“Exactly!” I counter. “This isn’t like some rose or eagle or whatever.”
“I know, that’s why I’m asking you to do it.” He glances up at me with sincerity in his eyes.
“Even if it wasn’t totally insane—which it is, by the way—what you’re describing is too intricate. I haven’t done large portraits.”
“Maybe not with tattoo ink, but you’ve done at least fifty with a pen and pencil.”
“Yeah, that’s a flat surface!” I argue, crossing my arms.
“Use a stencil,” he says. “Your piece for Bozeman is more intricate than this one.”How can he have so much confidence in me?This is way above my pay grade.
“I don’t think I’m ready for a project like this.”
“You are,” he presses.
His bare bicep holds my attention as I size up the area. “I’ve never done a piece that big before.”
“I never did a full leg wrap until I did one,” he argues, then raises his voice louder. “Casper, can Kelly do a black-and-gray portrait?”
He wanders over and leans against the half wall at the entrance of my workstation. “Where’s it going?”
“There.” I point at his arm.
“Yeah, I think she could do it.”
They’re both crazy.
Logan raises a smug eyebrow. “You’re not some brand-new apprentice anymore. You can do this.”
Casper smiles and pushes off the wall to return to his work.
With a furrowed brow, I close the distance between me and the lunatic sitting in my chair. I extract his hand from behind his head, straightening his elbow, and the muscle in his forearm twitches as if he’s resisting the urge to touch me. His hazel eyes track the way my fingers travel over his skin as I rotate his arm and inspect the area.If I did take on this project, what would be the best strategy?My lips purse as I think it through.
My gaze darts between his stare and the blank canvas on his bicep. “Can I do something not based in realism?”
He gives a single nod, but those eyes don’t leave mine for a second.
I swallow. “What if it’s ugly?” I whisper. “What if it doesn’t work out?”
He curls his fingers in the waistband of my jeans and tugs me close. A shiver ripples across my skin. “Are we talking about the tattoo or something else?”
Yes.
I gulp down the hesitation and brush over his bicep. “What if you regret it?”
Our eyes meet, and the corners of his crinkle with a smile—not cocky or smug, just unequivocal certainty. “I’ve wanted you to mark me permanently for longer than you know. I’ll never regret having something that ties me to you.”
“Hope you’re ready for this, because it’s too late to change your mind,” she mutters, setting up her supplies. We’ve come in on Monday to knock out the first session, or as much as she can get done. She didn’t back down from the challenge; maybe she knew I wouldn’t let her walk away from it.
I provided her with the candid photo, taken before we began our photo shoot, the one of her gazing out the window. Of course she looked beautiful, but that’s no different from any other photo of her. However, in this one, she wasreal—unguarded and raw in a way that could never be replicated no matter what direction I gave her. It captured who she is in every way—her softness with sharp edges. It’s not just her looks I want tattooed on me, it’s her soul. She was given free rein and full creative control. Two days later she handed me a masterpiece.
Grabbing the collar of my shirt at the nape of my neck, I pull it over my head. She pauses for a moment, dragging hereyes from my waist, up my stomach and chest, and finally to the arm she’s going to tattoo—like a true professional. I find great amusement in the way she stares at me like I’m something she plans to devour.
She’s modified her portrait into a wild frenzy of black lines, giving the tattoo a hand-sketched appearance. The intent of sketch tattoos isn’t to appear flawless but rather to highlight the natural evolution of shapes coming together to make art.
The piece starts with fewer lines on top near my shoulder, making her face appear brighter with a light source from above. From there, it continues toward my elbow, where the lines become heavier and unruly with shading and shadows, until they mesh into total coverage. She’s drawn her long raven hair with a few pieces blowing across her face, but the rest of it flows down my biceps until it bleeds into my blacked-out forearm. The incomplete strokes, the bold, rough lines, the use of negative space, it all comes together in magnificent contrast. I’m in awe.
I wanted Kelly as she sees herself, in whatever style she wanted . . . but what she designed is beyond anything I could have done. Beautiful, chaotic, and complex—and all the ways she’s tangled herself into my life.
