He mostly nods and gestures, rarely speaking unless he has to—which is so contradictory to the Logan I shared a bed with last night. In the bedroom—or balcony—he is a completely different animal, in every sense of the word.
And his mouth.He talks dirty like nothing I’ve ever heard, but he knows how to back it up. Logan’s talents stretch far beyond art and tattooing. The way his tongue teased and licked and probed . . .Fuck.
The best part, the highlight of it all, is that when I was about to come,he maintained. He didn’t suddenly switch it up. He kept the same pace, same speed, same motion, same intensity, all of it. In my previous experience, as soon as I hinted I was about to cross the finish line, my partner would throw a wild card and change positions, then wonder why I didn’t come.
Steam puffs in front of me while I watch him from a distance. He nods to another man, looking so professional and not at all unhinged.
He showed me the possessive side of him, the one I only ever caught a glimpse of the day he hit my ex. Logan was savage last night. The way his eyes darkened when I rode his face and he warned me not to move . . . It was equally unsettling as it was attractive. Part of me wondered what he would have done if I had pulled away from him a second time—taken his meal away. What would he do to me? How far would he go?
I’m not sure I have the guts to find out.
“Still good?” I ask, glancing at my model, Valerie, who is spread out on the padded table, while I tattoo the deep-sea diver on her left thigh. Months ago, I made a post on my social media that I was seeking a volunteer for the Bozeman Tattoo Festival. I had given a loose sketch and received a ton of applicants. Val had written that she had lost her dad last year and my piece reminded her of him. I knew instantly she was the perfect model for the astronaut and diver. It was kismet.
I add detail to the heavy boots of his diving suit. I’m struggling to know whether I should increase the shading to make it more bold. I didn’t do it in the original because I wanted more focus to be on his helmet, but now I’m unsure. I want to effectively illustrate the way he’s weighted down on the ocean floor. The whole competition aspect of it has me second-guessing. I remind myself I’m only competing to get seen by judges, some of whom are artists I really respect. I’m not trying to win.
“Golden,” she answers through clenched teeth.
“Do you want a break? Need to stretch?” She shakes her head, picking up her metal water bottle and taking a sip.
“You got this, Val,” I say with a smile, turning back to work.
The lighting and shadows aren’t what I’m used to back at the shop, but using a headlamp has made this so much easier.
His deep voice rasps from behind me. “You’re on pace.”
I smile. Logan’s words help me relax. I’ve been nervous about taking too long.
“Where am I at for time?” I’ve got appointments scheduled after this, so I don’t want to get behind.
The buzz of tattoo machines and chatter is white noise at this point. However, I could probably pick out Logan’s voice no matter how loud it was in here. He’s working the table, occasionally checking on me, but mostly speaking with attendees and answering questions. This is his ninth circle of hell. A full day of talking with people and getting attention. Poor grump.
“Which of your tattoos is your favorite?” someone asks.
Logan doesn’t hesitate for a second. “This one. The portrait on my arm. Kelly Everhart just did it this week, it’s pretty fresh.”
I whip the end of my line and pop my head up to make sure I heard him correctly. He’s unbuttoning his shirt and sliding his arm out of the sleeve. Logan has many tattoos, but his favorite is the owl my dad inked on him. It’salwaysbeen the owl. My father designed it custom as if he was bestowing a gift; it represented Logan’s quiet nature and cunning mind. A silent bird of prey. A predator.
As he shows off my work, I feel the blush rising to my face, then quickly return to the task in front of me.His favorite tattoo is the one I did?It’s not even his usual style! My dad’s owl, on the other hand, that’s Logan. That tattoo is sacred to him.
“Nice!” the attendee comments. “Love that it incorporated your blackout.”
“That was all her idea. She’s fucking brilliant.”
A new voice cuts in. “I read in an article that your favorite tattoo was the owl Clyde did.”
Thank you, kind stranger! I, too, would love to know what he has to say about that.
“It kinda looks like her,” the same person comments.Fuck, I was hoping it wasn’t obvious.
“Yeah, it does,” the first person agrees, their gaze bouncing back and forth between me and his arm. “Is there a reason it’s your favorite?”
“I still love the owl Clyde did—it’s an honor to have a one-of-a-kind piece from him based on how he saw me. He chose it for me. However, the woman on my arm is something I chose for myself. It’s dark and beautiful, there are so many layers to it.”
What the fuck is happening right now?
The machine in my hand is running, but my mind is still. He wasn’t trying to be romantic or impress me, he doesn’t even know I’m listening. He meant it. He answers a few more of their questions, and then they move on to the next booth.
“Keep going,” he says, his voice low—only for me. “Don’t second-guess your instincts. Remember why you chose this.”
