The Strongest Steel (3 page)

What. The. Fuck. Was that writing? He could swear it spelled something. Someone had carved words into Harper’s back. Someone had deliberately taken a knife to her skin.

It all made sense. Her nervousness and agitation. Her need to stay and her need to get out of there quickly. The need to move on and the need to hide.

Normally he’d reach out and feel the scars, gauging the depth of the scar tissue under the skin. If he did, though, she’d run. He could see it in the way she stood on the balls of her feet, shoulders tightly coiled. He leaned in as close as he could to study them, gauge whether the scars were mature enough to tattoo over.

There in the scars, were the words “My Bitch.”

Who could do this to another person? To her?

He could only imagine how hard it must be for her to just stand there in his studio. Her courage blew him away, and he knew he would find a way to cover up the horror for her.

But did she have any idea what this was going to take? It would be months of work and hours of sometimes-painful tattooing, the kind that brought even the toughest of men to their knees.

She’d come to him. Trusted him to fix this for her. He would get her through it. Somehow.

*   *   *

Silence was not good.

It was obvious that Trent was just as repulsed as everyone else who had ever seen it. For a brief moment, she was transported back to the trial, the abject look of horror on the jurors’ faces as they’d looked at photographs of her injuries. She hadn’t shown her back to a single person since.

“This was a bad idea,” she murmured, trying to pull on her blouse as fast as she could. She needed to get out of there.

“Wait.” Trent grabbed for her arm to stop her, quickly releasing it when she flinched. “Shit, sweetheart, that was some curveball you just threw at me. Of all the things I was expecting, that was definitely not it. It’s not like anything I’ve seen. I’m not sure anything I can come up with is appropriate for this.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she snapped, anxious to get out before the tears she was holding back spilled over and she humiliated herself more. If there was nothing “appropriate” he could do for her, then for the sake of her sanity, she needed to go as quickly as possible.

Harper tugged her shirt down and made for the door. Crap. He’d beaten her to it. She felt trapped, a feeling that was too familiar. Too painful. She needed air. Needed to get to the safety of her apartment where she could breathe again.

“Please move,” she whispered through gritted teeth, willing herself under control.

“Not until I’ve done what you asked me to do. I’m not going to touch you unless you agree to it, but I’m not letting you run out of here like this.”

Harper shook her head, starting to feel faint. Her breaths came in short bursts.

“There’s no need for me to stay.” She heard her voice waver, betraying just how close to the surface her emotions were running. “You already said you couldn’t come up with anything appropriate for this, so please just let me leave.”

“
Words,
darlin’. Appropriate
words
. I couldn’t come up with anything to say to you that felt right. There’s plenty I can
do
.”

Her breathing slowed as she tried to stave off the panic attack threatening to consume her. She stared at the floor.

“Let’s sit you down before you pass out and I have to carry you. There’s a hydraulic bed in a room in the back. I can get you some water and take a better look at what I’d be working with.”

His words were practical, his tone soothing.

“If I walk away, you gonna bolt on me?”

Still staring down, she noticed he hadn’t fastened his black biker boots properly. His jeans were frayed at the hem. She slowly shook her head, humiliation keeping her from looking up into his eyes.

*   *   *

What did you say to someone who had gone through something so traumatic? What did you do? It wasn’t like he had any professional training—just years of listening to people’s stories using the tattoo process as therapy. No tattoo was going to make this go away for Harper.

He moved slowly, afraid that sudden movements might spook her and send her running for the door. If he could just get her to the back room and get her comfortable, he was sure he could talk her through this.

“Follow me back here. You don’t like anything we do, you just tell me to stop and I’ll back away immediately. Okay?”

His heart broke for her a little as she wrapped her arms around herself and looked up at him for the first time since she’d bolted for the door. She briefly met his eyes, and he felt it like a punch to the solar plexus. He had the passing thought that those remarkable eyes needed to be sparkling with happiness, love—hell, even lust—not clouded over with fear.

There was the slightest nod of the head. Okay then. Relief washed through him.

Pushing open the door, he was grateful to see the room was spotless. Not for the first time, he sent a mental thank you to Pixie for her diligence.

He turned the lights on to full, thinking it might make her feel safer. “Hop up on here.” He patted the black leather tattooing bed as Harper followed him in. “I’m just going to get you a bottle of water, and then we’ll take a look at this.” In the kitchen area he leaned his forehead for a moment on the cool exterior of the fridge. He struggled to control his fury at whoever had done this to her, the desire to punch a wall burning through him.

He opened her water for her when he returned, as her hands were shaking. She took a small sip.

“Okay, Harper. Here’s what we need to happen. You’ll need to take off your shirt again, sweetheart, and either give it to me to hang on the hook by the door or keep hold of it yourself. Whichever makes you feel most comfortable.

“I’ll go scar by scar, look over each one, and tell you which will or won’t tattoo well. You can pretty much tattoo on anything, but how the ink spreads and how it looks on the scar tissue is less predictable than it is on unscarred tissue. It’s harder to guarantee what it’s going to look like when it’s done.”

The cupboard at the back of the room contained gloves and he grabbed a pair before returning to stop in front of Harper. “When I’ve had a good look, I can let you know where the challenges might be and you can let me know what you want to do. You think we can do that?”

“I’ll try. That which does not kill us makes us stronger, right?”

“You’re quoting Kelly Clarkson?”

“No, Nietzsche,” Harper replied with a quiet laugh. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Kelly fan.”

“Never. And if you ever mention this conversation, I’ll deny all knowledge of it.”

Finally, the making of a smile.

Trent studied her as she removed her shirt for the second time. Any inappropriate thoughts that might have crossed his mind disappeared the moment he saw the extent of her injuries. His hands were chilled, and for the first time in years, he wondered whether they were going to be too cold. The gloves made a snapping sound as he pulled them on.

“You want me to take the shirt?”

“No,” she said quickly, pulling it to her chest. “I’ll just keep it … er … here.”

He repositioned the lights so they were shining straight onto her back, the scars more startling in relief. Trent pursed his lips and blew out a soft breath. Her shoulders shook as she gripped her shirt to her chest like a security blanket.

He took a step back, walked around to the front of the bed, and straddled a wheeled stool.

Harper looked at him with fear and steely determination. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“I want you to touch my arm. Nothing creepy or weird. Just touch me.”

“What for? I mean, why would you want me to do that?”

“When I touched you out there earlier, you flinched. I’m thinking if you could get used to touching me first, my touching you wouldn’t feel quite so strange.”

Harper’s perfectly white teeth indented her soft pink lip.

He put his arm on the bed, the inner side facing toward her. Holding still, he waited patiently.

Tentatively, Harper lifted her left hand, her fingers twitching again like she was running her fingers down the keys of a piano in sequence. Seconds ticked by. Hell, he could wait all night if that’s what she needed. She exhaled slowly as she lowered her blouse and moved her arm toward him. She brushed her fingertips lightly along his skin, starting with the inside of his wrist, stroking the inked drops of blood where the corner of a tattooed cross appeared to dig into his skin.

Studying the ink she touched, seeing it in a new light as she continued her way to his elbow, reminded him again of just how incredible an artist Junior had been.

Her touch was like a breath of air whispering against him. He watched the very tip of her index finger brush over the tightly packed ink, the gentle pressure sending shivers down his spine. Her shaking fingertips were as cold as marble.

“It’s beautiful. Will you explain it to me?”

Trent studied her face as she continued to touch him. All flawless complexion and high cheekbones, long dark eyelashes curling softly outward. “Sure. You familiar with the
Divine Comedy
?”

“The band?”

Trent smiled. “No, all my tattoos are from Dante’s
Divine Comedy
. Some people say Dante’s
Inferno
but that’s not totally accurate. It’s three chapters. Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven.”

“So this is…?” Harper paused.

“Heaven.” His left arm showed Hell and his back showed Purgatory.

She continued slowly stroking his arm, her soft fingers sending tremors throughout his body as she crossed the Roman numeral XII. He’d been so excited to show it to Cujo after he’d gotten it done. Cujo’d loved it right up to the point where Trent told him all about the twelve souls who illuminate the world intellectually. Then he’d just laughed and called him a pompous ass.

“Beatrice leads Dante through nine celestial spheres, starting with the Moon for the Inconstant here.” He pointed to the rosary wrapped around his wrist with its cross bound in barbed wire. “Souls who abandon their faith. It goes all the way up my arm to the ninth, Primum Mobile, the home of the angels.” He pointed to the top of his bicep. “My shoulder is the final destination. Empyrean, where God lives.”

He lifted his arm and let her trace the letters that wrapped around it just above his elbow. Junior had spent forever getting the midnight-blue text with stars through it perfect, cursing Dante for describing the “pattern of lights” in such detail.
Diligite iustitiam qui iudicatis terram.

“‘Love Justice, ye that judge the earth,’” she said, surprising him.

“You know Dante?”

Harper dropped her head to focus back on his tattoos. “It’s a popular quote, isn’t it?”

He wasn’t sure. “It’s the sixth celestial sphere. Jupiter, home of the Rulers.”

Her fingers continued their slow, teasing slide across the fixed stars of faith, hope, and love.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” Man, those eyes were something else. She lifted them from his arm to his face.

“Are you going to be okay if I touch you now?” He felt the absence of her fingers the moment they left his skin.

Harper pursed her lips. “I honestly don’t know. I think so. Just go slow, okay? I haven’t let anybody see or touch my back in years. Just having you standing behind me is a huge deal.”

What an amazing responsibility for her to trust him with. He was honored.

Trent stood and pushed the stool back to the corner. “Trust me. I’ve got you.”

*   *   *

Harper’s head was spinning and it wasn’t all fear. Touching another human in a small but incredibly intimate way had left her breathless.

Trent’s strong arms, incredible patience, and gentle manner had done more than simply help ease her. Underneath the usual sense of panic and fear, he had managed to stir up feelings in her body that had been buried, dormant for years.

The flip in her stomach was a mix of discomfort and relief. The part of her that yearned for another’s touch wasn’t completely broken. Like the person who felt the draw of the ocean but couldn’t swim, she felt the pull of another but didn’t know how to respond and stay safe.

“How are you doing, Harper?” Trent hadn’t touched her yet, but he was standing right behind her. She could feel his warm breath on her skin.

“A bit light-headed, to be honest.”

“Put your head down between your knees. It’s either the presence of my greatness—which happens all the time, so don’t feel bad—or the adrenaline. Take some slow, deep breaths. What you’re doing tonight is a huge step.”

She did as he said. His scuffed black boots disappeared from her line of sight and reappeared a minute later.

“Please don’t pass out and fall off the bed—my insurance doesn’t cover dental. I’ve got a cold cloth for the back of your neck. I’m just going to move your hair and put it there, okay?”

“Sure.” It was slightly easier to be touched this time, his fingers brushing the back of her neck so gently before he placed the cool cloth down.

“Better?” he asked as he stroked her hair. His touch—it was actually soothing. “It sometimes takes a minute.”

“It’s a little better. Thanks.”

Trent went back around the bed. His hands moved systematically from her neck down her back, stopping here and there.

She knew the bigger scars. The first line of the letter
M.
The straight line down the letter
B.
The line that underscored “
Bitch
.” The strokes made with the most anger had caused the most damage.

Her emotions threatened to take her over, swallowing her whole. Embarrassment that she had put herself into such a position. Anger that she had allowed another person to damage her like this. Frustration that she’d believed the police would keep her safe. Relief that the scars were the only things Trent could see—and that he didn’t know everything else that had happened that horrific night. And something altogether different as his gloved hands continued to touch her skin reverently. She focused on counting her breaths, reaching ten this time before starting all over again.