Across the room, the wrinkle on Logan’s forehead deepens as he locks in the tablet in front of him. I know that look, he’s sketching. He presses the pad of each finger to his thumb while he studies his tablet.
It reminds me of my dad; he used to do the same finger tap thing when he was deep in thought. Logan is so similar to him it’s spooky, which is probably why they got along so well.
Both were quiet men, possessing their own unique charm. They didn’t need to speak to understand each other. Their passion for art and tattooing was evident in their work rather than words. I swear, one time I watched them have an entire conversation that consisted of grunts, nods, and facial expressions. They had a special bond from the beginning. Whichis why my dad’s shop, Black Rabbit, was left to him. I had barely even started my apprenticeship when Dad passed, so I wasn’t prepared to run an empire. Like my father, he’s a bit rough around the edges, but his energy is calm. He’s secure in himself, and I find comfort in his presence.
Once I’m set to begin, the buzz of the tattoo machine comes alive in my hand, and I dip the needle into the ink, ready to pull my first line.
Clyde Everhart is a household name in the tattoo industry; he’s one of the greats, right up there with Norman Collins, Rick Walters, and Stoney St. Clair. The shop name is worth millions, but Logan has always been in it for the art, not the profits. I was a little surprised some of the ownership didn’t go to me, but it made sense for Logan to take it over. Besides, there’s no one I would trust more to carry on my dad’s business. Someday, I hope to be part owner, but I want to finish my training first and spend a few years improving my craft.
I was twelve when my dad caught me hunched over, gritting my teeth, with a tattoo needle pressed to my flesh. He didn’t yell, he simply sat down, took the machine from my hands, and helped me finish the flower on my calf—and then he gave me some antibiotics, and I wasn’t allowed to even look in the direction of another machine until I finished college.
After graduation, I returned home and started my tattoo apprenticeship. Dad was my first teacher, but he was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. He was given four months and lived six. I tried to talk him into treatment, but he resisted. Personally, I think he was ready to see Mom again. His mentorship only lasted a few months before he died. After that, I didn’t want to step foot in the shop for a while.
Behind me, I feel Logan’s presence towering over me.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Nice lettering,” he murmurs, commenting on the tattoo of two fists that readBURRandITOSacross the knuckles.
“It’s supposed to be funny.”
“Itisfunny,” he states.
“As is evident by your boisterous laughter.”
That gets a small chuckle out of him, and I return to my work. The hours with Logan after closing time are my favorite. It’s not uncommon for our conversations to slip into the early hours without either of us looking at the clock. However, even the evenings with him when we work alongside each other in silence are enjoyable. Being around each other has always been easy. The platonic intimacy Logan and I share is special; we belong to each other in a way most people wouldn’t understand. Sometimes I don’t understand.
He’s seen me at my lowest, so I’ve got nothing to hide or prove when it comes to him. I need to depend less on Logan, but when I’m having a rough patch, he’s who I rely on. He lets me have my feelings and work through them on my own timeline. I don’t feel awkward or isolated when I’m emotional around him. He’s helped me go through Dad’s belongings at least a dozen times already. Hell, sometimes he even shows up without me asking. It’s like he has a sixth sense for when I’m in the attic and need company.
Logan plops down on one of the rolling stools from Casper’s station across the aisle from mine and slides up beside me.Why does he have to smell so good?His chin cocks toward my phone lighting up on the countertop.
The buzz of my machine eats up the dead air. I can practically hear the smart remark he’s holding behind his teeth.
“Is he pouting again?” he finally asks, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone.
I grin and shake my head.He’s baiting me.“Your condescension is showing.”
“Who said I was hiding it?” Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches me work.
“Tell me . . .” I begin. “When Jason moved into your brain rent-free, did you already have the place furnished and decorated?”
“I don’t allow roaches.”
What the hell’s his problem?
“Wowww,” I say, stretching out the word. “Was that cathartic for you?”
“It was. Thanks for asking.”
I scoff. “God, Logan. Want to make fun of his appearance while you’re at it?”
“I would, except his haircut beat me to it.”
What, are Herb and Logan having secret meetings behind my back? I roll my lips, refusing to laugh at the coincidence . . . Maybe it isn’t the best haircut. The corner of my mouth twitches, and smug glee rolls off him in waves.
Jason isn’t perfect, but damn, how about giving the guy a chance?
“It’s almost like you can tell the exact moment he insulted the barber . . .”
