Chapter Seven
Trent zoomed in on the logo on the front window, adjusting the lens until the angle was perfect.
He smiled as his handiwork came into focus.
It had been worth every hour he’d spent finding the right shades of black, silver, and gray.
The perfect circle holding the words “Second Circle Tattoos” was simple and bold.
Cujo still ripped on him for the days he’d taken fiddling with the font and size of the text.
But the image the circle contained—a stylized real heart being ripped apart by tornados of air—was his masterpiece.
The contrast of true love and lust against a backdrop of the winds of unquenchable desire was his personal favorite out of all the art he had created.
He fiddled with the exposure settings to see if he could get more light into the shot, wanting the silver highlights to reflect more.
He hated lying to the team about why he was all Annie Leibovitz this morning—he’d told them he wanted new shots for the Web site, though in fact Michael had asked him to bring a series of pictures of the studio with him to LA.
He checked the image again, liking the contrast between the logo and shining glass.
His mom had been, and still was, a Dante nut, an English major with a specialty in Italian poetry.
Christ, their home had been filled with graphic images from the texts.
He’d grown up learning about Dante’s pilgrimage through Hell.
Guided by Virgil, he’d had to go through all nine circles.
The First Circle, limbo, was for those whose only sin was rejecting Christ and the Church. Boring to a boy who wasn’t remotely religious.
The Second Circle, however, was lust. Far more interesting to his horny fourteen-year-old self.
A place for people who let their appetites sway their reasoning.
For those overcome by the need for sensual love in their life.
Plenty of people would think lust was worth being punished by a violent storm blowing them backward and forward forever.
Who didn’t like a bit of sensual love in their life? Trent’s mind wandered back to Harper on the beach. His thoughts over the last twelve hours could definitely land him there.
Heading back inside, he noticed that Eric and Lia were just wrapping up clients. As he walked back to his office to ditch his jacket, he heard Pixie holler her arrival. For a tiny thing, that girl certainly had pipes.
Fridays were always busy. Maybe not quite the manic craziness of Saturdays, but still all hands on deck. If he didn’t save his thoughts of Harper for later, he wouldn’t get anything done.
* * *
The buzzing surprised her. Harper took a quick look at her phone.
What you doin’?
Smiling in the mirror, she carefully finished applying her lipstick, thinking about the person who had inspired this new habit. It was eight o’clock, punching-out time at José’s.
Just getting ready to go to Drea’s for dinner. You?
Don’t mention dinner! STARVING! Still at the studio.
Ouch. Sucks. Be there long?
Hours yet. Wish you were back on my bed!
Wow. It would be a lie to say she hadn’t thought exactly the same thing … perhaps without the machine-powered needles ripping up her back.
Is that the only place? she typed, holding her breath as she hit send.
Did you just flirt with me?
Maybe. Obviously doing it wrong if you need to ask. It’s been a while.
Like it, Harp! We’ll be sexting before you know it. Have fun baby.
Will think of you when I am eating.
Cruel woman!
With a laugh, Harper dropped her phone into her purse. Trent worked so hard. He was practically always at the studio. He hadn’t asked her out on another date yet, but maybe it was her turn to do something nice for him.
When she opened the door to Second Circle fifteen minutes later, Harper was hit by a wall of sound that nearly knocked her off her feet. What was it with boys and their metal played at a Spinal Tap eleven?
The studio was a zoo. People waiting to get tattoos, people in the process of getting tattoos, people with people who were getting tattoos. People in various states of undress occupied every corner of the store.
Looking down at her frayed, white, skinny jeans and pale yellow T-shirt, she felt like a soccer mom who had just wandered into a frat party. Maybe, once more of the tattoo was completed, it would be time for a shopping trip.
Cujo saw her first and gave her a smile, tilting his head in the direction of the window before returning to the sleeve he was working on.
As always, Trent had his baseball cap on backward. He was taping a dressing around the upper thigh of a woman who looked old enough to be her mother.
Taking a deep breath, she walked over to his station. “Couldn’t have you dying of starvation.”
He started to smile before he looked up. A dimple formed on the side of his cheek as he pressed the rest of the tape down on his client’s thigh.
Spinning on his stool, he turned to look at her, taking his hat off and smoothing his hair back before putting it back on. He looked at the bag in her hand, his grin widening.
“Go on back to my office. I’ll be there in a second.”
Harper used the time it took Trent to finish up with his client to pull the panini and salad out of the bag. She was fighting with the plastic bag containing the cutlery when he walked into the office.
“You,” he smiled, punctuating the statement with a kiss on her cheek, “are a godsend.” He took a gargantuan bite out of the panini.
“Who’d finish up my tattoo if you died of hunger?”
“Mercenary,” he mumbled with his mouth full.
When she was done opening all of the packages, including the pastries that made his mouth water at the sight of them, she let him grab her arm and pull her down next to him.
“This place has been crazy all day, so I’ve got like five minutes max before I need to get back out there. Seriously, it was really great of you to do this.”
By the size of the bites he was taking, he was only going to need three.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I played it safe.”
“I’d have inhaled dirt if you’d put it on a sandwich,” Trent said. “I’m seriously that hungry.”
They sat in comfortable silence as he devoured the rest of the food.
“That was so freakin’ good. I owe you one, Harp,” he said, leaning forward to put the empty container on the table.
He picked up a mini éclair and took a bite, flakes of the choux pastry falling onto his Pixies T-shirt. Taking a moment to chew, he inhaled slowly and then turned to look at her. “Open.”
His easy smile had disappeared. Her heart quickened.
“Please, open.” His voice roughened. He held the pastry to her lips.
Tentatively, Harper opened her lips and took a bite. When she reached up to wipe it from her mouth, he stopped her with his free hand.
“Hmm,” Trent murmured before leaning in to nibble her lips slowly. “Chocolate.” He breathed against her. His tongue brushed across her lips, teasing her with a sugary kiss.
She shivered as her mouth opened.
Trent let out a soft groan as his tongue brushed across hers. He tasted delicious and was soft and warm, a calm to the craziness in the rest of her life.
“Batter up.” The hammering on the door shook Harper out of her trance. She jumped away from him on the sofa. Outside the door, Cujo laughed.
“Fuck off!” Trent yelled and then groaned. “Sorry about that. Guess my five minutes are up.” He leaned forward to give her a shorter but equally mind-blowing kiss.
“Thanks again for dinner. I was beginning to dread the next few hours.” He brushed her hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek with his thumb for the briefest moment.
“My pleasure.”
“Mine too.” A grin appeared on his face. “I’ll walk you out.”
* * *
Trent loved Sundays. For one thing, Second Circle closed early. It was a little after six when he finally flipped the Closed sign and turned down the main lights to the studio. The televisions had stopped their flickering and the sound system was finally off.
A sigh of relief escaped him. The boys would think him pathetic if they knew how much these moments of silence meant to him.
For a solid hour, he pored through the week’s receipts and bank statements, made sure it all added up. Finance was not his favorite subject—he was never going to get an MBA—but Junior had taught him enough to manage his own books and never be taken advantage of.
The week had been good to the store. All the craziness meant more money rolling through, and more clients meant their fixed overheads were covered more easily.
The more the team’s reputation grew, the bigger some of the jobs had become. Over half of his current clients were repeats who wanted big pieces. Full back panels or sleeves.
The cash flow had made it possible too, for him to afford to do more free work in conjunction with the local rehab unit, the one responsible for his sister’s recovery.
He remembered the moment Kit had walked into Junior’s shop with tears in her big brown eyes.
She’d been fourteen, her dark brown hair still in pigtails, so unbelievably young, and his initial reaction upon seeing her crying was to wonder which asshole he needed to kill for breaking her heart.
But then she raised her sleeve, showing him the fresh, red wounds, and the collection of silver lines that scarred her upper arm.
“Please fix them for me,” she’d whispered to him.
His stomach lurched at the memory. He’d recognized the lines for what they were straight away.
What he didn’t understand was what on earth could cause a sweet young girl from a good family to self-harm in that way.
He’d pulled her to him, holding her tight as she collapsed against him, thinking if they just stayed that way, he could stop her from doing it again.