“I’m a perpetual bachelor.”
“You’recelibate,” I tease.When was the last time he had sex?
“I’ve had relationships.”
“Operative word,had. What about that girl you were seeing while I was in New York? What happened with her?”
“We broke up.”
I wait for him to give me more, but he doesn’t. He’s never offered up the details of his relationship history, and I haven’t pried. Logan doesn’t share that part of his life with me, and I respect his privacy, but sometimes it feels a little unbalanced because I share everything with him.
“So, one bad breakup and you’re done for life?”
There are times he seems lonely under his hard exterior. Everybody needs to feel loved.
I’ve considered setting him up with friends, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to. It’s not that I don’t want him to be happy, but I don’t think any of them are good enough. Whoever inevitably steals his heart needs to be the best, someone I approve of. I suppose I’m a little protective of him too. That said, he’d benefit from having love in his life. Someone to help him loosen up every now and then. Let people see his less serious side, the side he shows me. Then again, maybe he should adopt a dog.
“Not saying I’m done for life. But I’d rather be single than date the wrong person.” He raises a judgmental eyebrow at me.
“I get it, you don’t like Jason,” I huff. “But he’s the first truly decent guy I’ve dated. Why are you giving me so much shit?”
“I just think you can do better.”
Annoyance takes hold, and I force myself to relax my arms so it doesn’t affect my grip.
“Well, good thing who I date isn’t up to you.”
He smirks and grumbles something under his breath that I can’t make out.
“Can I read your cards?” I give him my best pouty lip. “Please? It will be fun.”
He releases a long exhale. “Fine.”
Yes!I turn off the machine and set it aside.
“Not right this second. Jesus. Finish this and then we’ll see.”
Almost done. I pull a line through the practice skin, concentrating on keeping my speed, depth, and pressure consistent, ensuring precise and delicate lines. Fine-line work is meticulous and requires a steady hand. It’s very zen.
I dab away excess ink and continue to build up the color, keeping a close watch on the imagery coming together. Whenever I tattoo a person, I’m much more focused on how their skin is taking the ink, how the ink is flowing, making sure it’s as close to absolute as I can get. However, with fake skin, I don’t have to check in on the client’s comfort, which allows my mind to wander.
As soon as I’m finished, I sit back and scan the tattoo for flaws. I touch up two small weak spots, but overall, the lines are clean and smooth.
I feel him hovering.
“See anything?” I ask, my eyes glued to the piece, sweeping over each detail for imperfections.
“Nope.” He rests a palm on my shoulder and leans forward, using his other hand to draw attention to the piece. “Good detail here.” He points out a couple wrinkles I added to the knuckles. He squeezes three times, like always. “Nice work.”
“Thanks.” I nod, setting down the machine and peeling off my gloves. “Okay, ready for that tarot reading?”
He sighs. “If you insist . . . But only because I know you’re too stubborn to take no for an answer.”
I smile. “Proud of you for choosing peace, I’m exhausting to argue with.”
“Well aware,” he quips.
In record speed, I straighten up my station and disassemble the tattoo machine for cleaning. I’m eager to do a reading for the self-proclaimed perpetual bachelor.
