The Strongest Steel (2 page)

Harper paused.
Macbeth
. Act 5, if she wasn’t mistaken. The hallucinations of the manipulative Lady Macbeth, it was one of her favorites. She wanted to help the girls, but schoolbooks and notes were another reminder of things she swore she’d left in the past long ago. That life was gone. Harper thought about the blue envelope sitting in her employee locker in the back of the shop. She could no longer ignore the letter, regardless of how much easier life would be if she never opened the damn thing. For the second time that day, her chest tightened. It was better to know. After a quick glance around to make sure no one else needed her, she slipped into the back room and ripped the envelope open, wishing that the past could really stay buried.

*   *   *

“What the hell did you make me drink last night, Cuj?”

The coffee scalded Trent’s tongue as he took a sip and leaned back against the front window of Second Circle. Straight-up black as he liked it and strong enough to stand a spoon in, but nowhere near enough to take the edge off the five-alarm bell ringing in his head.

“Some weird-shit martini those girls were drinking. They wanted us to toast your birthday one more time. I told you they were trouble.”

“I didn’t hear any complaining when that blonde had her hand down your pants.”

Cujo rubbed his hand over his bald head and then fingered the bar in his eyebrow, grinning smugly.

“Man, she was freaky. How was the redhead?”

“Curved in all the right places and a yoga teacher,” Trent said. Cujo barked out a laugh. Trent looked down at his scuffed-up boot resting on the window ledge and made a mental note to take care of the sill’s chipped paintwork.

Second Circle Tattoos was his baby and his pride, the by-product of a misspent youth salvaged by his mentor, Jimmy “Junior” Silver. It had been a long journey to the store’s current location on one of the up-and-coming streets in Miami. Years of apprenticing before going out alone—years he and Cujo had spent in a crappy studio before biting the bullet and investing in this place. The team he’d built had a solid rep, with people coming from out of town to see them, and the craziness of his calendar reminded him daily that people liked his work.

Knocking back a long draw on the coffee, Trent caught sight of an incredible brunette, classically beautiful, making her way down the sidewalk on the other side of the road.

Cujo let out a long, quiet whistle. “That is one mighty fine-looking distraction.”

Trent stared, grateful he’d pulled out his shades to enjoy his coffee break. Shit, what was she wearing? A staid button-down shirt that appeared two sizes too big, paired with saggy khaki shorts that seemed to have lost their will to live. Take away the ugly clothes, though, and you were left with a seriously rocking body. He was such a sucker for the athletic type, toned but still curvy. Likely a foot shorter than his own six foot six, but with legs that went on forever. Her skin was porcelain white, and hell yeah, as a tattoo artist, he would bet from a hundred yards away that she was a tattoo virgin, the very best kind of canvas.

She wore her thick, dark brown hair in a messy updo, revealing a beautiful neck and that soft spot, just behind a girl’s ear, that he always loved so much.

As she got closer, he could see she was holding a pastry box from the coffee shop down the street.

“Those for me, darlin’?” he shouted across the street, breaking out the smile that chicks seemed to go for. He heard Cujo laugh to his left but stayed focused on the woman. She looked confused for a moment before she realized he was calling out to her. Damn. A slow, shy smile—and then there was that simple flush of her skin. Such a turn-on. Holy shit.

He waited with bated breath for her to say something in return, but she kept walking.

Disappointed, he could only imagine just how beautiful those pink cheeks would be if he wrapped her in his arms in the soft sheets of his bed, all that delicious warmth curved around him.

*   *   *

Harper inhaled deeply and shook her head. She crossed streets until she hit the boardwalk and the steps to the soft white sand. It was after six and the beach was starting to empty, parents dragging tired and cranky children back to their waterfront hotels. The tall palms swayed rhythmically in the cool early May breeze. The sun was starting to descend over the dark blue water, frosting the rippling surface with sparkles.

He had spoken to her. Trent Andrews. To her. The tall, shaggy-haired tattoo god had called out to her, and she’d scuttled off like a church mouse. Once upon a time, she’d have had the confidence to come up with something more original than just a smile.

He probably assumed she knew who he was. Which, of course, she did. Heck, everyone in Miami knew who he was—not only was he one of the most talented tattoo artists out there, but he was a local celebrity of a sort in Miami. She’d seen pictures of the work he was able to do covering up scars—and it was beautiful. So beautiful, she’d been dreaming of what her own back would look like. He could fix it for her, she knew it, and if she was going to get past, well, her
past,
she was going to need a pretty spectacular cover-up artist.

She did the mental math. Between what she had brought with her when she’d moved to Miami and what she had been able to scrimp and save over the last four years, she hoped she had enough money to cover it. She could always stretch out the appointments if she had to.

Without thinking, she reached around to touch the base of her back. It was an automatic, self-protective instinct. Not that it could change anything now any more than it could have four years ago when the knife had cut into her.

With a design in mind and a tattoo artist selected, the question wasn’t whether she wanted to get a tattoo. That part was easy. But could Trent make what was already on her back disappear? And could she force herself to lie there and let him?

*   *   *

Shit, it was still cool at night. Trent pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over the top of his baseball hat. So what if he looked more thug and less upstanding citizen? It would keep people out of his path, getting him to his bed sooner.

He took one last look around the studio, and turned off the main lights, leaving the design on the huge front window illuminated by a couple of can lights in the ceiling. The alarm panel beeped as he keyed in the code before turning to leave.

One o’clock in the morning in a city that was still wide awake. A cacophony of sound roared around him. Pulsating beats from the hotels, bars, and nightclubs that peppered the strip reverberated through the air. Drivers revved their engines as they cruised up and down the street, seeking attention.

The lock was temperamental and he jiggled the key with a finesse born of necessity until it turned.

“Can you tattoo over extensive scars?”

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.