She logged into the account she shared with her parents and opened the draft folder, where a single message was waiting. Messages from her mom always cheered her, catching her up on the comings and goings back home. The message ended, as always, with “Be safe, Love Mom xxx.” Harper deleted it and replaced it with her own response before logging out.
Opening a second account, she inhaled sharply. There was an e-mail from her lawyer with a draft of her victim impact statement in it. It took another half hour of pacing in front of her laptop and two more cups of coffee before she forced herself to open it.
Reading it now was like reading about another person, a bizarre out-of-body experience of sorts. How had she survived what had been done to her? Reading the first-person account made the pain rip through her. So visceral. So real. Thirty-two stitches. A broken jaw. A broken nose. A fractured cheekbone. The list went on.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she let the tears come, shivering despite the humid Miami morning. Shoulders hunched, she physically collapsed in on herself, her forehead coming to rest on the edge of the table.
Would she ever really escape it? She’d foolishly turned a blind eye as Nathan had used more and more coke, hoping the boy she had fallen in love with would come back to her, that she’d somehow be enough for him to cling to and come back for. But the more time that passed, the more he hadn’t even tried to hide his addiction from her. When he’d been arrested, Harper had directed the police to the small metal tin Nathan kept his eight balls in. For all the good it had done her. At trial, under oath, the police officer stated she’d told him they were hers.
Everyone was using it, he’d told her, swearing it was just a pick-me-up … like alcohol. How naïve could one person be? During the trial she’d learned that a mouse, when given the choice of food, water, or cocaine, would always choose cocaine—until it starved or overdosed.
In the beginning, under her brother’s watchful eye, Nathan had been great to her. But over time he’d become someone unrecognizable. She’d always been more of a homebody, and as he spent increasingly more time with his partying friends, he’d ignored her more and more. As far as he’d been concerned, she was no longer fun, or even interesting. He’d stopped talking to her. Touching her.
Memories flooded in, her breakfast rising. She’d cooked his favorite pot roast for their two-year anniversary and it sat on the table for an hour before he finally texted that she should freeze it because he was staying out with friends. She’d left a love note made of Scrabble letters on the counter for him one evening, but found the pieces strewn around the kitchen the next morning. She’d built up the nerve to buy a sex book to try to fix that part of their relationship, and he’d laughed and said he wasn’t the one who needed it.
Finding out about his extracurricular love life had been the deal breaker. Until that point, she hadn’t realized that she would never be able to fix what was broken.
The humiliation swept through her. She ran to the bathroom just in time before her breakfast came up. Being found by her best friend, still tied to the bed. The horror in the paramedics’ eyes overshadowing their attempts at professionalism. Hearing her mother’s soothing words to her in the hospital without being able to see her because of the swelling to her face.
And Reid. Her relationship with her brother hadn’t been able to withstand the trial. Torn between his best friend and his sister, he had chosen neither. His lack of support had crushed her.
Yes, the impact statement was brutal, but it served as a stark reminder. She was doing fine on her own. Better than fine. She didn’t need to put that kind of trust in another guy, only to have her heart ripped out again. Or worse.
* * *
Trent put the phone down and leaned back in his office chair, his mind reeling with the possibilities. One phone call could change your life. Michael had walked him through the TV show idea step by step, and man, it was a great one.
The show had already been approved by the network for production and would record for eight weeks a year with the panel of judges scouting out the most talented artists in the country and giving them a shot to compete for a studio of their own. Dred Zander, singer/songwriter and all-around head case from the metal band Preload, was already signed on as a judge. The guy was a fucking legend at twenty-eight, his voice and his ink equally impressive. Meeting Dred was motivation enough to want to do the show.
Trent opened up the nondisclosure agreement Michael had e-mailed him. Junior would have loved the idea. He’d always said talent was natural. Good tattoos could be taught, but great tattoos were natural talent. Trent had always wondered how Junior could tell he was a natural back when Trent himself still hadn’t realized his talent. All Junior had known was that Trent was good with a spray can.
The show certainly would have an impact on the studio, of course. He’d need to weigh the pros and cons and discuss it with Cujo, who would end up having to pick up the slack in the studio while he was gone. Which would have been easier if one of his artists, Eric, hadn’t been fucking up lately.
The publicity it would bring for his studio would be huge. Ami James and the guys at Miami Ink had seen overwhelming success on the back of their reality show. He and Cujo could possibly expand the studio or even open another somewhere else, though leaving Miami permanently was not in his plans.
He’d ended up agreeing to fly out to Los Angeles to meet Michael, Dred, and other members of the team to check for “on-screen chemistry” —words he never thought he’d hear in a sentence with his own name. All expenses would be paid, he’d be able to visit some buddies, and he’d maybe take a bike ride up the coast and check out some West Coast studios along the way.
He sent the nondisclosure document to the printer. The rattle of the paper as it loaded into the machine was loud in the quiet of the room.
Life was certainly taking an interesting turn. Well, two. He hadn’t planned on kissing Harper last night. Hell, he hadn’t even intended to see her.
Anyone else would have already been in his bed for her one and only visit, but the thought of doing that with Harper didn’t sit right. She deserved better. And just one night wasn’t—for the first time in so long—what he wanted either. He’d been as excited as a teenager when she’d returned his kiss last night with more passion than he could imagine.
The way her lips had moved over his, how they’d opened for him. And that tentative tongue—it made him groan all over again thinking of it. Like he was a teenage girl or something, he’d gone to bed without brushing his teeth so he could continue to appreciate her sweet flavor, wondering how the rest of her would taste.
Rearranging his jeans to bring himself some relief, he grabbed his phone, deciding to call her before he went over to Cujo’s to talk to him about the show, nondisclosure be damned. He wasn’t making a decision this big without talking to his best friend. As for Harper, there was no point getting her hopes up until the ink was dry. He’d wait until the deal was done and surprise her. Maybe it was wishful thinking that they’d be a couple by then, but he wanted to make sure he had more to offer her before he put his heart on the line again.
* * *
For the second night in a row, Harper found herself standing in her shoe box of a bedroom, getting ready to do something she wasn’t quite sure how she’d been talked into. Trent had called her, and despite her attempts to say no, she’d found herself agreeing. She cursed herself as she stood helplessly looking into her narrow closet for inspiration.
One drink wouldn’t be so bad. She’d politely tell him that she just needed him to finish the tattoo. And that they could be friends, but just friends. Anything more was more than she wanted. Or needed.
With a loud huff she threw herself onto her white herringbone comforter and punched her pillow. Who was she trying to kid? No matter how many times she’d said that to herself, she eventually went back to thinking about how his lips had felt on hers. Grabbing the pillow, she pulled it over her head, using it to deaden a frustrat
ed scream.
The phone rang, making her jump.
“Hey, Harper, what’s happenin’?” Drea could be so damn cheery.
“I’m throwing a pity party and no one is invited.”
“Is it going to be an all-nighter? Are ice cream, pajamas, and a made-for-TV movie involved?”
“Funny, Drea. I’m serious.”
“I thought you’d be in your happy place, given the lip lock you and the tattoo dude got into last night.”
“Can you stop calling him the tattoo dude? His name is Trent. And this is me not in my happy place.”
“Okay. So you’re ignoring the lip lock part. Wanna come over and have dinner with me? We can hang out. I’ll share my ice cream and cable; you can bring your own PJs.”
Harper sighed. She didn’t even know who she was frustrated with anymore.
“Thanks for the offer, but it appears I have a date whether I want it or not.” The screech that came through the line nearly blew Harper’s eardrum.
“How in heck are you in a pissy mood when you have a date with a hot guy? This is a good thing, right?”
“I’m hot and cold on the idea.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that, but why?”
“I’m confused. Last night I made out with a cute guy outside a pool hall, and then today I spent my day off editing my victim impact statement before talking to my lawyer who said my not showing up in person would work in Nathan’s favor. I feel seasick thinking about it.”
“Ah honey. I can’t say I know what natural is for someone who’s gone through what you have, but I’ve got to believe this is it. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have asked for the day off and just hung out with you.”
Harper sighed. Drea always managed to settle her.
“I think you need to really start living again, Harper. Take a leap. It’s only a date. And he seems like a nice guy.”
“That’s where I get stuck. Nathan was a nice guy when I met him.” For their first date, he’d taken her to Jackson Park on a balmy Sunday afternoon. They’d strolled around the gardens holding hands and found a spot on the wooded island to set up the picnic he’d prepared.
“From what you told me, drugs and circumstance changed him. By the end of all that, he wasn’t even the guy you fell in love with.”
Harper propped a pillow against the headboard, and sat up to lean against it. “At some point I know I’m going to have to get over this. But it’s like ivy. Every time I try to chop part of it off, another branch wraps around and threatens to suffocate me.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Harper. You’ve made some huge physical changes. You left your home in who-knows-where. You settled here. You found a job with an amazeballs coworker. You’re taking steps to erase the physical signs of what happened. You’re just catching up on the emotional ones is all.”
Harper took a deep breath. Drea was right. The emotional swings were giving her whiplash. Maybe it was simply time to just give it a shot.
* * *
“You are not going to believe the hot chicks that just arrived for a walk-in.” Cujo burst into the kitchen where Trent was grabbing a coffee. “Seriously man, fucking tens.”
Trent took a gulp and laughed at Cujo, who was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Tattooing hot chicks while listening to death metal was his definition of “job satisfaction.”
“How many?”
“Three. And they are all fully locked and loaded. One for you, one for me, and one for Eric.” Trent checked the time on his phone, performing some quick math in his head.
“Is Lia busy right now? I’m thinking of cutting loose.” He desperately wanted to get home and shower before picking Harper up for drinks. He was hoping to get there early enough to coax her into dinner.
“What the fuck, dude? What part of hot, young, loaded, semi naked girls did you not get?” Cujo dragged his hand over the top of his head; the look of pure exasperation on his face was laughable.
“Lia’s client this morning was a no-show, so she can take this instead. And try to be professional. At least wait until after you’ve finished her tattoo to invite her back to your place.”
“Your loss, dude. Wait.” Cujo stopped and turned on his way back out of the kitchen. “Why are you cutting out?”
“Places to go, Cuj. People to see. You know how it is.”
Cujo’s eyes screwed up at the corners as he scrutinized Trent’s face. “You never pass on hot chicks.”
“So?”
“You’re seeing Harper tonight. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re hooking up with her.”
“Would that be a problem if I was?”
Cujo raised his hands in front of him, taking a step back. “No, dude. No insult intended, man. I like her. Whatever shit she’s got going on is bizarre, but I like her. Hey Harper’s bizarre … like that chick mag. Get it?”
“Got it,” Trent replied, closing his eyes briefly and praying for the patience to not clock Cujo. “Not discussing it with you dude because: a) We don’t have vaginas, and b) You’re a dumb-ass.”
“Okay. Gotta go. Got a sexy ass to decorate with … and I quote … ‘the most sparkly butterfly EVER.’ Good luck tonight, bro. Got to believe it ain’t going to be an easy path.”
“Cheers, Cuj.” Trent turned to rinse his coffee mug and put it in the sink. It might not be an easy path, but it was the one he was on and he could only hope there’d be signposts.
He fired Harper a quick text to let her know he’d finished early and to ask her to join him for dinner. Her response, a curt “sure,” didn’t inspire confidence—something he couldn’t stop worrying about as he rushed home, showered, and then drove to her place.
Harper’s four-story building, styled in the classic art deco that Miami was known for, had seen better days. The city had done an incredible job of preserving so many of the historic buildings, but some, like hers, had fallen through the cracks. The shade of pink paint that his mom always referred to as “flamingo” was faded and chipped, and what must have once been white was now yellowy-gray, patched over in places with gray plaster that someone hadn’t gotten around to painting. The front door was a strange blue that looked totally out of place. He found her buzzer and gave it a quick press.
“Trent?” He heard her, but not through the intercom. Taking a couple of steps back down the stairs, he shielded his eyes and looked up. Harper was leaning out of a third-floor window.
“I’ll be down in a second.” While he waited, he fired off a quick text to Pixie about the new batch of green ink he’d used today. The color wasn’t as vibrant as usual. He pressed send, just as the door swung open. Phone forgotten, he took a moment to take her in.
She wore a fitted cream sundress with red roses on it, cinched at the waist with a red belt. Her hair was down and perfectly straight, reflecting the last of the early evening sunshine. But it was the shoes that really got him. He’d only ever seen her in flip-flops or flats, but these … these were fuck-me shoes. Thanks to his sister, Kit, he happened to know the dark red patent leather shoes were Mary Janes. Their spectacular heels did exactly what they meant to—showed off the shape of her exquisite calves.
“You look incredible,” he said, grinning. “Like, seriously hot.” He swirled his finger, silently instructing her to twirl.
Smiling shyly, she did exactly as instructed. Wow, she really was rocking a hot little body.
“Thank you. I think. I borrowed the dress from Joanie at work. You look great too,” she said quietly. Thankfully, he’d thrown on a collared shirt and worn dark jeans, or else she would have seriously outdressed him.
He held out his hand to her as they walked to the car, but she didn’t take it. Maybe he should offer to hold her cardigan for her or something so she could?
“Those are some killer shoes.”
Harper didn’t say a word. Just focused on where she was stepping, not even looking at him. Not quite the response he expected.
“Are there more like those in you
r closet?”
“A few.”
Trent held the car door open for her because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and because he also got to catch a glimpse of those perfectly toned thighs as she lowered herself into the seat. He closed the door and took a deep breath.
At the fiery tapas restaurant, aptly named Diablo, Trent watched Harper push the chorizo al vino around her plate. She’d picked at the tabla de carne while responding politely to his attempts to start a real conversation.
“So how long have you worked at José’s?” he asked, hoping it would spur her to tell him some of how she ended up in Miami.
“A couple of years.” She murmured a polite thank you to the waiter who removed their plates, watching wide-eyed as a server placed the huge paella de mariscos on the table.
He ate a forkful; it was his favorite meal. But tonight, though the shrimp was succulent and the rice cooked to perfection, it was like he couldn’t feel the flavors—not with Harper being like this. Twice she looked up as if she were about to say something, but both times she stopped. This was not the Harper who had shot pool with him last night and had kissed him out of his pants on the curb.
Trent sipped at his one glass of wine, wishing for all the world that he hadn’t chosen to drive. A tall, cold beer would be great now. Or a pitcher of it. Or a keg.
“I need to ask you a real personal question, Harper. And I want the most honest answer you can give me.”
She stopped studying her food and looked up at him. Her shoulders dropped. Clearly, she knew what was coming.
“What gives? Last night you were having a great time, smiling and talking. And that kiss, by the way, kept me awake half the night with highly inappropriate thoughts. Today, you seem like you don’t want to be here. What happened?”
Harper bit her lip. The hand holding her fork started to twitch.
“Just say what’s on your mind,” he said gently, taking hold of her hand, stilling her fingers. “Good or bad, we can talk about it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s been a shitty day. I have stuff going on in my life, and I keep going backward and forward as to whether now is the right time for me to be doing this.” Pushing the rest of her food around on her plate, she avoided looking at him.
The Strongest Steel Page 9
