“His name is Deonte Walker. Wants to be the American answer to some Brit artist called Banksy. Calls his quote-unquote art Urban Mindfulness.” Lopes’s voice was laced with sarcasm.
The kid was smart enough to understand the store name, come up with a clever response. Trent replayed the video, watched the way he created the font, kept consistency in the spacing, nice and tight, the way Trent liked it. Deonte had some talent. There was only one decision he could make.
“I am not pressing charges,” Trent said.
“You’re not?”
No, But I want to meet Deonte. He and I have a lot in common.”
They finalized the details and hung up the phone. What a crazy coincidence. The only thing missing was being there to catch Deonte. Instead he’d been in LA with Michael.
Michael had called him two days ago and finalized the contract. It was official. In a matter of months, Trent was going to be able to add TV presenter to his resume. The idea still made him laugh. Being on TV had never been in his line of sight.
Checking his bank account that morning, he saw the proof sitting there—a lovely six-figure signing bonus that he planned to fully spoil Harper with. Drea had mentioned an amazing pair of shoes that Harper had been worshipping. Part of him just wanted to get it over with. Tell her tonight. He was going to be able to offer Harper everything she could dream of—unless she wanted a really big yacht, in which case he was still fucked. But outside of the yacht possibility, he was all good.
There was a small piece of his gut that said she was going to be a bit upset that he hadn’t involved her in the process sooner, but once she got over that, she had to see how good it was going to be for the two of them.
Taking one last look in the mirror, he tucked the envelope into his inside pocket and straightened the black jacket he was wearing. Sure, it might be covering a black shirt worn untucked over black jeans, but it was still a jacket.
Tonight felt like an incredibly special occasion, the start of an exciting journey in their life. He wanted to ensure that Harper understood he only wanted to start it with her.
Grabbing his keys and sliding his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, he turned off the lights of the condo and headed down to flag a cab.
After giving the cab driver Harper’s address, Trent rested his elbow on the door handle and rubbed his chin as he looked out of the window.
He was in love with her. All the signs were there. Didn’t want to be away from her. Wanted to stay with her and keep her safe. Loved making out with her. Loved making love to her. He smiled at that one. Yeah. He loved her, and he was going to tell her tonight.
* * *
Leaning back in her chair, Harper removed the napkin from her lap, placing it down next to the remains of what was once a pear soufflé. “That was so good, Trent. I may well burst if I eat one more thing.” The food had been to die for.
“I have one last surprise for you, Harp.” Trent reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a long white envelope.
“I’ve big news. The reason I was going to LA, well, I’ve been asked to be part of a tattooing reality TV show. It’s going to be huge. I’ll explain the show later, but they want me to judge the damn thing. It’ll mean eight weeks of filming, but the money they offered me, Harper, it’s going to set us up. I want us to move in together.” Trent reached across the table and handed her the envelope. She opened it, and pulled out two tickets for a flight leaving the next day to Los Angeles. His eyes were bright and wide as he smiled. “We can get a house or a bigger condo, whatever you want.”
A hollow feeling settled in the pit of her stomach in contrast to Trent’s obvious excitement.
He fidgeted in his seat before leaning forward to kiss the back of her hand, the gesture causing her chest to tighten. “You don’t even have to work if you don’t want to,” he said, his laugh deep and rich. “We’re off to LA tomorrow to finish up the paperwork. I need to do some meetings, but I want you there with me. I missed you last time.”
Harper tried to filter the information. The show. A trip. Moving in. It was too much information to absorb. And he was looking at her. His smile usually melted her, but right now, she could barely focus.
“You want that kind of celebrity?” she asked without filtering the myriad of questions bombarding her brain. She’d seen firsthand how committed he was to making Second Circle successful. The hours he put in, and the effort behind his artwork. But TV? His looks alone were admittedly perfect for television, but he’d not struck her as fame hungry.
“I don’t really care about the celebrity one way or another, Harp.” His thumb rubbed the back of her hand gently. “It’s about proving myself. Being the best that I can be. Being something … I don’t know … more.”
Harper’s head started to spin. This couldn’t be happening. With Nathan out and all the weird stuff happening to her, she couldn’t do anything that would put them in the public eye. A small part of her recognized this was an amazing opportunity for Trent, and she wished mournfully that it were as simple as leaping from her chair to kiss him in congratulations.
“I … Trent … I’m not sure that’s something that’s good for me right now.” She pulled her hand away, picked up her wineglass, and took a sip of dessert wine. It did little to relieve the dryness in her throat.
“Well, I am hoping to change your mind about that, sweetheart.” He leaned back in his chair, and straightened the cuff of his jacket. “They want to film the Miami episode in the studio, in Second Circle. Can you imagine how awesome that would be for the guys? The kind of traffic it would generate? And I talked to the producers. We’re going to do an episode on scars,” Trent continued excitedly. “And I want to include you.”
“Me?” Harper said quickly. “Why would you want to do that?” Her? On television? So not happening. Who knew what might provoke Nathan? What would finally push him over the edge?
Trent shook his head. “I want the world to see you. To be as incredibly proud of you as I am. And to show how effective tattoos can be at covering scars. Maybe the show can give something back.”
“I can’t do that,” Harper stammered. The idea of showing strangers turned her stomach. She’d only just gotten used to showing her friends. “I can’t believe you’d ask me to do that.”
“Why not?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “Don’t you understand the power of your own story? How much of an inspiration you could be to other women in your situation?”
“I don’t feel much like an inspiration.” She looked out of the arched glass window, watched a yellow taxi speed along the street outside. Like the taxi, the conversation was passing by too quickly, and she felt displaced.
“Yes, you are, darlin’. You could help so many people if you were willing to do it.”
“It’s not just about that, Trent. This conversation isn’t about me appearing on the show. It’s about our life. It’s good as it is. The studio does well. I’m settled. I have you, and our friends. I don’t need more. It’s too much.” After everything she had been through, what she had was plenty.
“No, it’s not, Harper. Stop trying to convince yourself that it’s enough. It’s a half-life. It’s too many compromises. Too much settling because it’s easier. Safer.” Trent’s voice raised in frustration.
Harper looked down at the remains of her dessert, the food she’d eaten felt heavy in her stomach. Was Trent right? Was she really happy, or was she trying to convince herself she was? Before she could answer the thought, Trent spoke again.
“You want to teach. I know you do. I’ve seen the look on your face when you read an essay of Joanie’s. Or when you come home, full of energy, after an afternoon with Milo. Christ, we drive past a school and you sigh. Out loud. And it kills me to know you would give anything to be inside teaching those kids. It feels like you’re stuck.”
A couple seated at a nearby table peered over at them, their argument obviously carrying across the sapphire-blue carpet. The maître
d’ and a waiter looked at them curiously.
“I’m not stuck,” she replied in an angry whisper. “Yes. I love teaching. But registering isn’t something I want to do. Yes, Nathan knows where I am, so it isn’t that, but I’d feel horrible if he showed up where I was working, or worse, I had to leave a class midway through a term because of him.”
“And so it comes back to him. And leaving. You’re right. This reaction isn’t about the show. It’s about your life. You’re half in, Harper.” Trent leaned forward in his seat, tapped his fingers hard on the table a couple of times before screwing his hands into a frustrated fist. “You want to know why I want to do the show. Because I am all in. I love what I do. I am proud of the studio. Of the guys I work with. I want to tell the world about it. All. In.” He slammed the flat of his hand onto the table causing the glasses to tremble. Frustration rolled off him in waves. “Fuck. Are you really going to let him have that much control over you that you spend the next five, fifteen, fifty years worrying about him?”
“What do you expect me to do? There’s nothing wrong with a healthy dose of self-preservation. I’m happy with what we have.”
“You keep saying that. But why do we have to settle for what we have? Status fucking quo is for everybody else, Harper. But not us.”
“But for now. With his parole. And the messages. And the vandalism to the studio—”
“You think that was him?” Trent cut her off in surprise. “It was some kid. Lopes showed me the video today.”
It wasn’t Nathan? Really? She’d been so certain but Trent had no reason to lie. Relief flooded through her. Nathan wasn’t as close to Trent as she suspected. Even more reason to not do the show. “This time it wasn’t. But the show, with both of us on it, that could push him to do something terrible.”
“You know, fuck, I kind of wish we could go see Nathan. Confront the bastard. I’d like to beat seven kinds of shit out of the guy for what he did to you. Because the show is something we should be celebrating, not debating if it’s safe enough to do.”
“You should celebrate. But it’s not for me. We aren’t on the same page at all. I need some air.” Harper grabbed her purse and hoped she could keep her dinner down until she got outside. Her heels clicked loudly on the tiled lobby as she ran out of the restaurant, swiping a finger under her eyes to try to keep the tears in.
Desperately, she looked up and down the street and signaled to a cab heading in the other direction. As it completed a U-turn to stop in front of her, she became aware of Trent’s footsteps.
Grabbing her shoulder, he spun her around.
“What the fuck, Harper? What just happened?”
“I can’t do this, Trent. You want too much from me.” Tears, refusing to be constrained, were rolling down her cheeks.
“I want you to want too much from yourself. You’re not that girl hiding behind an apron using five percent of her brain to make minimum wage. You are more than that. Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re okay with this.”
“I don’t want the spotlight on us, Trent. I want to stay hidden. I know you think I’m crazy, but I really believe he’s out to get us. And I can’t take the chance the added attention the show will bring won’t lead him right to us, to you, that it won’t send him over the edge.” Her whole body shook. She needed to kick her heels off before she fell down.
“You want me to quit the show? Okay. I won’t do it. I’ll find a way out of it. Heck, I’ll even pack up and leave with you. But if it’s not the show, it will be something else. Are you never going to marry me because you don’t want to register the license? And if we have a baby, are you going to put a fake name on his or her birth certificate? Are you never going to drive those kids to baseball because you don’t have a driver’s license? Are you never going to travel anywhere because you don’t want to renew your passport? I can walk away from the show, Harper, I can even walk away from Miami, but what happens the next time? Because our future has got to add up to more than that.”
“I’m sorry, Trent. I know how good this opportunity is for you, but you made a life-changing decision. Without me. I get that our relationship was pretty new, and I don’t really deserve any kind of say. It’s great for you. I know why you did it, but I can’t be a part of it.”
“You seriously can’t give me any kind of grief for not talking to you about something important, Harper. You’re all out of currency on that one.” His sarcasm cut like a knife.
“That’s not fair and you know it,” Harper said quietly. “I’ve told you everything.”
“Eventually. Maybe.” Trent was shouting now.
“Maybe? You think I am keeping shit from you? Well, I’m glad to know what you really think of me. Screw you,” she cried and rushed into the taxi.
* * *
“FUCK!” Trent shouted and punched the streetlight. The pain of concrete decimating his knuckles cut through the overwhelming sense of frustration and grief at Harper having left him standing impotent by the side of the road.
Maybe. Of all the dumb fucking things to say. The moment the word had tumbled angrily out of his mouth, he’d wished he could scoop it up and put it back again. Of course she’d told him everything. He knew she had.
“Sir?”
“What?” he yelled as he turned. The maître d’ from the hotel was standing behind him, cowering, holding the bill for the meal.
Trent quickly went inside, paid, and got a napkin filled with ice for his knuckles. Flagging down a taxi, he headed to her condo while calling her phone. It went straight to voice mail, a sure sign that she’d turned it off.
He’d thought through every possible outcome. She’d be crazy excited. Maybe mad because he hadn’t told her, but the good would outweigh the bad. Never had he considered that she’d dump him on the side of the road for finally becoming someone. He could give her everything Yasmin had accused him of not being able to provide, and yet it had somehow ended up not being enough.
Part of him wondered whether he should have pushed her like that. But it was killing him to see her settling into a life of low expectations.
Jumping out of the cab, he ran up the path to her building and let himself in. To think they had only exchanged keys days ago.
“Harper … Harp, you back here?”
He slammed on lights as he went from room to room, calling out her name.
Think. Think. She wouldn’t have gone back to his place. That he knew for sure.
Drea. He looked down at his watch. It was past eleven, so José’s would definitely be closed by now. Shit, he didn’t even know where Drea lived, but he had her cell phone number from when he’d organized the party.
He cradled the phone under his ear as he paced the length of the living room so he could check out his knuckles. Removing the napkin ice pack, he flexed them slowly.
What good was a tattoo artist with broken fingers? And what kind of impression would it create for the TV show? Fuck.
“Hey, this is Drea. Sorry I can’t take your call…” Where the hell was she?
He redialed and got the exact same thing. She was his only chance of finding Harper. He dialed a third time.
“What the hell did you do?”
Trent breathed a sigh of relief. Harper must be with her if she already knew.
“I’ll be honest, I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but I need to talk to her. I need to apologize. Where is she?” Christ, he needed some pain relief for his hand. He walked to the kitchen and started to look through her drawers to find something he could take.
“She doesn’t want to see you.” His heart felt like it was being crushed like a car in a wrecking yard.
“Please, Drea. I need to see her. I gotta set this right. There’s still so much we need to talk about.”
“The best thing you can do is give her some time. She’s not decided if she’s heartbroken or furious. Give her some space. I’ll tell her you called.”
“Wait. Where do you live? I’ll come over.” He
was desperate.
“I’m sorry, Trent. Good night.”
Dropping his phone onto the counter, he leaned forward, rested his forearms on the cool surface, and dropped his head.
It had somehow gone from the best night of his life to the worst, and he had no idea how to recover it. The sick, sick feeling in his stomach matched the throbbing of his fingers.
He pulled open another drawer to look for some painkillers, and he found a white binder. He opened it and saw the cover letter was from a lawyer in Chicago. The case was noted as Kennedy v. Bell. It must be the file she’d mentioned that contained all the trial information.
“Photographic evidence submitted by the Plaintiff,” it began.
Eight hours later he stood at the airport, feeling like his insides had gone through a blender. With Cujo’s help, he’d exhausted every avenue to find Drea. They had gone to José’s to see if either of them had shown up for work, but he guessed Drea had already asked José not to say anything. Not knowing Drea’s last name, they’d been unable to track her down, and she hadn’t responded to Trent’s texts.
He had a contractual obligation to get on this fucking airplane, but the last thing he felt like doing was leaving Harper with their relationship messed up like this. He’d asked Cujo to keep an eye out for her and felt better knowing she was staying at Drea’s.
As always when it came to Harper, his emotions were complicated. He was pissed as all hell. His heart had been ripped out of his chest. His stomach felt like he was going through turbulence—especially when he thought about what he’d seen in that file.
The evidence. His worst imaginings hadn’t lived up to seeing her injuries in glorious Technicolor. He got it now. In a way he hadn’t been able to from just her descriptions. The photographs, in their rawest form taken just after the attacks, had brought home just how gut-wrenchingly awful it had been for Harper.
He pulled out his phone one last time, but instead of calling her, he opened his photos and scrolled to the picture he’d taken of her the night they’d “moved in” to each other’s homes. They’d made love in his bed, and she was lying on her front with the white sheet pulled low down her back. Her dark hair lay curled around her shoulders, and she had a soft, all-knowing smile on her lips. Her eyes sparkled as she looked toward the camera and was just about to tell him off for taking her picture.
The Strongest Steel Page 26
