I see the date underneath, and I run my finger over the obvious memorial. Swallowing hard, I look up at him to see his usual cheery smirk gone.
“Carter… he was fourteen when he died. I just started working at the tattoo shop and wanted to do the portrait for him, but all I could manage was fucking Donald Duck and a shitty one at that.”
Swallowing hard, I sigh, move my hand from his arm to his hand, and squeeze it gently in a show of support. “He was your friend?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “My brother.”
My chest tightens, and I lace my fingers with his. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs. “Lymphoma, bitch of a thing. Mom was…” He takes a deep breath and changes direction. “Well, the club was there for us yet again. We’d be lost without them, Alex.”
I nod once, my heart aching with a sadness I didn’t expect. Logan’s bravado, his larger-than-life ego, it’s all a carefully constructed mask to hide his pain. I see it now—clearly. It hits me how alike we are in that way. My tattoos, piercings, and bold hair? They’re my version of armor, a shield to keep the world from seeing the cracks underneath. Poor guy. He’s fighting his battles the only way he knows how, just like me.
“Anyway, I waited, I drew, I studied. I got to be the best I could to give Carter the tribute he truly deserved.”
“It’s beautiful, Logan, really. Your artistry is incredible. Especially compared to the Donald days,” I tease, and he lets out a loud chuckle.
“Thanks. It took me hours to make sure his likeness was perfect. It’s him… before the treatments started. Before thecancer really took hold. It’s how I want to remember him. He was a good kid.”
I squeeze my hand in his as the waiter comes over. “Your menus for tonight. Once you’ve decided, just raise your hand when you’re ready, and I’ll come over to take your orders.”
“Thank you so much,” I reply, taking my menu and our hands separate as Logan takes his. I pull in a deep breath and look down at the menu, thinking that everything looks super fancy. I’d rather have Mexican any day.
Logan chuckles slightly, and I glance up at him and smirk. “So, you ah… come here often, Alex?” he asks, and I grin.
“Um… honestly, I’ve never been here before. A friend recommended it to me, but the menu seems kinda fancy to me.”
He tilts his head and shrugs. “You only live once, right? It might be fancy, but it’s worth a try. I mean, it’s gotta be okay if rock stars like it here, right?”
