Chapter 25
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.