I’m walking back to our booth with a cup of coffee and nervous energy. “You can do this,” I whisper to myself. We’ve just finished setting up tattoo stations and are going through power checks. With over a hundred artists in one space, and that many tattoo machines running, it’s crucial we don’t have any issues.
As soon as I exit the restroom, I’m confronted with my first glimpse of the hallway where attendees have lined up for entry.
I can’t see the end of it. “Holy shit,” I mutter.
It’s not like I’ve never been to a tattoo expo, but I’ve always attended as an apprentice. My dad mentored both Logan and Casper. Thor met my dad a few times, but he didn’t start working at Black Rabbit until after Logan took over. Anytime I’ve gone to one of these, I’ve acted as an assistant, making sure Dad, Logan, or Casper had all their supplies, and handled transactions for merchandise. We sell a lot of T-shirts with the Black Rabbit logo and prints of various flash art.
On occasion, I’ve conducted body piercings at events, and while it’s more nerve racking to do it while others watch, it’s still not as scary as being an Everhart and inking another person with an audience. I get enough criticism
on my Instagram posts accusing me of either being too similar or too different.
Not today. Today, I’m doing my art the way I want, the way Dad taught me. I walk across the hallway to the event center doors; the security staff member’s gaze drops to the badge on a lanyard around my neck, and he nods for me to pass through.
The massive room is filled with various booths and tattoo stations for people to watch. The buzz of tattoo machines in every direction forms a steady hum, and it takes almost no time at all to settle into the background like white noise. The air is thick with anticipation and excitement, which feeds my already anxious nerves.
Our booth looks similar to the others; every vendor—or artist and/ or shop—is given a ten-by-ten booth. Because of Black Rabbit’s notoriety, we tend to have more foot traffic, so we opted for extra tables to extend our space. We pushed our four eight-foot tables end-to-end at the front of our double booth, and Thor is currently steaming the wrinkles from the black linens draped over them. I’ve already made sure our three tablets are fully charged and connected to the Wi-Fi, and that the software we use for our client waiver forms is functioning properly.
Besides the tattoo models and appointments we’ve arranged ahead of time, everyone is first come, first served, which means our table could get rushed as soon as the doors open. Logan, Casper, and Thor are all award- winning artists who are usually booked out a year in advance. These tattoo events are filled with top dogs tattooing all under one roof, giving attendees the opportunity to meet and be inked by their favorite artists—but they have to get their name on the list first.
We have three tattoo stations set up behind us; each has a padded table and a cart with all the supplies we might need during our sessions. It’ll be cramped, but I’ve seen other booths working in much tighter quarters than this.
Casper kneels on the floor, unpacking our ink boxes and loading up each cart.
All four of us have created flash specific for this Bozeman event; mine are sexy cowgirls, ranch hands, and western centaurs done in an American style. A few have features similar to what I used in my sexy mermen series back home. I’m glad I had the foresight to do that, because I’m going into the day feeling much more prepared. But my first tattoo of the day is the one I
have spent weeks practicing, the astronaut and deep-sea diver. The stencils are ready to go at my station.
“Casper, what side of the booth do you want?” Everybody helps everybody during setup.
He glances up at the wall and shrugs. “I’ll take the left.”
I nod and get to work, pinning up the various sheets of flash to our black fabric backdrop.
“Thor, are you okay being in the center?”
“Yup.”
My height is making this task a little harder. Thor must see the way I’m struggling on my tiptoes because he chuckles from behind me. “Wanna trade, Junior? I’ve only got this corner left to steam. I can pin the ones on top for you.”
“Yes, please!” My heels meet the floor again, and we trade places, so I get to work steaming while he hangs up our flash. All the guys are well over six feet, so it’s no trouble at all for them.
Crouching on the floor with the steamer, I spot Logan across the room talking with one of the organizers wearing a headset. His outfit today is simple, black jeans and a solid flannel with the sleeves rolled up his forearms.
His clothes are casual, but he wears them with a confidence that makes him appear so much more collected and put together than the black jeans and plain white tee I’m sporting. He’ll probably switch to a short-sleeve shirt later too. The temperature always heats up once doors open and attendees flood the event space.
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’s always been 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.”
It’s for Dad, a dual narrative piece. One person anchored to the ocean floor by immense pressure, the other weightlessly floating above earth. Two explorers unable to breathe freely, separated by water and space.
I nod. “Thanks, Logan.”
He steps to the side, arms folded, eyes tracking my movements. Not judging my technique, just quietly supporting me from the sideline. Ever- present, like he always is. People stop to watch and ask questions, lots of pictures are taken. At first it was a little scary, but after a while, they faded into the background, just like Logan promised this morning.
Two hours passed. Then three. Then five.
Nearing the end, I switch to a smaller needle, using white to highlight the edges and add detail to the reflection of the astronaut’s helmet—which is already finished on her right thigh. Then I take a few more passes, adding detail and cleaning up edges where I can. I sit back and scrutinize my work, tracing every line, every edge, every shadow. Double-checking light sources, line weights, and shading. It’s beautiful.
“Finished,” I say, peeling off my black latex gloves and taking a deep, restoring breath. My fingers are a little tingly; my grip tension was a bit strong, but that was mostly nerves.
“Holy shit,” Val beams. “I fucking love it.”
“He’d be really proud of you, Kelly,” Logan adds.
I nod. The hours I put into this piece were worth it.
I wipe both thighs; the contrast between the two pieces is remarkable. It conveys the loneliness of separation, but they balance each other so perfectly that it feels whole. At this moment, I realize that it doesn’t matter what other people think about my art. I love it, Val loves it, Logan loves it—who the fuck cares about the rest of them? This is my art.
Toward the end of the day, they announce it’s the last chance to turn in the tattoos that judges will look at. There’s a competition at the end of each day
for the fresh pieces that were completed at the convention, and then at the end of the event weekend, there’s a final competition for best of show. Logan tells me to head over to submit my piece and stay to watch the judging.
“Do you want to come with me?” I ask.
“I can’t. Thor and I have to head out for a bit.”
I furrow my brow. “Why?”
“Just some Bozeman paperwork I have to take care of that I didn’t last
time I was in town.”
Probably condo stuff. Damn.
“Oh. Okay. What time will you be back?”
“Shouldn’t take too long. Go have a drink at the hotel bar when you get done here, and I’ll text you when I’m nearby to pick you up,” he says. “You did great today. I’m proud of you.”
He wraps me up in a hug, holding me for a moment, like it’s hard for him to let me go. Our embrace is interrupted by another announcement for the last call. Then he presses a kiss to the top of my head before releasing me.
At our booth, I hand over the contest submission form to my model and follow her toward the judging area. I stay behind when she turns in the paperwork; artists can watch from a distance, but they aren’t allowed to submit the forms as an attempt to keep the judges unbiased. It’s important they judge the piece and not the artist.
Every convention has different categories split up by style: black and gray, color, anime, realism, abstract, American trad, et cetera. After that, the groups are usually broken down by size: small, medium, and large. I am entering the medium black-and-gray contest.
Casper is submitting a realism tattoo he did earlier this year. His client agreed to come to the convention so he could enter it into the competition.
They are judging realism tattoos on the last day. A lot of the realism artists submit pieces that were completed at their own shops.
Realism tattoos sometimes take several sessions to complete, so there’s not enough time in a weekend to finish a tattoo like that with as much detail and shading as the style requires to make it look hyperrealistic. Casper’s is an entire leg piece that took about six sessions to complete.
Different conventions have different ways of judging, and for this one, the judges have comment sheets and appear to be taking notes on each one.
The judges are meticulous as they analyze each piece. They are judging numerous aspects of the work: shading, composition, saturation, linework,
and probably a million other things I’m not even aware of. Watching them is as intimidating as it is fascinating.
When they get to my piece, my nerves are firing on all cylinders. I watch the judges’ expressions and the various areas they point to. They scribble notes on their clipboards. From nearby, I hear a spectator compliment my piece, so I smile. The other submissions in my category are incredible.
I don’t expect to place, not with as many seasoned, award-winning artists who are entering the same contest as mine. I’m still learning, but I’m honored to be able to compete alongside many of the artists I admire. I’m not doing it for approval; I just want to be seen. Judged by people who know what they’re looking at and understand the art and the effort that goes into each and every tattoo.
Third place goes to the local shop that Logan has done a few guest spots at, a hauntingly beautiful Medusa. Second place is a detailed octopus, and first place goes to someone who did a high-contrast Batman. Their artwork is stunning, and the awards are well deserved.
The announcements crackle as the crowd nearby claps. I’m about to head back to my booth, feeling happy and satisfied, when they make another announcement. “We do have an honorable mention for fresh medium black and gray. Kelly Everhart of Black Rabbit.”
Holy fuck.
My stomach flips. I glance behind me toward our booth, wishing Logan were standing here with me. I wish Dad were here too.
I accept my handshake and red ribbon from one of the event staff, who compliments my excellent composition and clean technique.
Before heading back to our tables, I take a moment to stare at my piece. I can’t wait to show the rest of the guys. The ribbon is cool, but it’s nothing in comparison to feeling seen. To be noticed by some of the most respected and experienced tattoo artists in the country.
They liked it enough to mention—and that’s everything.
