Stop being a pussy. Take care of my girl.
—Clyde
“You’re a poet, old man.” I tuck the letter back in the envelope and put it behind the stack, then close the lid and swipe my fingers across the numbered dials.Stick to the plan. Be patient.
I grab my jacket, my phone, and the cardboard box containing her birthday gift, then head toward the rear employeeexit. I’m just setting the security code when a car whizzes by, honking their horn twice in quick succession. I smile and shake my head, dragging my phone from my pocket, anticipating the text. Sure enough, four seconds later, her message comes through.
Kelly
Go home!
Heading out now.
Kelly
About time. I’m gonna swing by the coffee shop in the morning. Medium Earl Grey?
That would be great. Thanks.
Kelly
Good night!
Night
At least the date didn’t end with her staying at his place. Silver lining.
I stretch plastic wrap across my dad’s old workstation and set up for some fake skin practice. Logan promised one of the organizers I’d submit a piece for competition at the Bozeman Tattoo Festival in a few weeks. It’s my first time having my work judged, and being Clyde’s daughter, that’s apparently a big deal.
Logan’s won countless awards over the years; his training with my father was extensive, and now he’s ensuring that my apprenticeship has the same strong foundation. He’s an extraordinary mentor and teaches me the same way my dad taught him. It’s a longer and more demanding apprenticeship than most, but carrying the Everhart name means I’m held to higher standards. I have a legacy to uphold.
Having my first competitive submission be a realism piece is daunting if I think about it too much, so I don’t. Logan convinced me to ignore the voice of doubt. I’ll always fall back on trusting him in the moments I don’t trust myself.
After all my ink caps are filled, I start working on the flat canvas of practice skin. The fake stuff isn’t the same as actual flesh, but it’s as close to the real thing as I can get for experimenting and practicing techniques. Peeling off the stencil, I do a quick inspection of its placement, then gaze across the shop at Logan while wrapping gauze around the grip of my tattoo machine. Just because I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t admire how attractive Logan Teller is. He’s hot as hell and just as welcoming. If anything, it’s safer to appreciate him now that we’ve friend-zoned each other.
Most women would take out a second mortgage for the natural highlights in his shaggy blond hair. He keeps it just long enough that he can run his fingers through it and tuck it behind his ears, where it stays out of the way during his tattoo sessions. His facial hair is normally trimmed up neat, but every once in a while he neglects it, and the scruffy, unkempt version of him is just as attractive.
Crinkles frame his hazel eyes at the corners, which is usually evident of someone who smiles a lot, but Logan’s were likely earned with glares. He’s more . . . reserved. Only a select handful of people get to see his gorgeous smile, and I’m honored to be one of the lucky few.
At six feet, four inches, he’s over a foot taller than I am, which leaves him with a lot of real estate for tattoos. His left arm is a vibrant patchwork sleeve my dad did; he idolized the man.
His right forearm is blacked out, but he’s bare from his elbow to his shoulder. His neck, back, legs, stomach, and chest are all filled with art he’s accumulated over the years.
Everywhere except for that bicep.
From the outside, he appears threatening, but I’ve seen his softer side. Logan prefers tea over coffee, novels over television, and oil paint over a night on the town. He loves to create. When he’s not at the shop, he paints stunning portraits in his loft. He’squiet and a bit of a recluse, which makes many people uneasy. Well, it’s his scowl that unnerves them. Dad always said his still waters run deep, but that’s never deterred me from wanting to swim in them.
And those glasses?Fuck me.
“The meteor that killed the dinosaurs was hot, too. Get back to work,” I murmur under my breath while bringing my focus back to the task at hand.
In my peripheral, my phone lights up on the countertop, and I smile. I lean toward the screen to peek at it without having to take off my gloves. Another text from Jason.
Jason
Thinking of you.
He says the right things, but I find myself regarding it with the same appreciation as one would a generic greeting card. There’s a certain predictability to his words—which should be a good thing, right? It shows he’s stable. Relationships need stability.
