Chapter One #3
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.
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?”