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 anI—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?”
