He watched as Harper tucked into her shrimp al ajillo, the creamy garlic sauce likely seasoned to perfection, as she listened politely to his mom go on about the latest sale at JCPenney. Harper glanced up at him and smiled.
“Thanks for choosing this place, Mom. It’s been a while since I came here.” Knowing him well, his parents had taken them to his favorite Cuban restaurant, Versailles, in Little Havana, the proud center of the Cuban community. Once you got past the ornately mirrored walls and row of large chandeliers, it was a pretty cool place. Just about every politician with ambition had drunk the rich café and kissed babies here. Bush, Thompson, Cain, they’d all sipped their coffees for the perfect photo op. If you wanted the Cuban vote, you started the campaign at Versailles.
“Hey,” Harper exclaimed as he speared one of her shrimp with his fork, smiling at her as he put it in his mouth.
“You can have some of mine,” he mumbled over the tasty shrimp. He loaded his fork with his ropa vieja, the shredded beef threatening to topple. “Open.”
“Mmm. That’s so good. We’ll have to come back so I can try everything.”
Yeah, he wanted to bring her back here. Take to her to some of the best restaurants in the area. And travel with her. She hadn’t been on vacation in nearly five years, hadn’t even ventured outside of Miami since moving here, and it was about time someone corrected that. The show, if it worked out, would certainly help him be the one to do it. Their lifestyle would change exponentially if it happened. But he wasn’t going to get her hopes up only to disappoint her. That path was a painful one.
Harper leaned over and whispered in his ear. “What’s got you looking so serious over there?” The warmth of her breath and her lips on his neck felt way better than she’d likely intended.
He turned and kissed her gently behind her ear. “There’s a full moon tonight and I’m wondering if I can get you to let me make love to you on the balcony.”
He felt like a heel as she blushed and laughed at him. Lying didn’t come naturally to him, and it felt particularly unsettling to be lying to Harper.
There was a very real chance he wouldn’t get the show once the producers realized he had no experience even remotely close to what they were looking for. And it wasn’t like the world really needed to know he’d failed at something if he didn’t get it. He had firsthand experience of seeing that look of disappointment on the face of someone he’d loved, and he wasn’t ready to see it there again.
“Any chance Drea might be able to cover some of your shifts before I go so we could spend some more time together?”
He watched her text her friend, doing his best to ignore the whisper that told him lying to her was a really bad idea.
* * *
“Remember, put the strongest body part you have available into the weakest part of them you can find. Let’s go again.” Harper memorized every word. Trent had said Frankie was an incredible fighter, had even shown her some of Frankie’s fighting footage online, but learning from him was worth the pain.
Harper flinched as Frankie grabbed her right arm slightly above her wrist. She rotated her arm at the elbow in a clockwise direction, forcing his hand to break his grasp. Raising her left hand, she aimed for his eyes with her fingers.
“Great, Harper. That was much better.” Harper took a deep breath. The amount of body contact she was experiencing was jolting but not quite panic-worthy. Frankie passed Harper her water bottle and she gratefully downed a few large gulps. She was sweating from places she didn’t know were capable of sweating.
“Ready to go again?” They’d been at it for nearly forty-five minutes, and it was as tough as any workout Harper had ever done.
“Sure thing, coach,” she groaned.
“You want to try an approach from behind to end the session?” Frankie scrutinized her face, watching for her reaction.
“Not really, but I have to get past this, right?”
“You need to remember that you are worth defending. You need to have courage, in the moment of attack, to take action. You might not like those actions. Hurting someone else doesn’t come naturally to most of us. But in that moment, you need to remember that you have a God-given right to defend yourself and do it unflinchingly.”
“When you put it like that.” Harper gave him a weak smile. “Let’s try it.”
“For starters, I’ll let you know when my arms are coming. You just have to get out of the hold. We’ll save the surprise grab for next week.”
Strong, muscular arms came around her shoulders and folded across her chest, palms holding tight to opposite wrists. Harper’s blood pressure spiked, her heart beating fast. They’re not his arms, they’re not his arms, she repeated to herself over and over.
Her feet were free, and her hands could do something to the lower part of his body. Think, Harper, think.
“Come on, Harper. If this was for real, you’d be running out of time.” The feel of Frankie’s breath on her neck made her shudder.
She bent forward fast, taking him with her, and pinched the insides of both his thighs before lifting her foot and stamping down hard on his arch.
Frankie released her immediately, cursing and holding his foot.
“Holy shit, Frankie. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Are you kidding me? That was the best I’ve seen out of you all night. That’s what you need to get out of a dangerous situation, but we’ll work on it coming from a place of control rather than a place of panic, okay?”
The showers in Frankie’s gym were utilitarian, but the water ran hot for much longer than the tiny tank in her apartment, so Harper indulged before heading home.
With the towel wrapped securely around her, Harper walked over to the lockers and grabbed her phone. She sat down on a bench that had been pushed up against the wall.
Can’t eat this without thinking of you! Trent had snapped an éclair with a bite taken out.
Harper laughed. Miss you, too!
She closed the message and saw the unsolved anagram. Father wrongdoer cheek abasement. It couldn’t be normal for her heart to beat that fast. The panic she had wrestled into submission earlier flooded through her.
For some reason, this anagram seemed harder to solve than the others. Harper had tried at various points in the day to solve it but appeared to be getting nowhere.
There were only eleven vowels so there couldn’t be more than five or six words. Unless someone had used goateed to throw off the averages. There was no P or Y so neither Taylor nor Harper was in this one. Which didn’t feel like a relief.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the clinical white tiles of the steamy shower room. No I, so no is, in, or it. Missing letters were as big a clue as included letters.
If she could just prove the message was clearly from Nathan through the choice of words. Or find some kind of irrefutable proof that would show she wasn’t imagining things. Trent would believe her—of that, Harper was certain—but nobody else would. That still wasn’t a good enough reason to drag him into her mess.
She opened her eyes and reached into her purse, pulling out her waitressing notepad. Carefully, she transposed the letters into a single alphagram, one long list of alphabetical letters. Hmm … the letter E appeared six times, meaning it would likely be in every word, maybe twice. And it increased the likelihood that the article used was the.
She struck through the three letters T, H, and E. Each letter appeared twice. Heart … the heart. Home is where the heart is—no F in it. A loving heart is the truest wisdom … thank you Charles Dickens … again with the F.
Harper tightened the towel around her chest and looked up at the ceiling. Heart quotes.
A terrifying realization washed over her. She sat up suddenly, crossing letters off the list furiously until there were none left.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’ll be seeing you soon.
Shit.
Chapter Seventeen
The view over Tinseltown was as intimidatin
g as it was inspiring. Michael’s office was on an upper floor of a glass-and-chrome goliath of a building. All-white leather sofas and electric-blue pillows, like a bad episode of MTV Cribs had thrown up in there. Not really his cup of tea. For a second he thought about handing Michael one of Kit’s cards.
It seemed like hours since the giant letters L, A, and X had disappeared in his rearview mirror, but in reality it had been a few days. It had been great to catch up with Shane. They’d biked the El Camino Real up to Los Padres National Forest and spent the afternoon hiking the canyons. The ink trade show they’d attended had given him some great ideas, though he couldn’t see himself getting into tattooing eyeballs anytime soon. Serious ick factor.
Today, he’d crawled along the 405 to Century City, completed a couple of interviews with some bigwigs, and prepped for the next day’s screen tests. Exhausted, he couldn’t wait to hit the hotel after the last task of the day—and the most exciting one.
Michael pushed the glass door open and walked in talking to the lead singer of Preload. It was one of Trent’s favorite bands, and he was hoping he didn’t have one of those tongue-tied fan moments.
“Trent, let me introduce you to Dred. Dred, this is Trent Andrews, the artist whose work we all liked.”
Trent stood to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you, man. I’m a big fan. Thought the last album was sick, but Screwed is still my favorite.”
“Glad you liked it. It was a bit different for us. Big fan of your work too. Love what I’ve seen so far. The dragon you did was insane.”
Dred was eye to eye with Trent. Dressed in dark green, ripped-up cargo pants with shit-kicker boots that were unlaced and a leather jacket, he gave off a “Don’t fuck with me” aura. Trent admired that in a man.
“I see you got a pretty deadly set of tattoos yourself.” Dred nodded his chin toward Trent’s arms, and Trent put them out in front of him, turning them to let Dred study Junior’s hard work.
“Yeah, thanks. Had it done by the person I apprenticed with. Legendary tattoo artist out of Miami.”
“I’m thinking of getting my halfs turned full, maybe down my hands.” Dred stood up again and pulled off his leather jacket. “What do you think?”
After an hour of bonding over music and tattoos, it was clear that even if they didn’t pick him for the show, he’d made a good friend in Dred. Same sense of humor and taste in music, tattoos, and cars. When Dred asked him to go drinking with his boys that night, it was a no-brainer.
“Listen, I gotta go take care of some paperwork of my own for this shit, but why don’t I swing by the hotel and pick you up around eight?”
It was nearly six when Trent pulled into the luxurious L’Ermitage hotel. He came to a stop by the tall pillars of the covered walkway. A liveried valet came dashing out of the hotel and took his keys before getting his case out of the trunk. It felt a bit weird having someone half his size retrieve his luggage, like he somehow wasn’t capable of getting it himself. He tipped the guy and went to check in, trying not to gawk at what was likely the best hotel he’d ever stayed at.
The large open-plan room was bright and airy. A low bed sitting on a wooden plinth dominated the bedroom area, piled with way more cushions than any guy would realistically use. He opened the sliding doors and took in his surroundings—gardens pruned to within an inch of their life. He turned back to the room and sank down into one of the two large sofas that flanked a glass table. A wrapped gift and envelope sat atop it.
Trent, Glad you could come out and see us. Think this is the start of a fantastic journey. Michael.
A bottle of Louis Royer brandy. Not his usual drink of choice. Beer or whiskey was more his thing, but he appreciated the sentiment.
Hanging his clothes in the closet, he wondered what Harper would make of his room, which was twice the size of her apartment.
Harper. He was beginning to regret having been dishonest with her. Even he could see the double standard in pressing her to be honest with him and then keeping this back. If he’d told her, she’d be here with him now and he could ravage her on that wicked excuse for a bed. It wasn’t like his agenda was jam-packed either. The meeting was only a day and a half of the trip. The rest was all R & R, buddies, beers, and maybe a bike ride up the coast. Too late, he realized just how much better it would all have been with her there.
He headed out of the suite in search of dinner. Passing a boutique, he remembered that he still owed her a polka-dot bikini. Maybe he’d try and pick it up while he was here in LA. Yeah. He loved the idea of her in a tiny bikini, on a wide lounge chair where he could climb over her while she was hot and oiled.
He reached down to adjust himself. Definitely a mistake not bringing her along.
Maybe they’d have something to celebrate when he got back, though. If this screen test worked out okay, he’d be making some really good coin. Taking a trip with her would be awesome. They could go last minute to Mexico or somewhere in the Caribbean. Her next appointment was likely to be her last, and after a couple of weeks her back would be fully healed. They could afford to take an amazing trip in a level of comfort not quite within his current reach.
Hell, maybe he could even talk to her about moving in. It was getting old carrying a bag of clean clothes in the back of his car in case he got the opportunity to stay the night. Yeah, it was moving fast, but this was it for him. He’d known after the last tattoo appointment, but seeing her with his parents and sister had confirmed it.
He could only hope that Harper was heading to the same place.
* * *
Second Circle? The fifth is for you.
The circle of Hell for anger. Did Nathan know about the tattoo studio? Was he letting her know how furious he was? How on earth did he know? Outside of Trent’s immediate group of friends, only Lydia knew about their relationship, and she trusted her lawyer with her life.
Harper looked at the anagram she’d unscrambled—Offences stultify horrid choice?—and threw her phone back into her purse. Four messages total. It was really scaring her now. It was definitely not a coincidence. It was Nathan, but how could she convince anyone else? The first message she could convince herself had been a wrong number. The second had made her nervous. The third had taken a while longer to figure out: Father wrongdoer cheek abasement—Absence makes the heart grow fonder. But four? What were her options? In the highly unlikely event it wasn’t Nathan, the investigation would still start with him and she couldn’t risk the Chicago P.D. passing her whereabouts along. If it was him, she was screwed. The Miami cops might help, but their first call would be to Chicago, and she could only imagine their response. At best, they’d make her a laughingstock, discredit her, and spin the story like they did at her trial. At worst, they’d persuade the Miami police to share her location. How did police cooperation between states work anyway? Would they be able to do that, or did the police have confidentiality rules about sharing information with other forces? Lydia would likely know.
What if Nathan went after Trent? Or the studio? Who knew what his reach was or what four years in prison had done to his moral code? Would he just come after her, or would he really hurt Trent?
As she pulled the break room door open, her phone rang. She ignored the no-phones-while-working rule. It could be Trent.
“Taylor!” Lydia exclaimed. “I’m so glad to get ahold of you.”
Harper tried not to sound too disappointed. “Hey, Lydia. I was just thinking about you. I’m not supposed to take personal calls on my shift here.”
“Ah, yes. The coffee shop. I hate to have to tell you this, Taylor, but Nathan’s parole was approved this morning.”
Blood rushed to her head, leaving her extremities chilled. Harper put her head down between her knees. This day was always going to come; she’d just hoped it wouldn’t come quite so quickly. She breathed in, slowly and deeply, a little surprised at how quickly she was able to get herself back under control. Two months ago and the news would have provoked a full-blown panic att
ack.
“Taylor, are you okay?”
Harper inhaled deeply. “Remarkably better than I thought I would be. So what happens now?” She looked down at her hand; her fingers were still. Progress.
“Well, they need to process the paperwork, arrange for release, and assign a probation officer. Did you get any more messages?”
“Yes, I have four now. How long?”
“He’ll be out in the next week, maybe even days. Taylor, I still think you should go to the police.”
“Because that worked out so well for me the first time around, right?” Harper couldn’t help herself as feelings of anger and frustration started to bubble over. “To think, if they’d done their job, I’d be with my family, still teaching. I would have felt safe with Nathan in prison.” Harper paused for a minute as the reality hit her. “I’d feel more scared if the police actually knew about this. What would happen if Miami police called Chicago to find out about Nathan, would they tell Chicago where I am?”
“Not if you tell them you have a final injunction, a restraining order, that has no expiration date on it. Nathan, or you, would have to file to have that amended. They’d tread carefully.”
But it wasn’t a guarantee. The only way to get away from him for good would be to run and not tell anyone this time where she was going—not even Lydia. But it was no longer that simple.
* * *
The floor was moving. Okay, maybe it was the ceiling. Trent fell face-first onto the bed. He squinted at the clock on the bedside table; the flashing green lights starting with a three was all he needed to know.
Holy shit, those boys could drink. They’d gone to a high-end bottle service bar and spent the night in the VIP section. Vodka and tequila had flowed like water. He was more of a beer guy but had held his own. Although now was a different matter, as his head and stomach threatened a rebellion.
Hitting the bathroom for water, he took a good look in the mirror. Christ, he looked rough. Maybe a quick shower while waiting for some of that water to kick in would be a good thing.
Standing under the cool spray, he looked at the little ledge, imagining Harper with her hands on it while she bent over for him. Despite the coldness of the shower, his cock sprang to life and needed some relief. A couple of strokes from him just weren’t going to cut it.
The Strongest Steel Page 20
