I stretch plastic wrap across my dad’s old workstation and set up for some fake skin practice. Logan promised one of the organizers I’d submit a piece for competition at the Bozeman Tattoo Festival in a few weeks. It’s my first time having my work judged, and being Clyde’s daughter, that’s apparently a big deal.
Logan’s won countless awards over the years; his training with my father was extensive, and now he’s ensuring that my apprenticeship has the same strong foundation. He’s an extraordinary mentor and teaches me the same way my dad taught him. It’s a longer and more demanding apprenticeship than most, but carrying the Everhart name means I’m held to higher standards. I have a legacy to uphold.
Having my first competitive submission be a realism piece is daunting if I think about it too much, so I don’t. Logan convinced me to ignore the voice of doubt. I’ll always fall back on trusting him in the moments I don’t trust myself.
After all my ink caps are filled, I start working on the flat canvas of practice skin. The fake stuff isn’t the same as actual flesh, but it’s as close to the real thing as I can get for experimenting and practicing techniques.
Peeling off the stencil, I do a quick inspection of its placement, then gaze across the shop at Logan while wrapping gauze around the grip of my tattoo machine. Just because I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t admire how attractive Logan Teller is. He’s hot as hell and just as welcoming. If anything, it’s safer to appreciate him now that we’ve friend-zoned each other.
Most women would take out a second mortgage for the natural highlights in his shaggy blond hair. He keeps it just long enough that he can run his fingers through it and tuck it behind his ears, where it stays out of the way during his tattoo sessions. His facial hair is normally trimmed up neat, but every once in a while he neglects it, and the scruffy, unkempt version of him is just as attractive.
Crinkles frame his hazel eyes at the corners, which is usually evident of someone who smiles a lot, but Logan’s were likely earned with glares. He’s more . . . reserved. Only a select handful of people get to see his gorgeous smile, and I’m honored to be one of the lucky few.
At six feet, four inches, he’s over a foot taller than I am, which leaves him with a lot of real estate for tattoos. His left arm is a vibrant patchwork sleeve my dad did; he idolized the man.
His right forearm is blacked out, but he’s bare from his elbow to his shoulder. His neck, back, legs, stomach, and chest are all filled with art he’s
accumulated over the years.
Everywhere except for that bicep.
From the outside, he appears threatening, but I’ve seen his softer side.
Logan prefers tea over coffee, novels over television, and oil paint over a night on the town. He loves to create. When he’s not at the shop, he paints stunning portraits in his loft. He’s quiet and a bit of a recluse, which makes many people uneasy. Well, it’s his scowl that unnerves them. Dad always said his still waters run deep, but that’s never deterred me from wanting to
swim in them.
And those glasses? Fuck me.
“The meteor that killed the dinosaurs was hot, too. Get back to work,” I murmur under my breath while bringing my focus back to the task at hand.
In my peripheral, my phone lights up on the countertop, and I smile. I lean toward the screen to peek at it without having to take off my gloves.
Another text from Jason.
JASON Thinking of you.
He says the right things, but I find myself regarding it with the same appreciation as one would a generic greeting card. There’s a certain predictability to his words—which should be a good thing, right? It shows he’s stable. Relationships need stability.
Across the room, the wrinkle on Logan’s forehead deepens as he locks in the tablet in front of him. I know that look, he’s sketching. He presses the pad of each finger to his thumb while he studies his tablet.
It reminds me of my dad; he used to do the same finger tap thing when he was deep in thought. Logan is so similar to him it’s spooky, which is probably why they got along so well.
Both were quiet men, possessing their own unique charm. They didn’t need to speak to understand each other. Their passion for art and tattooing was evident in their work rather than words. I swear, one time I watched them have an entire conversation that consisted of grunts, nods, and facial expressions. They had a special bond from the beginning. Which is why my dad’s shop, Black Rabbit, was left to him. I had barely even started my apprenticeship when Dad passed, so I wasn’t prepared to run an empire. Like my father, he’s a bit rough around the edges, but his energy is calm. He’s secure in himself, and I find comfort in his presence.
Once I’m set to begin, the buzz of the tattoo machine comes alive in my hand, and I dip the needle into the ink, ready to pull my first line.
Clyde Everhart is a household name in the tattoo industry; he’s one of the greats, right up there with Norman Collins, Rick Walters, and Stoney St.
Clair. The shop name is worth millions, but Logan has always been in it for the art, not the profits. I was a little surprised some of the ownership didn’t go to me, but it made sense for Logan to take it over. Besides, there’s no one I would trust more to carry on my dad’s business. Someday, I hope to be part owner, but I want to finish my training first and spend a few years improving my craft.
I was twelve when my dad caught me hunched over, gritting my teeth, with a tattoo needle pressed to my flesh. He didn’t yell, he simply sat down, took the machine from my hands, and helped me finish the flower on my calf —and then he gave me some antibiotics, and I wasn’t allowed to even look in the direction of another machine until I finished college.
After graduation, I returned home and started my tattoo apprenticeship.
Dad was my first teacher, but he was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer.
He was given four months and lived six. I tried to talk him into treatment, but
he resisted. Personally, I think he was ready to see Mom again. His mentorship only lasted a few months before he died. After that, I didn’t want to step foot in the shop for a while.
Behind me, I feel Logan’s presence towering over me.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“Nice lettering,” he murmurs, commenting on the tattoo of two fists that
read BURR and ITOS across the knuckles.
“It’s supposed to be funny.”
“It is funny,” he states.
“As is evident by your boisterous laughter.”
That gets a small chuckle out of him, and I return to my work. The hours with Logan after closing time are my favorite. It’s not uncommon for our conversations to slip into the early hours without either of us looking at the clock. However, even the evenings with him when we work alongside each other in silence are enjoyable. Being around each other has always been easy.
The platonic intimacy Logan and I share is special; we belong to each other in a way most people wouldn’t understand. Sometimes I don’t understand.
He’s seen me at my lowest, so I’ve got nothing to hide or prove when it comes to him. I need to depend less on Logan, but when I’m having a rough patch, he’s who I rely on. He lets me have my feelings and work through them on my own timeline. I don’t feel awkward or isolated when I’m emotional around him. He’s helped me go through Dad’s belongings at least a dozen times already. Hell, sometimes he even shows up without me asking.
It’s like he has a sixth sense for when I’m in the attic and need company.
Logan plops down on one of the rolling stools from Casper’s station across the aisle from mine and slides up beside me. Why does he have to smell so good? His chin cocks toward my phone lighting up on the countertop.
The buzz of my machine eats up the dead air. I can practically hear the smart remark he’s holding behind his teeth.
“Is he pouting again?” he finally asks, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone.
I grin and shake my head. He’s baiting me. “Your condescension is showing.”
“Who said I was hiding it?” Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees as he watches me work.
“Tell me . . .” I begin. “When Jason moved into your brain rent-free, did
you already have the place furnished and decorated?”
“I don’t allow roaches.”
What the hell’s his problem?
“Wowww,” I say, stretching out the word. “Was that cathartic for you?”
“It was. Thanks for asking.”
I scoff. “God, Logan. Want to make fun of his appearance while you’re at it?”
“I would, except his haircut beat me to it.”
What, are Herb and Logan having secret meetings behind my back? I roll my lips, refusing to laugh at the coincidence . . . Maybe it isn’t the best haircut. The corner of my mouth twitches, and smug glee rolls off him in waves.
Jason isn’t perfect, but damn, how about giving the guy a chance?
“It’s almost like you can tell the exact moment he insulted the barber . . .”
“Logan!” I shout, spinning around and pointing a gloved finger in his direction. “Stop being an asshole.”
He isn’t generally the first one to start a conversation, but one thing he keeps his pulse on is the state of my relationship. It’s part of his whole protective-older-brother thing. Knowing Dad, he probably made Logan promise to keep tabs on me, and now Logan’s taking the job way too
seriously.
“He’s not —”
I cut him off. “Look, I’ve spent years casually dating and enjoying different people, but how long can I really get away with that? Those were temporary flings. I want a love like my parents had. Not every romance needs to be cinematic, bursting with grand gestures and fireworks. The best relationships are the ones that last. Every sparkler fizzles out eventually.
Jason and I have an adult relationship—we don’t need performative razzle- dazzle bullshit, we’ve got something better.
“Jason is nice. He’s ambitious. He’s responsible. He texts back. He asks about my day —”
“He asks about your day? Wow, give that man a medal!” His words bite.
On paper, Jason is a catch, so why the fuck does Logan have to keep scrutinizing our relationship? He’s never this hostile with me. I’ve briefly dated assholes in the past and Logan never blinked. Now, all of a sudden I have something halfway decent and he wants to bust my chops?
“Just because you don’t want love doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t,” I
snap.
He sets his jaw, glowering at me. I hope he sees the same blazing fury in my eyes as I see in his. Shit, are we fighting? I don’t have time for this. I return to the tattoo, unwilling to let any irritation interfere with my work.
“How are you feeling about the con?” He asks it like a truce. I take a deep breath and count to ten before answering.
“Nervous.”
I’ve been to conventions before, but this will be the first time I submit a
piece for the show’s judges.
“Why?”
He knows why. “Because I’m expected to be as good as my dad was, which is impossible.” My bloodline has garnered me a large following on social media, where I post my work. However, the comment sections are often filled with strangers comparing my art to my dad’s.
Logan doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “The industry has me under a microscope. I’m accused of riding his coattails, which is true in some respects, but I want to be judged on my own merit. Sure, he’s Clyde Everhart to the masses, but to me, he’s always been Dad. Just because I’m his daughter doesn’t mean I can compete with a legend—and I don’t want to.” I huff. “I’m stuck straddling the line between wanting to stand out on my own and keeping his spirit alive by following in his footsteps to make him proud. But
damn, his shoes are big.”
“What did Clyde tell you?”
“Let the art lead. Ignore the critics and create for yourself.”
“Do that. You can’t control what others say or do, just do your own thing.
If it’s received well, great. If not, fuck ’em.”
“Doesn’t make me any less nervous.” He laughs.
“Anyway—new topic. Hey, I’ve got a good idea,” I announce, wanting to change the subject. “You should let me give you a tarot reading.”
I’m genuinely curious what the cards might say about Logan.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Well, for one, it can give you some clarity.”
“And two?”
I shrug. “Might improve your love life.”
He groans. “Can we go back to you being pissed?”
“I’m just saying, maybe there’s somebody right in front of you, but you can’t see the opportunity because you don’t know what to look for. You
could be missing out.”
When he doesn’t reply, I glance up to find him staring at me. I can’t tell if he’s even listening to what I’m saying or dreaming up some new tattoo design.
Classic creative behavior. I return to my work and leave him to his thoughts. However, he interrupts by asking, “Who says I’m not dating already?”
Laughter bursts out of me and I quickly whip the end of my line to make sure my shaking shoulders don’t fuck up the ink. “Everybody?” I answer.
“You never leave the shop. You’re turning into a hermit, dude.”
“I’m a perpetual bachelor.”
“You’re celibate,” 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.
After wiping down my table, I gesture for him to sit across from me while I grab my cards. Once I sit down, he pushes his sweater to his elbows, exposing his brawny tatted forearms that I struggle to tear my gaze from.
Logan takes the deck from me; it looks miniature in his massive hands.
“Shuffle and cut the cards,” I instruct. “But while you’re doing it —”
“I know, I know,” he drawls. “Think of a specific question. Go put your things in the autoclave while I do this.”
Works for me. He smirks while dividing the deck in two as I gather my things and head to the sterile room in the back. The whir of the machine drowns out the swish and slap of shuffling that echoes through the empty shop.
When I return, the cards are stacked neatly in the center of the table. “I shuffled them with extra mysticism.”
I give him a sharp look, and he returns it with his mischievous hazel gaze.
“This deck is powerful. It does not enjoy being mocked,” I warn.
He places his hand over his heart. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“What’s your question?”
His expression turns serious. My body leans forward while I await his response. “Will the food I ate for dinner give me heartburn?”
I reach across the table to shove his chest. “Be serious. Did you think of a real question?”
“Yes.” He smiles, seemingly amused with himself. I blink at him. “So . . .?”
“Should Kelly break up with her boyfriend?”
“Logan!”
“That’s what I placed my intent on. I can’t change it.” He folds his arms and nods for me to continue. “Come on, let’s see what your powerful deck has to say.”
I roll my eyes. This isn’t the reading I wanted to do for him. I knew he wasn’t a fan of Jason, but what a waste. This thing with Jason is something, I just know it, and I’m going to let the cards put him in his place. The first lay represents the situation. I place down the Two of Swords, which tells me things are not working out very well. Okay, not a great start. I set the second card horizontally across the first, forming a cross. The second card represents the challenge that’s impacting the first one. Seven of Cups, which means
there’s too much wishful thinking going on. I gingerly flip the third card, placing it below the cross. This one represents the foundation of the situation.
I draw the Emperor, which means it’s time to make a decision. Be assertive and forge ahead.
I know my decision and feel very solid in it, thank you very much.
“You’re being awfully quiet over there,” Logan comments. “Want to translate what you’re seeing?”
I huff. “It says . . . it says maybe things aren’t as great as they seem and that there’s a decision to make.”
“Does it now?” A slow grin spreads across his face. “What else do the cards have to say?”
I flip the fourth card and lay it to the left of the first two, which tells me how the past is relevant to the situation, and the deck reveals an inverted Judgement.
I swallow. “There’s been a history of trusting people who might be dishonest.” I don’t like this, it feels like I’m being set up.
The fifth card, an inverted Temperance, is placed above the others, representing the present. “Right now there’s a sense of discord. Certain things aren’t fitting together and —”
“Certain things as in Jason and Kelly aren’t fitting together?”
“And,” I continue, “there are areas of distraction and neglect.”
“Is that true?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave, taking on a more sensual tone. “Is he neglecting you, Chaos?”
“No!” He’s giving me shit, but it almost sounded like he was flirting. “In fact, he’s very generous. Besides, he’s been texting me all night, I wouldn’t call that neglect.”
“It sure is distracting, though . . .” he mutters. “Can I continue?”
He nods.
Next comes the Page of Cups. “New beginnings are coming . . . trust your intuition and find courage to love again.”
“This is so cool,” he says, sitting back and threading his fingers behind
his head.
“You’re being smug,” I hiss.
“Are the cards saying that or are you?”
“I am.”
He chuckles. “From my point of view, I’d say it’s pretty fucking justified.”
I can’t help but laugh, it’s almost comical the way this is playing out in his favor. The universe has a sense of humor.
“Come on, keep going. I’m having fun,” he says.
“The following three draws are about you. So maybe stop acting like such a dick.” The seventh pull forms the base of the four-card staff that sits to the right of the other six. I flip the inverted King of Wands and my eyes narrow; now I’ve got him. My finger taps the imagery. “This represents your subconscious motivations . . . you have ill intentions. When I look at this in relation to the first card, it says you’re meddling where you ought not to
and —”
“Hey, now —”
“And manipulating the situation!”
The corner of his mouth tugs into a sexy smirk. “What else does it say?”
The eighth card, the Queen of Pentacles, is placed above the upside-down Magician. “The deck says you’re stable and grounded, reliable and nurturing to those you care about.” To be fair, that’s an accurate read of Logan.
“That’s nice.”
“Mm-hmm. Moving on,” I announce. “This next card is a representation of your hopes and fears.”
Two of Cups. “You want to be in a relationship. You want to find
someone, you crave connection.”
He scoffs. “Who doesn’t?”
His feeble attempts at remaining aloof have me choking back laughter. I can see right through his bullshit.
Finally, we’re down to the last card—which represents the outcome.
I flip it over and my laughter stops. Death. He raises an eyebrow.
“It’s not literal,” I assure him. But I don’t like it. “It means you’re about to experience profound change. Something is coming to an end, and something new is about to begin. When it happens, there’s no going back.”
This worries me. I believe in progress and self-growth, but I’m really happy where I am in life. I don’t want anything to change for either of us.
“Fascinating.”
Maybe he’s about to find the one he’s looking for. I should be thrilled, right?
“Readings aren’t always accurate,” I remind him as a disclaimer.
“Everything is subjective.”
I gather my cards and swallow down the energy vibrating off Logan. I
thought for sure it was going to say that Jason was a good match and I should stay with him. It’s not like I’m going to pick up my phone and break up with him after one tarot spread. After all, everything is up for interpretation.
However, something tells me this is going to be wedged in my thoughts like a stubborn splinter.
“Or . . .” he says, with his stare burning into me, “it’s all true.”
The shop’s back door swings open with a loud groan, then closes quietly.
I can tell it’s Thor by the way he slammed the door. “Goddamn. We need to throw some WD-40 on these hinges,” he barks from the back.
“Joining us for poker tonight, Junior?”
I gather my deck of cards into a pile and slide them back into the case.
Logan’s gaze finds mine. “Can’t. I’m meeting up with Jason,” I reply.
“You sure? We could use you to distract him while we clean out his bank accounts. We’ll make sure you get a cut.”
“I’m not sure he finds me distracting enough.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “To take his money,” I add quickly. Yikes, what’s wrong with me? Thor’s footsteps grow louder as he walks down the hallway.
Logan smirks at me. “You want to empty my pockets, Chaos? Put your hands in and see if I notice.”
