Gotta love that.
I’ve never gone for seconds or thirds. I get around, but when I’m in your bed, I make sure you have a damned good time. Harper just got a little more of me than normal. Nothing wrong with that. No promises, no strings, no meaning. I don’t know where she’s got this idea that we should be something else. Why fuck with a good thing? Why risk screwing it up?
I think about this off and on for the next week. It’s hard. Or maybe that’s because after Harper walks out on me, things take on a fuzzy, dazed quality. Isn’t that what all those stupid songwriters claim? That they’re walking through rainstorms, fog storms, totally apocalyptic storms?
I just sort of want to see Harper again.
A lot.
I ink giggling college freshmen and have no one to tell. I catch myself drawing pictures to capture moments that will make Harper smile, but there’s no place to send them.
She’s just...gone.
And having just lost my dad, I’ve got more experience than I’d like with absences. I’d like to believe that someday, on some road, some place, my dad and I will ride together again. Problem is, that’s not today and it’s sure as fuck not tomorrow. I don’t have a choice about that timeline and I’ll have to wait, but with Harper?
I kicked her out.
I told her to go, and she did.
That makes this absence my fault. And when it’s your fault, you can’t just change your mind and, boom, you get the missing person back. But I wish I could. I wish she were right here, in my arms, and we were fighting or loving, laughing, living, inking—doing anything and everything instead of nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Vik
TO WIN HARPER BACK, I need a plan. A really awesome, kick-ass plan. After all, Harper’s almost as in love with her planner as she used to be with me. She loves forethought, organization and ten-step strategies for handling anything and everything. If I want to show her that I’ve changed and convince her that I love her, it’s not enough to drop at her feet and start belting out the I love yous. I wouldn’t believe me, either.
I’d insist on proof.
Lots and lots of fucking amazing proof that did not involve our bodies getting naked and exchanging dirty favors—although I’m totally making a list for our honeymoon. Yes, honeymoon. I’m dreaming big. And anyhow, the longer I have to fantasize, the more creative I’ll be. It’ll be like my really early, super-awesome Christmas present to her.
Huh. Now, that’s an idea. I could make Christmas come early. Never mind that it’s September, we live in Vegas and we have more palm trees than pines. My planning ahead should just score me bonus points. I whip out my phone and Google-fu nets me the seeds of a plan. You know that song “Twelve Days of Christmas”? If you don’t, you’re about to.
I kick off Monday by sending a prospect to Harper’s work with an early Christmas present. I’d bring it myself, but she’s currently pissed off and not answering my texts. Pretty sure I’ll get shit from the rest of the club about my presentation, but I’ll deal. Goolie certainly isn’t happy about the big, pink box he gets to carry on his bike. Or maybe it’s the even larger black velvet ribbon that took me fucking forever to tie. FYI, there are much better ways to spend an hour with ribbon. I’m hoping Harper keeps it and I can show her.
Inside the box is a planner. It’s pink to match the box, and I nearly gave myself second-degree burns hot-gluing the black bows to the front. From the number of bow-bedazzled clothes in Harper’s closet, I’ve deduced she really likes bows—so I’ll give them to her. The inside of the planner, however, reflects my tastes. I’ve cut-and-pasted pages from the Kama Sutra. We can pick a different position for each day of the year.
Harper doesn’t say anything.
No texts.
No phone call.
No fucking skywriter drawing my name and hers across the Vegas sky.
Sure, that last one’s a stretch, but I won’t think about failing. Losing Harper isn’t an option. Since I have a bike and know where she is, I ride over at five o’clock to wait in the parking garage next to her car. Five o’clock becomes six and then seven. It’s ridiculous how much she works. When she finally appears, it’s almost eight and she looks exhausted. She also looks good enough to eat. Her pink shirt’s got a bow sitting right over her tits and her heart, just pointing the way for me.
She doesn’t see me because she’s so intent on reaching for her door handle. Her face is strained, and she has the look of someone getting the hell out of dodge. She juggles an impressive mountain of paperwork as she points her clicker at her car. It’s definitely intervention time.
“Babe. How was your day?”
She shrieks, paper mountain collapsing in an avalanche, and she points the clicker at me. Thank fuck it’s not a gun or I’d be a dead man.
“You.” Her eyes narrow.
“Me.” I consider going in for a hello kiss, but her eyes promise that would just seal my death sentence. I settle for crouching at her feet and scooping up her papers. Gives me a real nice view of her legs, too.
“What is this?” She smacks me on the head with her new planner. She makes no move to help me in my collection attempts. That’s okay—I’ve got no problem sitting at her feet for hours. Might eventually have to work my way up—with my mouth—but I’m a patient man. Mostly.
“It’s a Christmas present,” I tell her.
“It’s September.” The tone of her voice seriously questions my sanity.
“Christmas is coming early this year. That’s your first present.”
“There are more?” She sounds distinctly unthrilled.
I hum a few bars of the “Twelve Days” song and she groans.
“Are you here to torture me?”
“Nope.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Giving you a heads-up.” I grab the last
