The Strongest Steel (7 page)

Harper sat down on the bar stool at the kitchen counter and removed her sweater, throwing it with perfect three-point basketball style through the opening to her bedroom and onto her bed. There wasn’t even room to swing a cat in her apartment, not that she had ever had the inclination to do so. The small kitchen was tiny but scrupulously clean. Hating disorganization, Harper kept every surface clear and the cupboards meticulously tidy. She looked out toward the window that framed the living room. The view was an uninspiring mix of concrete and wires, but the sunlight during the day was gloriously welcome.

It had been, and still was, all she could afford. But it was the closest she’d ever been to feeling safe since the incident. At least by day. In her nightmares she watched Nathan again and again being dragged out of the courtroom in his prison jumpsuit, his eyes bulging in fury at his sentence. The police may not have taken the screamed threats to find her seriously, but she did.

Getting her parents to agree to her leaving had been tough. They’d wanted her to stay home longer. To heal. She hadn’t needed to leave immediately, they’d argued, given the length of the sentence, but one thing Nathan hadn’t lacked was a tight group of friends.

Winston Bell, Nathan’s father and senior partner in his own law firm, had an ego that was dwarfed only by his political ambition. His police force connections had ensured that law enforcement was of little assistance to her or her family. When the tires on her parents’ car had been slashed, the police had said it was mischief. When her brother, Reid, had been assaulted on his way home from work, they took his statement but never made an arrest or even interviewed a person of interest.

Harper stared down at the sauce on the stove. Even from his jail cell Nathan had the power to hurt her, to punish her. But it wasn’t until her car had been nearly run off the road by an unmarked van that she knew she had to leave. Her fingers tightened on the wooden spoon in her hand, remembering that night. The feeling of helplessness that had hit her with each bump and grate of the van’s bumper against hers. The sheer terror she felt trying to keep the car on the road and then again when police failed to respond to her 911.

That had scared her most of all. Determined not to be a victim again, she’d met with Captain Lourie. Dressed in a suit, and filled with determination to be taken seriously, Harper had been shown to his office. On the corner of his desk was a photograph. The captain and Winston on an arid golf course, their polo shirts as red as the sunburn they both sported.

Lines had been drawn, sides chosen, and it was clear that the police would never be on hers. The lengths they had gone to at trial, to protect Nathan, had validated her decision to run.

Just thinking about it made her feel sick. The spaghetti bubbling away in the pan, and the sauce reheating in the microwave were no longer appealing. Harper sat down at the counter, tapping her fingers on the cheap three-ring binder that held the documented record of the most horrific moments of her life—copies of trial evidence and the latest legal correspondence, including the letter from the prison service.

Harper grabbed her phone, pulled up the name she wanted, dialed, and waited.

“Brewster, Grayson and Ross. How may I direct your call?”

“Could you put me through to Lydia Grayson, please?”

The phone rang through to voice mail. “Hey, Lydia. It’s Harp … Taylor Kennedy. I got the letter you forwarded me regarding Nathan. I can’t believe they’re considering him for parole for good behavior. I considered the invitation to speak at the hearing, but I really don’t think I can do it.”

Her voice started to crack and Harper took a deep breath, willing herself under control. “I want to do a victim impact statement and move on. Could you call me?”

Cold flushed through her as if her veins were filled with ice water. Putting the phone down, Harper wondered if there would ever come a time when the very mention of his name didn’t bring on such a visceral reaction. And even with a tattoo covering what Nathan had done, would it ever truly be over?

Chapter Four

The studio was empty. No one to disturb him. No one to censor his choice of music. The perfect opportunity to knock back a beer from the mini fridge in his office. Trent re-created his drawing into a strong outline by laying the map of Harper’s back on the illuminated table and layering the transfer paper over the top.

He loved—no, needed—the creativity he was allowed to express as an artist. Combined with the buzz of tattooing, it was a heady experience. Any half-decent tattoo artist could take a photo or a picture and recreate it. Or learn five different fonts to write whatever the client’s heart desired. But it was a very different experience to work with a client to create something totally new. Seeing his own original artwork on someone else’s skin was the best kind of rush.

Sketching the outline soothed him, a welcome contrast to the craziness that had occurred in the studio today. Apparently Anya didn’t like her name spelled with an
I
—and maybe her man should have figured that out before he wrote it down for Cujo to tattoo across his bicep.

Anya was definitely not cool with it, the tears and screaming a bit of a giveaway. First her man had tried to blame the studio, but when Pixie made it clear the studio had no liability because he’d signed off on the spelling, he lost control. His fist had glanced off Cujo’s jaw, the impact sending Cujo’s head snapping backward. Trent and Eric had grabbed both Cujo and the customer, but not before Cujo landed a heavy blow on the customer’s nose. There was a sickening crack, followed by a garbled, “What duh fuck, man!”

A couple of girls who’d told Pix they were vacationing from Des Moines clearly weren’t used to an East Coast smack down, leaving the studio without getting the tattoos they’d come for. Cujo had to cancel clients while he sat on the bench with an ice pack on his inking hand, and it had taken Trent threatening to call the cops to get Anya’s boyfriend to leave.

Some days just didn’t go as planned.

The shrill ringtone of the studio phone interrupted his concentration.

“Second Circle Tattoos.”

“Trent?” The soft sound of her voice soothed him immediately.

“Hey, Harper. I was just thinking about you.” The curve of the flame he was just sketching would rise up toward her left shoulder. He finished it before standing up straight, his back groaning in protest.

“You were?” Surprise laced her voice. “I suppose I was thinking about you too.”

Trent smiled, continuing to shade the flames. “Those thoughts, would they get you kicked off Santa’s nice list?”

“I … I don’t know … maybe. I … no. I wanted to know about pain relief for tomorrow,” Harper replied. Trent got a kick out of the flustered response. “I’m totally unaware of Santa’s position on tattoos and self-medication.”

He laughed at that. “I’m drawing up your transfer. Is it just the pain relief? You aren’t calling to cancel on me, are you?” He was joking. Sort of.

“No,” she said quickly. “I wondered what I could do to take the edge off before I come in. Anything?”

Trent paused, the tip of his pencil poised over the paper. He had several suggestions for taking the edge off but wasn’t sure any of them would interest Harper.

“Like, take Tylenol,” she continued. “Or have a drink or something? I’m nervous that I’m going to flinch and you’ll make a mess.”

“I never make a mess. I told you. I’m amazing. We need to spend more time together so I can convince you of that.” Harper laughed, and he imagined her curled up on a white bed, her dark hair laid out around her.

“Can I do anything at all?”

He put the pencil back in the jar and walked over to the sofa, taking a seat at one end with his forearm resting over the sofa arm.

“To be honest, there isn’t a lot.” And boy, did he wish there was more, but who knew how Harper would cope? He’d had a hundred-pound cheerleader sail through a tattoo across her ribs, and linebacker faint at the sound of the tattoo machine. “Eat a decent meal before you come in. Want me to pick something up for you?” Or take you out for lunch? He didn’t think she was ready for that. But maybe after this process she would be.

“No, but thanks. I’m coming from José’s. I’ll grab something there.”

Trent hid his disappointment. “Have something high in protein. People have been known to pass out in the chair because they’ve built this up into something it isn’t. If you eat food beforehand, your blood sugar levels will be up and it will stop light-headedness. And you’ll be able to tolerate pain better if you aren’t cratchity because you’re hungry.”

“Cratchity? That’s not even a word,” Harper said, choking back what sounded like a giggle.

Trent closed his eyes and smiled. “Sure it is. Google it.”

“I’m going to. How do you even spell it anyway? If we were playing Scrabble, I’d challenge that word and get fifty points.”

“Scrabble, huh?” Could she get any cuter? “You certainly know how to party it up. Maybe I’ll let you challenge me sometime.” The idea of spending time with her, doing anything, grew more and more appealing.

“You’re on.”

They were both silent for a moment. “Are you sure there is nothing I can do for pain?”

“Not really, sweetheart. Topical numbing creams affect the skin surface and the chemicals in them can sometimes affect the tattoo. They also won’t last anywhere near as long as your session. Pain meds just thin your blood, which will make you bleed more—bad for you and gross for me. I have some numbing solution I can spray on once we’re underway. Only works on broken skin.”

“What about alcohol?” she asked hopefully. Usually, Trent had no patience for this kind of conversation. Yes, it hurt to get needles poked into your skin continuously for any period of time. You were either okay with that or not. Some people it hurt more. Some people it hurt less. He’d become a pro at identifying pussies as soon as they walked into the studio, passing them on to Lia, who had the patience of a saint.

It was different with Harper doing the asking though, and for the first time he found himself wishing he had better answers.

“As much as I imagine you’re a really cute drunk, it’s the same thing as pain meds. Thins the blood. My suggestion, for what it’s worth: Get a good night’s sleep tonight. Eat a decent meal before you come in. Bring music or games on your phone or something for distraction. Twenty minutes in, your endorphins will kick in anyway. Within an hour, I’ll spray your back if you can’t stand it.”

“I can’t believe I’m really going to do it,” Harper said quietly.

“You’d better or I’ll have to do this tattoo on Cujo while he’s sleeping. It’s too good to go to waste.”

“I can’t quite imagine that.” She laughed softly. “Sorry for disturbing you. I’ll let you get back to it.”

“No worries, Harper. I wish I had better answers, but I promise I’ll be as gentle as possible. I’m really looking forward to doing this for you.”

“I’m looking forward to you doing it for me too. It feels right.”

Didn’t it just? He knew exactly what she meant. There was a long, comfortable silence before either of them spoke.

“Good night, Trent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

He put the phone down and smiled. This was a good place to be. Doing big tattoos that were meaningful, in his own studio with his own team. He looked up at the ceiling and silently thanked Junior for having seen something more than the juvenile delinquent he’d caught spraying graffiti across the back of his studio.

He stood, straightening his jeans and returned to the table. The flames looked good and he picked up the pencil to resume sketching. He’d barely laid pencil to paper when the phone disturbed him again. He considered ignoring it, letting it go to voice mail for Pixie to deal with in the morning, but the private number could be Harper with more questions.

“Second Circle Tattoos.”

“Trent Andrews?”

Shit. The male voice was definitely not Harper’s. And now he was stuck talking to whoever it was. “Speaking.”

“Hey, Trent. This is Michael Cooper. I’m a producer in LA, working on a reality game show featuring amateur tattoo artists with the prize being a lease to their own studio.”

He suppressed a sigh and for the second time that night put his pencil down. He looked around the office. Which he owned. “Sounds great, Michael, but I already have a studio.” The guy at the end of the line laughed.

“Yeah. I know that. We don’t want you to enter. We want to see if you’d be a good fit as a judge.”

A what? A judge? Trent ran his hand along his jaw and under his chin, momentarily stunned. How on earth had he ended up on this guy’s radar?

“Our researchers narrowed down a group of phenomenal tattoo artists with a distinctive back catalog of work. We sent a scout to visit your studio. The guy whose leg you worked on with the dragon, he was one of my production assistants. The tattoo was phenomenal, man. Totally loved it. Loved the vibe and your style. We’d love to get you in front of a camera with another one of our judges. Huge rock star. You’ll meet him if you can come out to LA.”

“Wow. This is a lot to take in. I’m totally flattered. I’m not quite sure what you say to something like this.”

Michael guffawed. “Usually people shout, ‘Yes Michael, pick me!’ but I understand your reservations. Can we set up a time to talk about this?”

What did he have to lose? No harm ever came from a conversation.

“That would be pretty awesome.”

Trent put the phone down and shook his head at the craziness of it. Pursing his lips, he thought of Yasmin. She’d love this shit, and her not being able to share in it would be the ultimate one-finger salute for the misery she’d caused him. And his parents? Though they’d seen his passion for tattooing start to pay off, they still didn’t really understand it. Getting this role would be the ultimate proof to all of them, wouldn’t it? He had amounted to something.

*   *   *

“And how was our resident hottie?” Drea asked, peering over the top of her wineglass, a momentary flash of amusement brightening her features. She sat in the solitary chair across from the sofa, her wavy hair loose over her shoulders.