The Strongest Steel

by Scarlett Cole

  A soft voice, thoroughly unexpected, came from behind him. He looked over his shoulder, his fingers still on the key. In the shadows of the giant palm tree that dominated the sidewalk, a lone figure stood. She stepped toward him.

  It took only a moment to recognize her—the girl from this afternoon. Wow. She’d changed clothes, tucked her clearly tight body into skinny jeans and an ivory top that looked like it was made out of, well, clouds or something. Her hair was down now, lying in soft curls on her shoulders, accentuating the most perfectly smooth skin he’d ever seen. Her arms were pulled tightly against her.

  Trent paused with the key in the lock, never taking his eyes off her. “Depends on what kind of scar. How deep, how big, where, et cetera?”

  She stared at the pavement like the cigarette butt by her foot was the most fascinating thing ever. Her hands clenched into fists and just as quickly she released them, over and over, as if wanting to do something but not knowing what.

  “Are we talking about for you or someone else?”

  The fingers were still twitching. She lifted her chin. The look in her eyes, which were an incredible shade of green, like sea glass, told him she was scared shitless.

  “Me,” she said quietly.

  He was exhausted. And the whole thing felt weird. He should just tell her to come back tomorrow—or better still, call and book an appointment. But if he turned her away now, she wouldn’t come back. He knew it for sure—he felt it. She needed something, and it would kill him not to know what he might have been able to do for her.

  “Want to come in and let me take a look? The place is closed, so no one else will be around … if you’re cool with that … I’m a good guy, I promise.”

  Why was she even here at one in the morning, alone and looking terrified? And not the I’m-scared-of-needles-will-it-hurt variety of terror. Girls nearly always came in with someone. Friends. Boyfriends. Same way they always went to the bathroom in pairs. Why wasn’t anybody with her? He had a bad feeling this wasn’t going to be your everyday scar.

  “I’m Trent.”

  “Harper.”

  “Well, Harper,” he said, opening the door he’d just closed, “welcome to Second Circle.”

  * * *

  “Don’t want anyone thinking we’re still open,” he said, locking the door behind them after he turned off the alarm. He walked over to the curved counter, but instead of going behind it like she expected, he perched himself on the edge.

  Try as she might, Harper had been unable to sleep, restless from the letter and seeing Trent earlier. One minute she’d been wide awake, staring at the ceiling in bed. The next she was standing in an empty studio with a man she didn’t know, unable to recall the details of the bus ride and walk she’d taken to get there.

  She’d believed in signs once, trusted her gut implicitly to guide her. Maybe it was time to go back to that instead of overthinking every little issue.

  The silence grew between them, and the cramp in her hand was driving her insane. The flicking of her fingers was her “stress response,” according to one of her many psycho-babbling therapists—and man, it hurt when they started to cramp. She shook her left hand and squeezed it with her right to ease the pain.

  “I like your place.” An underwhelming statement really. Even in the half-light, it looked more like a gallery than a tattoo parlor. The heavily varnished dark wood floor contrasted with the brilliant white walls. All kinds of art hung on them, from vintage posters of pinup girls to dark gothic pencil drawings. There were two flat-screen televisions, their black expanse a jarring contrast to the color and vibrancy of the artwork that surrounded them.

  “Thank you. I do too.”

  Harper could feel Trent’s eyes on her as she walked around the room, slowly drawing her hand along walls and across countertops to ground her in the space.

  “I Googled you,” Harper said, turning to face him.

  “Learn anything interesting?”

  “You’re one of the best there is.”

  He revealed two striking dimples as he smiled. He took off his baseball cap and pulled his hoodie over his head in the weird way guys did, dragging it by the hood over his back. He pulled up his T-shirt with the move, revealing a tight stomach with a rich bank of abs. The Internet rumors about that ripped body were accurate. Quickly rectifying the situation, he pulled his shirt down, smoothing his unruly dark hair before putting his baseball cap on back to front. His eyes were insanely dark, closer to black than brown. He looked at her, his brows furrowed.

  “Well, sweetheart, I could have told you that. What else?”

  “You’re really good at tattooing over scars.”

  A brief frown passed across his face as he rubbed his stubble with one hand before playing with the placement of his hat again.

  “I’d like to think I’m really good at everything.” His words oozed confidence, but his self-deprecating laugh stopped them from sounding arrogant. “Hey, a question for you, darlin’, and I’m not asking to rush you. We going to continue this getting-to-know-you—in which case I’ll order in a pizza, because I’m starving—or are you ready to tell me what you’re here for?”

  * * *

  She froze. Like totally shut down. Man, she’d been starting to relax. Shit, he’d nearly gotten her to crack a smile with his I’m-great-at-everything comment (which was only eighty percent accurate … he only sucked at things that didn’t matter).

  She stood motionless in the middle of the studio. He wasn’t even sure she was still breathing. Everything stopped except her fingers, still frantically flicking in and out to a rapid pulse.

  He heard her inhale deeply as she looked back toward the door. She reminded him of the mustang on his grandparents’ ranch in Wyoming, edgy and ready to bolt. With a deep breath, she finally squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to his.

  “I want to know if you can tattoo over some scarring on my back,” she said quietly.

  “To decide that, I’d have to see it.”

  He could sense her indecision. He remained seated on the counter, worried that the slightest movement on his part would send her running.

  “This is so fucking hard,” she mumbled.

  She slowly reached under the hem of her blouse, lifting it off to reveal a white bikini top. Wow. She really was stunning. Her body was a work of art, and under different circumstances he’d take a while longer to admire it. He didn’t usually react this way to clients—he prided himself on being a professional. But hell, he was only human.

  Thinking about her body felt doubly wrong, though, given the vibe she was giving off. He needed to recite the alphabet backward or something, or she was going to see his appreciation too clearly.

  Her perfect white teeth bit down on her lower lip.

  “Can you tattoo over this?” She turned her back to him.

  Holy hell. Though in the dimness he could only just make out the scars of different sizes and depths marring her back, his stomach lurched. He flicked on the light by the cash register, pulled a pair of gloves from the box next to it, and dropped down from the counter to stand behind her.

  Shaking slightly, she pulled her shirt to her front, clutching it tightly to her chest. He looked at the red raised areas that had clearly been stitched and the silvery scars that had been left to heal on their own.

  What. The. Fuck. Was that writing? He could swear it spelled something. Someone had carved words into Harper’s back. Someone had deliberately taken a knife to her skin.

  It all made sense. Her nervousness and agitation. Her need to stay and her need to get out of there quickly. The need to move on and the need to hide.

  Normally he’d reach out and feel the scars, gauging the depth of the scar tissue under the skin. If he did, though, she’d run. He could see it in the way she stood on the balls of her feet, shoulders tightly coiled. He leaned in as close as he could to study them, gauge whether the scars were mature enough to tattoo over.

  There in the scars, were the wo
rds “My Bitch.”

  Who could do this to another person? To her?

  He could only imagine how hard it must be for her to just stand there in his studio. Her courage blew him away, and he knew he would find a way to cover up the horror for her.

  But did she have any idea what this was going to take? It would be months of work and hours of sometimes-painful tattooing, the kind that brought even the toughest of men to their knees.

  She’d come to him. Trusted him to fix this for her. He would get her through it. Somehow.

  * * *

  Silence was not good.

  It was obvious that Trent was just as repulsed as everyone else who had ever seen it. For a brief moment, she was transported back to the trial, the abject look of horror on the jurors’ faces as they’d looked at photographs of her injuries. She hadn’t shown her back to a single person since.

  “This was a bad idea,” she murmured, trying to pull on her blouse as fast as she could. She needed to get out of there.

  “Wait.” Trent grabbed for her arm to stop her, quickly releasing it when she flinched. “Shit, sweetheart, that was some curveball you just threw at me. Of all the things I was expecting, that was definitely not it. It’s not like anything I’ve seen. I’m not sure anything I can come up with is appropriate for this.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she snapped, anxious to get out before the tears she was holding back spilled over and she humiliated herself more. If there was nothing “appropriate” he could do for her, then for the sake of her sanity, she needed to go as quickly as possible.

  Harper tugged her shirt down and made for the door. Crap. He’d beaten her to it. She felt trapped, a feeling that was too familiar. Too painful. She needed air. Needed to get to the safety of her apartment where she could breathe again.

  “Please move,” she whispered through gritted teeth, willing herself under control.

  “Not until I’ve done what you asked me to do. I’m not going to touch you unless you agree to it, but I’m not letting you run out of here like this.”

  Harper shook her head, starting to feel faint. Her breaths came in short bursts.

  “There’s no need for me to stay.” She heard her voice waver, betraying just how close to the surface her emotions were running. “You already said you couldn’t come up with anything appropriate for this, so please just let me leave.”

  “Words, darlin’. Appropriate words. I couldn’t come up with anything to say to you that felt right. There’s plenty I can do.”

  Her breathing slowed as she tried to stave off the panic attack threatening to consume her. She stared at the floor.

  “Let’s sit you down before you pass out and I have to carry you. There’s a hydraulic bed in a room in the back. I can get you some water and take a better look at what I’d be working with.”

  His words were practical, his tone soothing.

  “If I walk away, you gonna bolt on me?”

  Still staring down, she noticed he hadn’t fastened his black biker boots properly. His jeans were frayed at the hem. She slowly shook her head, humiliation keeping her from looking up into his eyes.

  * * *

  What did you say to someone who had gone through something so traumatic? What did you do? It wasn’t like he had any professional training—just years of listening to people’s stories using the tattoo process as therapy. No tattoo was going to make this go away for Harper.

  He moved slowly, afraid that sudden movements might spook her and send her running for the door. If he could just get her to the back room and get her comfortable, he was sure he could talk her through this.

  “Follow me back here. You don’t like anything we do, you just tell me to stop and I’ll back away immediately. Okay?”

  His heart broke for her a little as she wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him for the first time since she’d bolted for the door. She briefly met his eyes, and he felt it like a punch to the solar plexus. He had the passing thought that those remarkable eyes needed to be sparkling with happiness, love—hell, even lust—not clouded over with fear.

  There was the slightest nod of the head. Okay then. Relief washed through him.

  Pushing open the door, he was grateful to see the room was spotless. Not for the first time, he sent a mental thank you to Pixie for her diligence.

  He turned the lights on to full, thinking it might make her feel safer. “Hop up on here.” He patted the black leather tattooing bed as Harper followed him in. “I’m just going to get you a bottle of water, and then we’ll take a look at this.” In the kitchen area he leaned his forehead for a moment on the cool exterior of the fridge. He struggled to control his fury at whoever had done this to her, the desire to punch a wall burning through him.

  He opened her water for her when he returned, as her hands were shaking. She took a small sip.

  “Okay, Harper. Here’s what we need to happen. You’ll need to take off your shirt again, sweetheart, and either give it to me to hang on the hook by the door or keep hold of it yourself. Whichever makes you feel most comfortable.

  “I’ll go scar by scar, look over each one, and tell you which will or won’t tattoo well. You can pretty much tattoo on anything, but how the ink spreads and how it looks on the scar tissue is less predictable than it is on unscarred tissue. It’s harder to guarantee what it’s going to look like when it’s done.”

  The cupboard at the back of the room contained gloves and he grabbed a pair before returning to stop in front of Harper. “When I’ve had a good look, I can let you know where the challenges might be and you can let me know what you want to do. You think we can do that?”

  “I’ll try. That which does not kill us makes us stronger, right?”

  “You’re quoting Kelly Clarkson?”

  “No, Nietzsche,” Harper replied with a quiet laugh. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Kelly fan.”

  “Never. And if you ever mention this conversation, I’ll deny all knowledge of it.”

  Finally, the making of a smile.

  Trent studied her as she removed her shirt for the second time. Any inappropriate thoughts that might have crossed his mind disappeared the moment he saw the extent of her injuries. His hands were chilled, and for the first time in years, he wondered whether they were going to be too cold. The gloves made a snapping sound as he pulled them on.

  “You want me to take the shirt?”

  “No,” she said quickly, pulling it to her chest. “I’ll just keep it … er … here.”

  He repositioned the lights so they were shining straight onto her back, the scars more startling in relief. Trent pursed his lips and blew out a soft breath. Her shoulders shook as she gripped her shirt to her chest like a security blanket.

  He took a step back, walked around to the front of the bed, and straddled a wheeled stool.

  Harper looked at him with fear and steely determination. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

  “I want you to touch my arm. Nothing creepy or weird. Just touch me.”

  “What for? I mean, why would you want me to do that?”

  “When I touched you out there earlier, you flinched. I’m thinking if you could get used to touching me first, my touching you wouldn’t feel quite so strange.”

  Harper’s perfectly white teeth indented her soft pink lip.

  He put his arm on the bed, the inner side facing toward her. Holding still, he waited patiently.

  Tentatively, Harper lifted her left hand, her fingers twitching again like she was running her fingers down the keys of a piano in sequence. Seconds ticked by. Hell, he could wait all night if that’s what she needed. She exhaled slowly as she lowered her blouse and moved her arm toward him. She brushed her fingertips lightly along his skin, starting with the inside of his wrist, stroking the inked drops of blood where the corner of a tattooed cross appeared to dig into his skin.

  Studying the ink she touched, seeing it in a new light as she continued her way to his elbow,
reminded him again of just how incredible an artist Junior had been.

  Her touch was like a breath of air whispering against him. He watched the very tip of her index finger brush over the tightly packed ink, the gentle pressure sending shivers down his spine. Her shaking fingertips were as cold as marble.

  “It’s beautiful. Will you explain it to me?”

  Trent studied her face as she continued to touch him. All flawless complexion and high cheekbones, long dark eyelashes curling softly outward. “Sure. You familiar with the Divine Comedy?”

  “The band?”

  Trent smiled. “No, all my tattoos are from Dante’s Divine Comedy. Some people say Dante’s Inferno but that’s not totally accurate. It’s three chapters. Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven.”

  “So this is…?” Harper paused.

  “Heaven.” His left arm showed Hell and his back showed Purgatory.

  She continued slowly stroking his arm, her soft fingers sending tremors throughout his body as she crossed the Roman numeral XII. He’d been so excited to show it to Cujo after he’d gotten it done. Cujo’d loved it right up to the point where Trent told him all about the twelve souls who illuminate the world intellectually. Then he’d just laughed and called him a pompous ass.

  “Beatrice leads Dante through nine celestial spheres, starting with the Moon for the Inconstant here.” He pointed to the rosary wrapped around his wrist with its cross bound in barbed wire. “Souls who abandon their faith. It goes all the way up my arm to the ninth, Primum Mobile, the home of the angels.” He pointed to the top of his bicep. “My shoulder is the final destination. Empyrean, where God lives.”

  He lifted his arm and let her trace the letters that wrapped around it just above his elbow. Junior had spent forever getting the midnight-blue text with stars through it perfect, cursing Dante for describing the “pattern of lights” in such detail. Diligite iustitiam qui iudicatis terram.

  “‘Love Justice, ye that judge the earth,’” she said, surprising him.

  “You know Dante?”

  Harper dropped her head to focus back on his tattoos. “It’s a popular quote, isn’t it?”

  He wasn’t sure. “It’s the sixth celestial sphere. Jupiter, home of the Rulers.”