“No, but thanks. I’m coming from José’s. I’ll grab something there.”
Trent hid his disappointment. “Have something high in protein. People have been known to pass out in the chair because they’ve built this up into something it isn’t. If you eat food beforehand, your blood sugar levels will be up and it will stop light-headedness. And you’ll be able to tolerate pain better if you aren’t cratchity because you’re hungry.”
“Cratchity? That’s not even a word,” Harper said, choking back what sounded like a giggle.
Trent closed his eyes and smiled. “Sure it is. Google it.”
“I’m going to. How do you even spell it anyway? If we were playing Scrabble, I’d challenge that word and get fifty points.”
“Scrabble, huh?” Could she get any cuter? “You certainly know how to party it up. Maybe I’ll let you challenge me sometime.” The idea of spending time with her, doing anything, grew more and more appealing.
“You’re on.”
They were both silent for a moment. “Are you sure there is nothing I can do for pain?”
“Not really, sweetheart. Topical numbing creams affect the skin surface and the chemicals in them can sometimes affect the tattoo. They also won’t last anywhere near as long as your session. Pain meds just thin your blood, which will make you bleed more—bad for you and gross for me. I have some numbing solution I can spray on once we’re underway. Only works on broken skin.”
“What about alcohol?” she asked hopefully. Usually, Trent had no patience for this kind of conversation. Yes, it hurt to get needles poked into your skin continuously for any period of time. You were either okay with that or not. Some people it hurt more. Some people it hurt less. He’d become a pro at identifying pussies as soon as they walked into the studio, passing them on to Lia, who had the patience of a saint.
It was different with Harper doing the asking though, and for the first time he found himself wishing he had better answers.
“As much as I imagine you’re a really cute drunk, it’s the same thing as pain meds. Thins the blood. My suggestion, for what it’s worth: Get a good night’s sleep tonight. Eat a decent meal before you come in. Bring music or games on your phone or something for distraction. Twenty minutes in, your endorphins will kick in anyway. Within an hour, I’ll spray your back if you can’t stand it.”
“I can’t believe I’m really going to do it,” Harper said quietly.
“You’d better or I’ll have to do this tattoo on Cujo while he’s sleeping. It’s too good to go to waste.”
“I can’t quite imagine that.” She laughed softly. “Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“No worries, Harper. I wish I had better answers, but I promise I’ll be as gentle as possible. I’m really looking forward to doing this for you.”
“I’m looking forward to you doing it for me too. It feels right.”
Didn’t it just? He knew exactly what she meant. There was a long, comfortable silence before either of them spoke.
“Good night, Trent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
He put the phone down and smiled. This was a good place to be. Doing big tattoos that were meaningful, in his own studio with his own team. He looked up at the ceiling and silently thanked Junior for having seen something more than the juvenile delinquent he’d caught spraying graffiti across the back of his studio.
He stood, straightening his jeans and returned to the table. The flames looked good and he picked up the pencil to resume sketching. He’d barely laid pencil to paper when the phone disturbed him again. He considered ignoring it, letting it go to voice mail for Pixie to deal with in the morning, but the private number could be Harper with more questions.
“Second Circle Tattoos.”
“Trent Andrews?”
Shit. The male voice was definitely not Harper’s. And now he was stuck talking to whoever it was. “Speaking.”
“Hey, Trent. This is Michael Cooper. I’m a producer in LA, working on a reality game show featuring amateur tattoo artists with the prize being a lease to their own studio.”
He suppressed a sigh and for the second time that night put his pencil down. He looked around the office. Which he owned. “Sounds great, Michael, but I already have a studio.” The guy at the end of the line laughed.
“Yeah. I know that. We don’t want you to enter. We want to see if you’d be a good fit as a judge.”
A what? A judge? Trent ran his hand along his jaw and under his chin, momentarily stunned. How on earth had he ended up on this guy’s radar?
“Our researchers narrowed down a group of phenomenal tattoo artists with a distinctive back catalog of work. We sent a scout to visit your studio. The guy whose leg you worked on with the dragon, he was one of my production assistants. The tattoo was phenomenal, man. Totally loved it. Loved the vibe and your style. We’d love to get you in front of a camera with another one of our judges. Huge rock star. You’ll meet him if you can come out to LA.”
“Wow. This is a lot to take in. I’m totally flattered. I’m not quite sure what you say to something like this.”
Michael guffawed. “Usually people shout, ‘Yes Michael, pick me!’ but I understand your reservations. Can we set up a time to talk about this?”
What did he have to lose? No harm ever came from a conversation.
“That would be pretty awesome.”
Trent put the phone down and shook his head at the craziness of it. Pursing his lips, he thought of Yasmin. She’d love this shit, and her not being able to share in it would be the ultimate one-finger salute for the misery she’d caused him. And his parents? Though they’d seen his passion for tattooing start to pay off, they still didn’t really understand it. Getting this role would be the ultimate proof to all of them, wouldn’t it? He had amounted to something.
* * *
“And how was our resident hottie?” Drea asked, peering over the top of her wineglass, a momentary flash of amusement brightening her features. She sat in the solitary chair across from the sofa, her wavy hair loose over her shoulders.
“Trent’s fine.” Harper tried to hide the smile forming on her face by taking another sip of wine. “Hey,” she squeaked as she tried to deflect the beaded throw pillow aimed in her direction before it knocked the glass out of her hand. It would be a waste of the lovely Zinfandel that Drea had brought to accompany the dinner Harper had cooked.
“Don’t give me that, Miss Scrabble Genius.”
There was no arguing. Harper knew she was pretty transparent on the best of days, and Drea was unrelenting. Might as well just go with the truth and skip the interrogation.
“You know how it is. You’re the only friend I have who knows any of this. I still jump a mile if anyone walks behind me. I finally just let someone touch my back for the first time in four years. And to top it off, I just got another letter from Illinois. Nathan is being considered for parole. I’m not in any place to start something.”
“I thought you said he was in prison for a while.” Drea moved from the chair to sit next to Harper on the two-seater sofa, tucking her legs underneath her.
“He was supposed to be, but he’s done all these rehabilitation courses. Anger Management for Psychos or something. They do enough of them, they can graduate early.”
“That’s bullshit,” Drea said. “What’ll happen if he gets out?”
“He’ll try to find me. He already threatened to. But he doesn’t know I’m here.” Harper took a large swallow of wine.
“But he’ll have to see a parole officer, right? And the police will watch him too. Won’t he be on some offender list?”
Harper laughed, she’d been that naïve once. “The same police who witnessed Nathan’s father offer me money to drop the charges, but told a courtroom full of people I made it up. Those police?” Cynicism laced her words.
“Seriously? Oh my God, Harper. So what are you going to do?”
“I can’t do
much about it. They asked me to attend the hearing.”
Drea reached out and put a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you going to go? You know I would go with you in an instant if you wanted me to.”
Harper put her wine down and cautiously placed her hand on top of Drea’s. “I know you would, honey, but I still can’t face him. I contacted my lawyer today about submitting a victim impact statement for consideration. Lydia is going to help me pull it together.”
Which was why her tattoo was so important. It was time to move on and she needed to get rid of the permanent reminder, reclaim that part of her. Otherwise Nathan was always going to own her.
Her mind wandered back to Trent working away on her design. She imagined him in a fitted T-shirt like that first night and those dark jeans that hugged his butt. He always seemed to have his baseball hat on, but she imagined him without it. Every ounce of his concentration focused on his sketch.
This time the pillow did hit her square on the shoulder. “Back in Trentville?” Drea questioned with a laugh.
“Sorry. I don’t know, Drea. I think he might be under my skin a little bit. A large part of me isn’t sure I’m ready. I mean I still freak out, yet for the first time in forever, I’m thinking about a guy.”
“So go with it.” Drea leaned over to put her hand lightly on Harper’s shoulder, ignoring the subtle flinch. “It can’t be right that I’m the only person in the world you’ll tolerate touching you.”
“You aren’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘You aren’t’? Did you make out with him already?” The screeching made Harper’s ears ring.
“No. But I let him hug me in his office the other day.” Remembering the comforting strength of his arms made her sigh.
Maybe Drea was right. Maybe she didn’t need to be alone anymore.
* * *
She couldn’t look up. He was watching. She could feel it. Waiting. Patiently. Immobilized on the bench outside of the studio, Harper studied the time on her cell phone. Twenty minutes late, and he knew she was sitting right there.
This is what she wanted, right? Why couldn’t she just walk in there? Why was this so freakin’ hard? Covering the scars was never going to erase the memories of that night, but she could get on with the future if she just did this.
The mental pep talk was on a continuous loop—and had been since she’d choked down her breakfast. If she didn’t go in, Nathan won. Well, won more. He’d already won when she’d run to escape him and had given up everything she’d known. How much longer was she going to let him keep control of her life?
No more. She could do this.
Harper lifted her gaze and looked into the store, immediately locking eyes with Trent. It was time. She knew it. He gave her the briefest of nods. Returning it, Harper stood.
The ring of the bell was lost over the music blaring. She felt like the geek who’d just entered the cool kids’ party. It couldn’t be true that every single person in there was staring at her, but it certainly felt like it.
“Hey, Harper,” Cujo said, breaking the ice. “Good luck today. It’s going to look deadly when you’re done.” He walked over, leaning in slightly to bump her shoulder with his.
Harper instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. She knew Cujo meant nothing by it, but still. She forced herself to drop her arms back to her sides.
She turned. “Hey, Trent.”
His smile was breathtaking. “Licorice?” He offered her the pack of chewy, red candy.
Harper took a piece. “Discreet way of keeping my blood sugar up?” She took a bite of the sticky rope.
“Nope. Just love red licorice and wanted to share. Not liking it would be a deal breaker on the whole doing-your-tattoo thing.”
Harper laughed. It felt good to release some of the tension that had been building inside.
“I happen to love it, though I like black licorice better.”
He pointed to the door. “That’s it. Get out of my studio. Black licorice is one step from devil worship.”
“Kind of extreme view, don’t you think?” Holy cow, had she just heard herself giggle?
“Not really. Liking red licorice and black licorice is an oxymoron.”
“That’s not an oxymoron. An oxymoron is an adjective-noun combination that combines contradictory terms … like ‘living dead.’ Liking red and black licorice is not.”
“Wow. Into Scrabble. Knows fancy definitions for shit. You an English teacher or something?”
“Yes, I … I mean, no. I work in a coffee shop. I just like words is all.” Her stomach turned. Why on earth had she nearly revealed her previous career to him? Her job had been her passion—she’d loved it more than anything. Not that she could do it again. She’d need to register her papers and use her real name and that wasn’t going to happen. Nathan would find her.
“I’m still holding you to Scrabble, but first there’s something else we need to do today.” He put the packet of licorice back behind the desk. “Are you good?” he asked.
Wasn’t that the million-dollar question?
* * *
So she was an English teacher. Interesting development. Why on earth wasn’t she teaching? Schools all over the city were crying out for great teachers. Today wasn’t the day to push her for information, but he wanted to know.
“This will be our room for the next however many hours this takes. The transfers are ready over there for us. Want to take a look before we get started?”
The hand he was holding was frozen to the bone. The fingers on her other hand were flaring again. Nervousness seeped from her. Every protective instinct in him was screaming to pull her into his arms and hold her there.
“We’ll shave your back and then place these transfers on it. I’m going to do it with you standing so I can make sure they end up straight. If it’s okay with you, I’ll ask Cujo to help me out rather than cut it into pieces.”
“How did you make these?” Harper picked up the layers of what looked like old-school copy paper.
“Some I drew by hand, some I ran my sketch through the thermo fax, kind of like a fax machine for tattoo designs.”
“I’m making this difficult for you, aren’t I?” Harper suddenly turned to face him. “I mean, I bet you normally have to hold people back. People travel to see you and can’t wait to get started. They just want to get a tattoo done by you—you being amazing and all.” Her mouth curved into a small smile. “You’ve had to literally hold my hand,” she said, lifting their joined hands, “every step of the way.”
“Everyone is different, Harper. If it helps, this is probably the most unique situation I’ve ever been in. Can’t say I usually have to literally hold someone’s hand through it, but it’s no hardship and I’ll help you get through this any way I can.”
“I never wanted a tattoo, you know. Before, I mean. I would never have thought about getting one if this hadn’t happened.” She turned to face him, squeezing his fingers so tightly he wondered if it was possible to cut off his blood supply. “If surgery to remove the scars had been an option, I probably would have gone that route instead.”
Trent tried to ignore the churning feeling in his stomach. He wished she hadn’t told him, wished he didn’t know that she so disliked something that was a fundamental part of who he was.
He led her to the back table to see the transfers, transfers that he hoped held some of the best work he had ever done. She had no idea how much of himself he had invested in the detail of the design. He hoped that given time, she’d value the tattoo as more than just a trick to hide the scars and come to see it as a statement about who she was, what she stood for. “You know guys love a hot chick with a bad-ass tattoo, right?” he said, wanting to bring a smile back to her solemn face.
“I’m probably the least bad-ass person there is. I play Scrabble and bring pastry thank-yous. Bad-ass for me is not recycling my garbage or keeping a library book past its due date.”
Trent laughed, loving her sense of humor.
>
“So you’re agreeing with the hot chick part?”
“No! I mean … crap … no … definitely not!” Flustering Harper was way too fun. It could become a permanent occupation.
“And I loved the pastry thank-you. You can bring those any day of the week.” He laughed as Harper blushed. “Well, as the saying goes, life isn’t about finding yourself, it’s about creating yourself. Ready to be re-created as a bad-ass?”
Now her eyes were shining bright. “As ready as I’ll ever be. You ready to show me how amazing you are at this?”
“Always,” he said, grinning at her. “One amazing, bad-ass tattoo coming right up.”
* * *
“I think there’s one more thing you need to do before we get started.” Trent leaned a long mirror up against the wall.
“And that would be?”
The warmth of his fingers jolted her as he wrapped them around her wrists. “Don’t panic when I say this. Just hear me out.”
The tone of his voice unsettled her.
“You need a before.”
“A what?”
“A before … a photograph … to compare to the after. To see how far you have come.”
“NO!” The idea was curdling in her stomach. Feeling chilled, she grabbed for her T-shirt. “I have twenty different angles from the trial. I don’t need another view.”
“You do,” he said, reaching to brush her hair behind her ear. “This is for you. Just you. No one will ever see it if you don’t want them to.”
“I can’t … I don’t…” Panic was closing in. Her chest was tightening.
“Someday you’re going to make your peace with this, sweetheart. It’ll be a painful step that shaped the incredible person that you are. You’ll be proud of your own strength and determination, and you’ll wish you had your own record of this very moment. When you changed the path you were on.”
Harper looked at Trent. She could feel the sincerity radiating from him, and realized he was right. She took her phone from her back pocket.
The Strongest Steel Page 6
