The Strongest Steel (4 page)

“Okay, Harper. We’re done.” She heard the snap of the gloves as he took them off.

Trent took a moment to remove the now-warm cloth from the back of her neck, dispatching it and his gloves into the stainless steel trash can.

She pulled her shirt swiftly over her head, taking refuge in it.

Trent walked around the bed to her and pulled the stool back over.

“There’s good news and good news. Which do you want first?”

“The good news, I guess.” She sounded uncertain, which was a lot better than sounding scared.

“There’s plenty we can do to hide this.”

“What’s the other good news?” Harper asked.

“That I want to do it.”

*   *   *

“Tattooing is simple. Needle inserts ink wherever tattoo artist places needle. However, if there is anything different about the skin, the ink will not land the same. Most of your fine, silver scars I can tattoo over and pretty safely say that the ink will deposit the way we’d need it to.”

This was like no other consult he had ever given. Sure, he’d tattooed over hundreds of scars. Burns. Bike accidents. But nothing quite like this. This was going to take some serious time and patience on both of their parts.

“Some of the bigger scars—and I’d say there are three that fall into this category—might be less predictable. So you have two options with those: either the design just has shading there with no hard outline detail, or we work around the scars completely and allow them to show. With everything else covered, they won’t mean anything anymore. They’ll just look like abstract marks.”

Trent took a moment to let that sink in. Without thinking, he reached up and held both of her twitching hands in his, stilling the frantic movement of her cold fingers with his palms. She didn’t pull away immediately, which he took as a sign of progress. The shaking calmed as he continued to hold onto her.

“You’re really quiet, sweetheart. Are you staying with me?” He wanted to pull her close and wrap his arms around her. It was fucked up for sure, but it felt right that she was with him.

“I’m sorry. It’s just…” She looked at him and he could see her eyes shining with tears. “I’ve wanted to do this for so many years and was scared you were going to say no.”

“I’m not going to say no. Not yet. Unless you want some dumb-ass Tweety Bird tattoo.” She let out a small laugh, just as he’d hoped. “But I do need to know what you were thinking. See if it works with what you have going on back there. The scars won’t totally disappear, but the tattoo will certainly trick the eye.”

“I don’t have anything too concrete,” she said, “because I want it to work with the scars and I didn’t know what you could do. But I want it to echo my mantra:
The strongest steel is forged in the hottest fire.
Steel, a knife, did this to me, but somehow I survived and will get through it. I was imagining the words in a strong script and some sort of sword being formed in flames. I hoped the flames could cover up the majority of my back. Oh, and I know swords can be kind of butch looking, but I want it to be feminine.”

“Great theme. Strong and powerful. I’m assuming color, then.”

“Yes. I…” Harper paused, biting her lip and looking back to the floor.

He let go of one of her hands. He touched her chin—he couldn’t resist—he wanted to look at her, needed to
see
her. She flinched at the contact, and he pulled his hand away.

“You what?” he asked, mentally kicking himself for scaring her.

Her voice wobbled, and he knew tears were a moment away. “I want it to be so amazing that no one even tries to figure out what the scars are.”

Trent reached over the counter and grabbed a tissue box, putting it next to her. A full-back piece, his favorite kind of tattoo. Nothing too concrete from the client, meaning he could just let his creative juices flow. That was the sweet spot where he did his best work.

“It just so happens that amazing tattoos are my specialty, so no worries there. But a full-back piece is going to take quite the commitment on your part. I can go as long as you can, but creativity starts to get stifled after four or five hours. I’d suggest three- to four-hour blocks. Maybe less to begin with. Just being on the bed is going to be tough for you at first. How quickly do you want it done?”

Holy shit. Her smile was breathtaking. Slightly teary, but beautiful. It took over her entire face. Her eyes seemed closer to emerald now, and they sparkled. He watched as she quietly collected herself. She straightened her shoulders, shook her head until her hair fell down her back as she blew out a long breath.

“Is yesterday too soon?”

Laughing, he took hold of her hands again, trying not to take it personally when she flinched. “If only. This may take up to five or six sessions, depending on how long you can lie on the bed, and we’ll have to space them out, ideally, to every couple of weeks. You’ll need enough time between sessions to heal. Why don’t I draw something up for you over the next day or so? I’ll do up some design options and a rough price for you. Can you come in to take a look at it on say, Thursday, and then we’ll figure out where to go from there?”

“Yes. I don’t know what to say. Thank you seems so inadequate.”

“Wait until it’s done, Harper. You can thank me later. But you’re going to hate me to start with.”

Chapter Two

It was no fucking use. After one last toss and turn, sleep was done for the night. Trent threw back the covers and glanced at the clock. It was only seven, hours before his internal alarm usually went off.

He sat up, adjusted his early morning wood, and dragged both hands through his hair.

Only five hours had passed since he’d put Harper in a cab at his insistence, yet she was the reason he was up so early … up on both counts. Visions of the two of them wrapped up in crisp white bedsheets and nothing else—all that long dark hair falling across his chest—had filled his dreams. He needed to stop thinking about that right now before he got a serious case of blue balls.

Pulling on a pair of ancient sweatpants, Trent wandered into his kitchen and pulled down the coffee and filters. Seemed like everyone else had those one-cup machines that took those coffee-filled plastic things, but it just seemed wasteful to him. You only ended up with half a cup after all that plastic, and at least his old-school coffee filter could be recycled.

As the coffee started to brew, he grabbed his art supplies and his laptop from the shelf in the living room and put them on the bistro table in the kitchen.

He’d started to visualize Harper’s tattoo the moment she started to talk about it. It was in his mind and wouldn’t let him sleep until he sketched it out. Some of his best artwork started out that way, a fully formed vision in his mind that required every ounce of concentration for him to successfully pour it out onto paper. The process had been the bane of his teenage years when his talent was still forming and he wasn’t yet capable of rendering the kaleidoscope of images that crashed into his mind. It was still a surprise to him that he could capture the full extent of his imagination now and draw it, whether on a human body or a piece of paper.

The design would be bold and bright. Almost three-dimensional. There’d be plenty of room to add symbols and layers of hidden meanings. It was a strong theme and an opportunity to do something really original. She was right that a sword could be very masculine, but if he tattooed the flames with smokelike images of flowers and scripted some soft, flowing calligraphy, the effect would definitely be softened.

Hearing the final bubbling of the coffeepot, he poured himself a large steaming mug. There was seriously nothing better than the first gulp of coffee in the morning. Well, unless you included waking up to a sweet and sexy woman in your arms. That really was the perfect way to start the day.

He sat down in his chair, visualized Harper’s beautiful features, and picked up his pen.

*   *   *

Entrancing? No. Captivating? That wasn’t quite it. What kind of an English teacher couldn’t come up with a word to describe Trent’s eyes? They were, what? Oh. Spellbinding. Now there was a good word.

An irate voice pierced Harper’s reverie. “Excuse me, miss. I said I’d like a large decaf to go.”

With a quick apology, Harper poured the order. She took the customer’s bill and counted out the change. The woman gathered it quickly without leaving a tip, not that Harper deserved one.

José came out of the kitchen’s saloon-style door. “What’s with you today,
chica
? You’re all over the place. You feelin’ okay?”

“Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” It had been three o’clock before Harper had finally come down from the adrenaline high, and four before she’d passed out.

“That guy above you making noise again?” Eddie in apartment eleven was nice enough. He looked out for her in a brotherly way. But the combination of his working as a bouncer in a nightclub and his love of metal often meant guitars and screaming disrupted her sleep.

“No. Eddie was good. He’s trying to keep it down. I might be coming down with something.” She felt bad about lying, but Trent had confused her and it was going to take more than a couple of hours’ sleep to figure it out.

“Look, Drea just walked in and we aren’t too busy. Why don’t you take off and go home? Get some rest. Don’t come in tomorrow if you still feel sick.”

Harper forced a tight smile. “Thanks, pops.” Concern etched his features as he looked at her, but he’d never asked her about her issues. She desperately wanted to leave, if only it didn’t feel like she was taking advantage of José’s sweet nature. “I’ll make the time up next shift.”

Still feeling guilty about bailing on José, but so exhausted that she could barely think, she went to the break room to get her purse.

“Hey, Harper. Busy today?” Drea greeted her when she walked in, not looking up from where she was fixing her hair into a messy topknot using the mirror on the back of the door.

Harper sat down. “Not too bad. Crappy tips,” she said with a yawn. “I’m heading home.”

The slam of the locker reverberated around the small break room as Drea slumped down onto the bench next to Harper, and their shoulders touched briefly. Harper flinched at the connection, even if it was with one of the only people who knew anything about her past.

From the moment Drea had interviewed her two years ago for the job at José’s, Drea hadn’t taken her standoffish behavior as anything more than a challenge. Somehow Drea had wheedled her way into her life and Harper was glad of it. But even so, it had taken until three months ago for Harper to tell her about even a small part of what Nathan had done to her and that she was hiding.

“Really? You okay?” “Tired. I didn’t get to bed until late.”

“If that stupid Eddie is rocking out ’til—”

“It’s not Eddie.” Harper cut off the rant quickly. “I…” Harper took a deep breath, blowing the air out again slowly.

“I, what?” Drea turned in her seat to look her full in the face. “What did you do?” Her eyebrows lifted. “Hang on. This is a new look for you. You actually look guilty.”

“I went to see if I could get a tattoo.”

“What? Wait. Really? Where?” Drea’s eyes narrowed.

Harper’s hands flared, unable to control the wave of panic caused by simply talking about her plans. “My back. I went to Second Circle Tattoos.”

“Whoa. That’s huge. I had no idea you were considering that. How did it go? You good?” Drea asked, concern softening her golden features.

“No, I freaked out like a giant wuss. But yeah, I’m having something drawn up. I know how you feel about tattoos, and four years ago, I would have agreed with you, but please don’t judge me for this.”

“Are you kidding?” Drea’s eyes widened. “How could you even say that? I just don’t want any for me, but I can totally see why you would want to.”

“I still don’t know if I am going to go through with it. We’ll see on Thursday.” Trent’s dimples flashed into her mind for the briefest moment.

“Wait a sec. What’s with the face? What else are you not telling me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing my ass. Wait. Who did you say you went to? Second Circle? Is that the one owned by that hot-looking guy? Super tall with that messy kind of hair that you just want to shove your hands into?”

Harper struggled to conceal her smile. “So?”

“You are crushin’ on the tattoo dude!” The squeal was so high it could have cracked glass. “Can’t say I blame you. That guy is one long, tall glass of ice cold water. Pity about all the tattoos, but hot from the neck up nonetheless.”

“His name is Trent, and no, I’m not. He’s cute is all. And really, really good at tattooing.”

“Trent, is it? Well. I’m watching you.” Drea bumped her shoulder. “First time is going to be the toughest. You know that, right? And I’ve never seen that look on your face. Gotta admit. It looks good there.”

*   *   *

It was a fucking masterpiece. Trent had been working on Harper’s tattoo on and off for the better part of the day, holing up in his office between clients to get it finished. He’d spent way longer on research than usual and his eyes had started to rebel at the idea of Googling anything else. It all centered around a spectacular broadsword. The life-and-death symbolism of a double-edged sword would represent Harper’s victory over her attack.

In dreams, swords generally represented justice and courage. Harper had already shown courage in spades, and he hoped she had seen justice.

The handle was bejeweled in gemstones and Celtic symbols. He knew, from their conversation last night, that she’d want to know what it all meant, yet he hoped somehow that she’d let him wait to explain their symbolism until the moment he was actually tattooing them on her back.

The broadsword would run straight down her spine. She was least scarred there, which at first hadn’t made sense to him. Until he’d realized the knife would have been stopped when it met bone. A heavy feeling settled in his stomach. She was lucky her attacker hadn’t damaged her spine.

He’d need to get a sketch of her back so he could blow up the drawing and line it up to her scars. Flames, which he’d freestyle in, would reach around the rocks and ride up the outer sides of Harper’s back.