Chapter 21
“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.