Chapter One #2
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.”