Chapter One #4
“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.
“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.”