“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 was real—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 her eyes 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.
“This is going to be great in your portfolio.”
She barks out a laugh. “Ha! Like I’m putting my own face in my portfolio . . . Talk about a vanity piece,” she grumbles.
She studies the full coverage below my elbow, running her fingertips over the ink. “Are you cool with me going into this with white? Just to make sure it flows . . . And I think we should touch up some of your black too, so it blends naturally.”
“Whatever you want, Chaos. I trust you.”
She grasps my wrist with her gloved hand and sanitizes my biceps and forearm with green soap before going in with a disposable razor to remove any hair. Afterward, she wipes it with antiseptic. The stencil sits on her clean station cart in four different pieces.
After she gets the first three stencils placed, the last one on the bottom proves difficult to match up with the other pieces, so she has to cut and adjust it to get it to cooperate. Kelly doesn’t speak, just furrows her brow, determined to make it work. She peels off the final stencil from my arm, offering a preview of the finished product in bright indigo. I’m in love.
“Okay, stand up, take a look in the mirror.”
The way she’s created it to blend in with the ink on my forearm is so fucking cool. My smile nearly splits my face. “Incredible.”
She shakes her head with a half grin. She knows it’s awesome but is too preoccupied by pretending to be annoyed with me. When she’s finished filling her ink caps and has arranged her everything to her liking—my arm
included—she takes ink into her 5 round liner needle. The illustrative sketch is made up of different line weights; some mimic the slash of a pen, varying in size up to thick paintbrush strokes. She has an array of needles arranged by size in unopened pouches on her tray. She’ll be switching these up during the session, but she’s starting with the more delicate sections toward the top.
Her eyes find mine. “Ready?”
I nod, and she exhales. As soon as she pulls that first line on my shoulder, I sigh with relief. Putting her face on such a prominent part of my body, one I’d been saving for her, is my offering—and she’s taken it.
Over the years, I’ve watched her tattoo hundreds of times, but this is different because I am the one under her needle. She’s done work on her friends and the other guys at the shop with little things for practice, but I didn’t want her to mark me until she was ready for more than just practice.
This is about permanence.
“You could have had anything here. Why my face?” she asks.
She’s not ready for that answer, so I sidestep the question, letting her focus. “Don’t think of it as your face. You’re tattooing a piece you made. It’s art that just happens to be your face.”
Pride fills my chest while watching Kelly work on me. Her lines are clean and sure. I’ve witnessed her progression over the years, seen her struggle through the days of riding the tube and uneven shading to the sharp lines and smooth curves she makes on me today.
She lifts the machine and anchors her elbow, ensuring she has the correct
depth.
“Nice pressure,” I mutter.
She flicks her eyes to mine for a brief second. “You’re not allowed to critique me while I work.”
I smirk. She’s more confident than she was the other day when I presented her with my request. “That wasn’t a critique, it was praise.”
“It was a positive critique,” she argues. “You chose to have my face on you forever, which means you forfeit your right to any commentary.”
I chuckle. “That’s not really how apprenticeships work.”
“That’s how this is going to work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
The corner of her mouth tilts into an amused grin. She works in silence for the next twenty minutes or so, and I get to stare all I want.
“Are you all packed for Bozeman?” I ask. We fly out Friday morning—
only four days away. I’m very familiar with how my body heals when it comes to ink, which means I’ll only be able to show off her work for a day or two at the expo before the scabbing begins to form. The timing is going to be tight.
“Yeah, I spent most of yesterday packing, just have to get my gear
together.”
“Model still good to go?” I ask.
“Yup. She’s all set. If anything, I’m the one who’s getting cold feet.”
That surprises me. “Why?”
She shrugs while switching needles. “I’ve never tattooed for an audience before; what if I can’t focus? Not to mention, comparing my work to other artists . . . My impostor syndrome is going to flare up. Plus, you know, judges.”
“You’ve got a great piece planned. Forget the other artists, forget the judges, you’re competing against yourself.”
She blots away the ink. “I love that you think I’m less critical when I compete against myself. That’s when I question everything. Should I add more contrast? Can my lines be tighter? Are my shadows where they need to be?”
“Every artist sees flaws in their work, but you gotta remember that it’s art. Art doesn’t have rules, it’s a lawless, subjective beast. You have good instincts, trust your gut. You’re going to kill it.”
She chuckles, taking more ink into her needle. “You’re biased.” She presses it to my upper arm, continuing along the lines she’s stenciled.
“Perhaps . . . I also know talent when I see it.”
She’s too busy concentrating on a particularly long line that she has to whip in and out of to reply. As soon as she completes it, I open my mouth to tell her she did an excellent job in the places she had to pick up and stop.
“Speaking of Bozeman, who is watching Odie?” That’s become her newest nickname for him.
“Jordan is taking him. He was introduced to Chicken Salad yesterday, and they’re already thick as thieves.”
“I hate that we’re leaving him so soon,” she says.
“We, huh?”
She shakes her head. “You know what I mean. You just adopted him.
What if he thinks he’s getting abandoned again?”
That’s why I’m not boarding him. The last thing I want to do is put him in
another kennel after he just got busted out. “Already ahead of you. Jordan is house-sitting so he doesn’t have to leave his familiar home. It works out since Camden is in Canada this weekend for the playoffs anyway.”
Her shoulders seem to relax with that news. “Look at you already being a good daddy.”
I cock an eyebrow at the suggestive title and she blushes. “Too bad he can’t be a shop dog.”
“He’s happier taking a nap on the couch and barking at squirrels across the street at home than he would be waiting around on this cold tile floor or in my cramped office.”
I once did a guest spot at a tattoo shop that allowed artists to bring their dogs to work, and I’ll never do it again. The floors were filthy, twice a dog hair floated into one of my ink caps, and I had to start all over again with a clean setup. Outside of having a service animal, it’s a major health hazard for everyone involved.
The first hour passes quickly, which mostly consists of her peppering me with questions regarding Odin and how he and I are adjusting to our new cohabitation. I can’t deny it, there’s something fantastic about coming home to a happy dog at the end of the day. He’s very chill. It’s an ideal arrangement.
I smile, savoring the feel of her touch as she works.
“Sooo . . .” she says. “Are we going to talk about that kiss?”
My chin drops and I smile. “Sure.”
“I’m just making sure it wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment thing or —”
“It wasn’t,” I answer, cutting her off.
The only sound between us is the buzz of her machine.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“I’m a little nervous. I think we should start slow. I’m recently out of a relationship, I just want to make sure I’m not jumping into something too soon. Especially with you.”
I examine her cautious expression. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” she says, pulling a thicker line with her new needle.
“Good. Look, I’m not going to lie to you, if the kind of slow you’re talking about is rooted in hesitancy, then I’m not interested. I want you all in.”
She scoffs. “I’m not allowed to be nervous?”
“You’re allowed to feel anything you want, but you also need to
understand my intentions. That’s why we’re talking about it.”
Kelly takes more ink into her needle. “So what are your intentions?”
I gather my words carefully. “This will never be a ‘see what happens’ thing for me. I’m not built that way—not when it comes to you.”
“We’ve known each other for a long time, don’t you think we should start casually?”
I bark out a laugh. “We’ve known each other too long for us to ever be casual. Us and casual will never coexist.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?” she asks.
Years. It wasn’t until she expressed that Jason could be something long- term that I realized she had reached that point in her maturity when she was ready for more. When I learned she desired something more than dating and was planning for something that didn’t have an end date.
“Yes.”
“You sound like an intense boyfriend.” She chuckles.
A smile spreads across my face. Wait till you see how I am as your husband.
“I’m not a boy, Chaos—and I’m not your friend.” Not after feeling her lips on mine.
She stops tattooing and sits up straight, looking me in the eye.
“I’m a man who knows what he wants. For years I’ve stood in the background, biding my time while you chased flings. It wasn’t patience, it was discipline. The way I wanted you never grew stronger—it grew darker.
There’s no one else for me. You’re it.”
It’s not a coincidence I haven’t dated anyone all this time.
Her lips part. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Because you weren’t ready to want me back—not in the way I did. Your dad knew that, and made me promise to give you time to live your life freely without being tied down to someone like me.” I rest my palm on her warm thigh. “But now you’re a big girl who can make her own decisions. So, what is it going to be . . . are you ready for me, or do you need a couple more years to figure out what you don’t want?”
Her cheeks darken into a beautiful rosy hue.
For years, this woman has silently crawled up my sides, growing like wild untamed vines, wrapping around my neck and rib cage. There’s no use in trying to cut away my desire for her. I’ve tried, and every time, it grew back stronger. It’s too late to slow down or scale back. Our lives are too
tangled together—our relationship is inevitable.
“Logan . . .”
“I’m just asking you to continue to trust me.” This time with her heart.
“Okay.”
I smile. “You’re ready?”
She attempts to stifle a grin. “I’ve already kissed you. I think we both know there’s no going back after that.”
Cradling her face, I draw her lips to mine and kiss her again. She sighs softly. I no longer have to wonder what she tastes like or how her mouth feels on mine. I can finally kiss her whenever the thought crosses my mind.
With flushed cheeks, she presses her elbow into my chest and nudges me to sit back into her client chair, narrowing her eyes at my smug grin.
She draws more ink into the needle and returns her focus to my arm.
“Stop distracting me. I’m trying to work.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I grin.
“Yeah, right . . . How’s everything feeling, by the way?” she asks.
“Great. You have a light touch.”
“Just wait until I start blacking out your elbow,” she mutters under her breath. “Think you’ll be able to keep up your intensity when you start crying in my chair?”
I wink at her. “I like when it hurts.” I’m convinced any pain inflicted by her hand will feel like pleasure. She’s claiming me with ink, it should hurt.
This is forever.
She speaks softly as she pulls line after line on my arm. “I think you’re
going to cry.”
“I look cute when I cry.”
Someday, she’ll give me her tears too, and I’ll earn them. One thrust at a time.
“Are you ready for a break?” she asks at the two-hour mark. The past couple hours have flown by, thanks to conversation. Though even in the spans of silence where I simply watch her work, the minutes pass like seconds.
“Why? Is your hand getting tired?”
She sits up and raises an eyebrow with a little feistiness. “Are you patronizing me?”
I chuckle. “No, just asking if you want a rest.”
She returns to my lower bicep. “Please. You’ll break before I do,” she says slowly, keeping her anchor point while she shades the lower part of my arm. She’s right, the elbow is going to hurt like a motherfucker.
Her phone buzzes from across the way. I know it’s not Jason because I took care of that. I can see the notification that pops up on the screen from here.
“Someone sent you a DM on Instagram.” I glance over at her. “Have you been getting a lot of requests for Bozeman openings?”
She gives an exaggerated huff. “Yeah.”
I cock my head to the side. “Then why the big sigh?”
“Nothing,” she says, but there’s an awkward pause after her words. What is she not telling me? “I’ve been getting these weird messages lately. They are starting to get on my nerves.”
That has my attention. My shoulders automatically square, my molars compressing until my jaw aches. Every muscle is coiled tight as I attempt to
remain calm.
“What do you mean? Who are they from?”
“I dunno, they come from different accounts. I block them and then a few days later, there’s another message. They all say the same thing: You will never replace me. Might be Jason, or who knows, maybe somebody’s trying to fuck with me before the convention or something. You know they bumped us up the list at the expo, maybe we took someone’s place and they’re pissed about it? I know it’s a long shot, but those are the only things I can come up with.”
What the fuck? “How long has this been going on?”
She shrugs, swapping out needles for a bigger shader. “Few weeks.”
“A few weeks?”
“Since we split up.”
Would Jason really be that fucking dumb to send her messages after the warning I gave him? Looks like I might have to pay him a visit after all . . .
The organizers for Bozeman moved Black Rabbit into a headliner spot on the website, noting Kelly’s name. It’s her first time tattooing at a convention in front of an audience, and with tattoo royalty in her bloodline, of course the organizers wanted to showcase it. The posts have been spreading like
wildfire. Kelly is hot news right now. The other option is . . . Billy.
“I’ll look into it,” I assure her.
“It’s fine, Logan. Really. They’ll probably stop after we return from Bozeman . . . Just don’t do anything until after. Please don’t give me more to think about. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I purse my lips at the request, annoyingly aware that if I push too hard right now, it might scare her away. I’ll give her till we return, but after that, I’m taking it into my own hands.
“All right, time for the elbow,” she warns, adjusting the armrest and putting me in a new position that gives her better access. “Deep breath.”
I lean back in my seat. The only thing bringing me unease are these messages—and the occasional tweaked nerve that shoots up my spine while she paints the cluster of needles over my bone. I stare down at her thick black lashes as she works with laser focus, letting her beauty distract me from the protective impulse to hide her away from the world.
After crisscrossing lines again and again until they blend in with my blackout, Kelly goes in with white ink to touch up areas where there should be more brightness. When she uses it on top of my existing ink, I give her some direction, as the white is simply mixing with the black pigment already deposited into my skin, giving the appearance of slices of negative space cutting into the once-covered area. She takes my instruction and implements the design like a pro. The white on black has a bit of a learning curve—it forces you to invert the design in your head, sort of like figuring out if zebras are white with black stripes or vice versa. She manages just fine, like I knew she would.
After eleven hours, with a few intermissions in between, she finally sits back, peels off her gloves, and gives the finished piece a once-over. A few tremors roll through my sensitive flesh. It’s been a while since I’ve had a session this long; I’m probably going to feel like shit later once the tattoo flu sets in.
The silence settles between us, and I catch the moment she realizes how beautiful it is. Her eyes soften and her lips part. “Wow.”
“See it now?”
Her eyes find mine, and her smile widens. “You know, I wasn’t sure at first, but . . . Damn, I’m into it. I actually kinda love it.”
“Me too.”
