The Strongest Steel (12 page)

“From what you told me, drugs and circumstance changed him. By the end of all that, he wasn’t even the guy you fell in love with.”

Harper propped a pillow against the headboard, and sat up to lean against it. “At some point I know I’m going to have to get over this. But it’s like ivy. Every time I try to chop part of it off, another branch wraps around and threatens to suffocate me.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Harper. You’ve made some huge physical changes. You left your home in who-knows-where. You settled here. You found a job with an amazeballs coworker. You’re taking steps to erase the physical signs of what happened. You’re just catching up on the emotional ones is all.”

Harper took a deep breath. Drea was right. The emotional swings were giving her whiplash. Maybe it was simply time to just give it a shot.

*   *   *

“You are not going to believe the hot chicks that just arrived for a walk-in.” Cujo burst into the kitchen where Trent was grabbing a coffee. “Seriously man, fucking tens.”

Trent took a gulp and laughed at Cujo, who was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Tattooing hot chicks while listening to death metal was his definition of “job satisfaction.”

“How many?”

“Three. And they are all fully locked and loaded. One for you, one for me, and one for Eric.” Trent checked the time on his phone, performing some quick math in his head.

“Is Lia busy right now? I’m thinking of cutting loose.” He desperately wanted to get home and shower before picking Harper up for drinks. He was hoping to get there early enough to coax her into dinner.

“What the fuck, dude? What part of hot, young, loaded, semi naked girls did you not get?” Cujo dragged his hand over the top of his head; the look of pure exasperation on his face was laughable.

“Lia’s client this morning was a no-show, so she can take this instead. And try to be professional. At least wait until after you’ve finished her tattoo to invite her back to your place.”

“Your loss, dude. Wait.” Cujo stopped and turned on his way back out of the kitchen. “Why are you cutting out?”

“Places to go, Cuj. People to see. You know how it is.”

Cujo’s eyes screwed up at the corners as he scrutinized Trent’s face. “You never pass on hot chicks.”

“So?”

“You’re seeing Harper tonight. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re hooking up with her.”

“Would that be a problem if I was?”

Cujo raised his hands in front of him, taking a step back. “No, dude. No insult intended, man. I like her. Whatever shit she’s got going on is bizarre, but I like her. Hey Harper’s bizarre … like that chick mag. Get it?”

“Got it,” Trent replied, closing his eyes briefly and praying for the patience to not clock Cujo. “Not discussing it with you dude because: a) We don’t have vaginas, and b) You’re a dumb-ass.”

“Okay. Gotta go. Got a sexy ass to decorate with … and I quote … ‘the most sparkly butterfly EVER.’ Good luck tonight, bro. Got to believe it ain’t going to be an easy path.”

“Cheers, Cuj.” Trent turned to rinse his coffee mug and put it in the sink. It might not be an easy path, but it was the one he was on and he could only hope there’d be signposts.

He fired Harper a quick text to let her know he’d finished early and to ask her to join him for dinner. Her response, a curt “sure,” didn’t inspire confidence—something he couldn’t stop worrying about as he rushed home, showered, and then drove to her place.

Harper’s four-story building, styled in the classic art deco that Miami was known for, had seen better days. The city had done an incredible job of preserving so many of the historic buildings, but some, like hers, had fallen through the cracks. The shade of pink paint that his mom always referred to as “flamingo” was faded and chipped, and what must have once been white was now yellowy-gray, patched over in places with gray plaster that someone hadn’t gotten around to painting. The front door was a strange blue that looked totally out of place. He found her buzzer and gave it a quick press.

“Trent?” He heard her, but not through the intercom. Taking a couple of steps back down the stairs, he shielded his eyes and looked up. Harper was leaning out of a third-floor window.

“I’ll be down in a second.” While he waited, he fired off a quick text to Pixie about the new batch of green ink he’d used today. The color wasn’t as vibrant as usual. He pressed send, just as the door swung open. Phone forgotten, he took a moment to take her in.

She wore a fitted cream sundress with red roses on it, cinched at the waist with a red belt. Her hair was down and perfectly straight, reflecting the last of the early evening sunshine. But it was the shoes that really got him. He’d only ever seen her in flip-flops or flats, but these … these were fuck-me shoes. Thanks to his sister, Kit, he happened to know the dark red patent leather shoes were Mary Janes. Their spectacular heels did exactly what they meant to—showed off the shape of her exquisite calves.

“You look incredible,” he said, grinning. “Like, seriously hot.” He swirled his finger, silently instructing her to twirl.

Smiling shyly, she did exactly as instructed. Wow, she really was rocking a hot little body.

“Thank you. I think. I borrowed the dress from Joanie at work. You look great too,” she said quietly. Thankfully, he’d thrown on a collared shirt and worn dark jeans, or else she would have seriously outdressed him.

He held out his hand to her as they walked to the car, but she didn’t take it. Maybe he should offer to hold her cardigan for her or something so she could?

“Those are some killer shoes.”

Harper didn’t say a word. Just focused on where she was stepping, not even looking at him. Not quite the response he expected.

“Are there more like those in your closet?”

“A few.”

Trent held the car door open for her because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and because he also got to catch a glimpse of those perfectly toned thighs as she lowered herself into the seat. He closed the door and took a deep breath.

At the fiery tapas restaurant, aptly named Diablo, Trent watched Harper push the
chorizo al vino
around her plate. She’d picked at the
tabla de carne
while responding politely to his attempts to start a real conversation.

“So how long have you worked at José’s?” he asked, hoping it would spur her to tell him some of how she ended up in Miami.

“A couple of years.” She murmured a polite thank you to the waiter who removed their plates, watching wide-eyed as a server placed the huge
paella de mariscos
on the table.

He ate a forkful; it was his favorite meal. But tonight, though the shrimp was succulent and the rice cooked to perfection, it was like he couldn’t
feel
the flavors—not with Harper being like this. Twice she looked up as if she were about to say something, but both times she stopped. This was not the Harper who had shot pool with him last night and had kissed him out of his pants on the curb.

Trent sipped at his one glass of wine, wishing for all the world that he hadn’t chosen to drive. A tall, cold beer would be great now. Or a pitcher of it. Or a keg.

“I need to ask you a real personal question, Harper. And I want the most honest answer you can give me.”

She stopped studying her food and looked up at him. Her shoulders dropped. Clearly, she knew what was coming.

“What gives? Last night you were having a great time, smiling and talking. And that kiss, by the way, kept me awake half the night with highly inappropriate thoughts. Today, you seem like you don’t want to be here. What happened?”

Harper bit her lip. The hand holding her fork started to twitch.

“Just say what’s on your mind,” he said gently, taking hold of her hand, stilling her fingers. “Good or bad, we can talk about it.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a shitty day. I have stuff going on in my life, and I keep going backward and forward as to whether now is the right time for me to be doing this.” Pushing the rest of her food around on her plate, she avoided looking at him.

“
This
being dinner, or this being us in general?” Using his thumb and forefinger, he lifted her chin.

“Both. It’s not you. Shit, I sound like a cliché. It’s just. Shit … shit…” Tears glazed her eyes.

“Wanna get out of here so we can talk?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Yes, please. I really do.”

*   *   *

They walked down the tiled pathway, the light coating of sand crunching underfoot as they passed the evergreen shrubbery and headed toward the beach. On a rock just off the boardwalk, Trent let go of her hand and unbuckled her shoes. It felt oddly intimate. Surprising. But nice. He slipped off his own, carried both pairs in one hand, offering her the other.

Taking comfort in the way his hand enveloped hers as they walked slowly to the edge of the water, Harper tried to organize her thoughts. The hustle and bustle of the thriving streets faded the closer they got to the ocean, replaced with the soft shuffle of palm trees and sounds of gentle waves breaking on the sand.

“Today, I had to write a victim impact statement. I had to relive every detail of what happened and then write about how it affects my life now.” Harper paused, grateful when Trent said nothing and just continued to rub small circles on the inside of her wrist.

“I ended up looking at the photographs from the hospital and went for a walk down memory-fucking-lane.” Harper let out a frustrated sigh. “Sorry. I don’t usually swear. Well, maybe I do. I don’t know.”

Trent laughed and pulled her into his strong arms to hug her. “Seriously, darlin’, you never have to apologize to me for that.”

Walking along, smelling the sea air and hearing the calming whoosh of the waves helped Harper center herself, push herself to keep speaking.

“It happened four years ago.” She stopped, shaking her head. “I still don’t understand how I allowed myself to get to that place. I’m still mad at me.”

Trent stopped, then helped her sit in the sand facing the water. He joined her, stretching out his long legs. There was hardly anybody else on the beach, and the few people around were either too far away or too engrossed in their own lives to pay them much attention.

Harper’s mind raced. How much should she tell him? She still wasn’t sure. Enough to maybe understand where she was coming from—which could also be enough to scare him away.

“It wasn’t a random stranger,” she began, poking the sand with a small stick. “It was someone I’d been with for two years. My brother’s best friend.”

The waves lapped slowly up the beach. Harper watched them intently, trying to ignore the sickening feeling growing deep in her chest.

“They worked together as mechanics at a custom bike shop. My brother introduced us.”

Harper threw the stick into the water and watched the ebbing tide pull it out to sea. She wiped the sand from her hands onto the sides of her legs.

She let out a staccato laugh. “Did you know two out of three acts of violence against women in the United States are by someone they know? I’m a walking statistic.”

Trent put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her toward him. She jolted at the contact, but his arm felt warm against the cold chill that enveloped her.

“The first year was great. I was finishing up college. Our first date, he bought me an old version of Boggle because my brother had told him I loved word games. He’d pull all kinds of crazy shit. Like on Valentine’s Day, he hacked into the campus computer network and changed all the screensavers to a romantic quote anagram he knew I’d crack. The guy was a computer genius, but somehow couldn’t function in school. The second year … not so much. He started spending less and less time with me.”

Nathan’s words still stung her. The small digs about life passing her by, soothed with whispered sweet nothings about how much he’d miss her if she didn’t join him, swiftly turned into outright barbs: She cared more about kids at school than him. She was getting old before her time. She was no longer fun to be around.

She wiggled her toes in the cool sand and sighed, instinctually moving closer to Trent.

“His behavior became more erratic. I didn’t know what he was doing anymore. He never hurt me physically, but his mood swings and anger dominated our relationship.”

Harper felt relieved to get it all out there. There was something about sitting on a quiet beach with Trent that made it easier to say. “Then he passed a tipping point. We became more like roommates, and fraught roommates at that.

“I’m not sure how many women he cheated on me with. In the span of thirty minutes, my whole life changed,” she continued quietly. “It’s hard to figure out where to go from there. Trusting someone is impossible.”

How had the person who had left a trail of anagram clues to her Christmas gift throughout their condo one year turned into a psychopath? It still didn’t seem real.

Fleeting memories of deep-dish pizza and beer, a walk along Navy Pier, and of talking until the early hours of the morning brought a sad smile to her face. They’d been good together once. The summer she’d caught that awful stomach bug that had knocked her down, he’d cleaned up when she was sick, held her up as she tried to shower, and washed the bedding every day so she’d have nice, clean sheets to fall into. The day he took her to the Chicago Newberry Library and kissed her, telling her it would be the perfect place for their wedding.

Awareness of Trent’s strong body alongside hers brought her back to the present. “If the person you loved, who was supposed to have your back…” She laughed sadly at her ironic choice of words. “If you can’t trust that one person, where do you go from there?”

The uninterrupted view of the constellations was majestic, their brilliance amplified in a cloudless sky the color of black ink. The slow crescendo of waves the perfect soundtrack to the incredibly romantic setting but here she was, reliving her past.

“Anyway,” she said, dropping her gaze to the sand around her feet, “he’s eligible for parole after only four years because he completed some courses. There’s a hearing. And they want me to attend, to try and articulate to a group of people how badly he has fucked up my life—when I can barely get my own head around it.”