She furrowed her brows together when she saw the little checkmark appear in the text box. No ellipses, no nothing. Obviously Sean had seen her text. He just chose to ignore it. She automatically relaxed her face and pressed a palm between her eyebrows. The last thing you need are deeper lines in your face.

He wants to give her the cold shoulder? She wouldn’t be put off that easy. Harper typed in the name of the tattoo shop. A woman with a lilting voice answered. “Mission Hells, this is Gita.”

“Hi, I was wondering when Sean will be in again?”

“Uh, let me check. Not ‘til tomorrow at eleven. Do you want to make an appointment?”

“No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

So he has the day off, and zero interest in talking with her. That’s fine, she could wait. One of the few good things her mom had taught her was to go after what she wanted. And Harper intended to do that full force. If Sean wanted to play this cat and mouse game with texting, he was on his own.

“You think you’re the only pretty girl out there?” her mom had said coldly when Harper was fourteen. She’d been crying non-stop after getting second place in the local pageant. “There will always be prettier girls. Younger girls, thinner girls. Get used to it. But if you want something? You go after it with single-minded determination. That’s the only way to get it. You didn’t want to win this. If you did, you would have.”

Her mom was cold, but right.

Sean doesn’t know what he’s in for. You want to reject me? Let’s see you try tomorrow.

Harper turned down her roommates’ invitations to hit up the opening night of a new club just so she’d get the rest she needed for a puff-free face. “Seriously?” Molly had asked. “It’s open bar!”

“You go. Have fun, have one for me. I’m on a mission.”

Molly had rolled her eyes, “You’re crazy. Loot my closet if you want.”

She’d taken full advantage of that offer. Molly was a trust fund baby who lived the starving—in more ways than one—model lifestyle because she thought slumming it was cool.

As Harper marched her way towards the tattoo shop, she didn’t even notice the blisters that blossomed from Molly’s unfamiliar leather ankle boots. The rouched vintage-style skater dress just skimmed her upper thighs.

The bell tinkled as she opened the doors and all eyes were instantly on her. Including Sean’s. He was bent over an old fat man who winced in pain as his shin was inked. “Harper,” Sean said. He stopped the needle and the man let out a breath of relief. “What are you doing here?”

Suddenly, all her nerve poured out, right through the soles of Molly’s Brian Atwoods. “Uh … nothing,” she said. “Sorry, you’re busy. I was just in the neighborhood.”

“Harper—”

She turned right back around. Her ankle nearly rolled in the six-inch heels. Fuck, since when could I not walk?

“Who was that?” she heard the girl at the front desk ask.

Harper had never been more grateful for the humongous Oliver Peoples glasses that rested on her nose. Tears threatened to fall, but she’d hold it together at least until she got back home. The one-mile walk was murderous on her feet. Two blocks from the house, as if she couldn’t control it, she turned into the corner bodega and grabbed a travel-sized bag of Cheetos, two slices of pizza that must have been sitting out for days, a pint of chocolate ice cream and a six-pack of Coke Zero.

Harper tore through the Cheetos before she even made it back home to set the foundation. Thankfully, nobody was home. Most were at go-sees and who knew where Helena was. Harper grabbed a spoon out of the kitchen, slumped on the couch and ate the pizza without tasting it. There was the sound of some little, feral animal chewing and swallowing madly. It took her a minute to realize it was her.

The pizza gone, she crumbled up the little paper boxes it came in and balled them into the shopping bag. She finished the ice cream in less than three minutes with massive spoonfuls.

Harper downed a Coke Zero to make the last part of the process a little easier. Bubbles always helped.

She locked herself in the bathroom, though everyone in the house knew better than to try and open a shut bathroom door anyway. With practiced ease, she knotted her hair into a bun and crouched over the toilet. She knew instantly exactly how to place her fingers. As her eyes watered and she started to gag, she scraped her knuckles against her teeth as the purge began. Fuck, every time. No matter how many times she tried, she could never stop her teeth from scarring up her fingers.

She didn’t stop until her vomit turned orange. There, that was the last of it. Harper checked to see if any vessels in her eyes had burst, but she’d lucked out this time. As she dropped in Visine, just in case, the familiar wave of embarrassment washed over her. Still, it was worth it for that feeling of emptiness. That feeling of control.

You can make this right, she thought to herself as she looked in the mirror. Get it the fuck together.

She ran her left fingers over the knuckles of her right hand. Where there weren’t scars and fresh wounds, there were callouses. Fuck it, she thought.

Like always, as soon as she was physically empty, she needed something different to fill her. She thumbed through her favorites list on her phone to “Bestie” and pressed the big green phone icon. “P, you free?” she asked.

He groaned into the phone. “Is it before noon?”

“Barely.”

“Whore,” he said. “Yeah, I’m up. Now. You’d better tell me it’s something tragic or I’ll beat that perfectly molded ass of yours.”

“I’m not sure yet,” she smiled into the phone. “Can I come over?”

“As long as you don’t expect tea and scones. Ain’t nobody got time for that shit.”

“Be there in ten.”

She peeled off Molly’s dress, hung it perfectly back in the tiny closet, and pulled on some Lulus and a racerback tank. Running to P’s will burn a few extra calories, even if it is just a mile.

He waited for her on his porch, mug of coffee in hand and folded into a fluffy lavender robe that contrasted his oil-black skin beautifully. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Thanks.” She motioned for him to scoot over on the porch swing and he obliged with an eye roll.

“A pretty shit, but still,” he said. “So, spill. Last time you had the balls to call me before noon, you’d landed the Rachel Zoe campaign. Which I’m still pissed at you for, by the way. You can walk for her but not me?”

“Babe, you know I’ll walk for you as soon as you have a show that’s not at Eagle la at one in the morning.”

“You love it,” he said. “Everyone loves it. You should come to my shop and see the new inventory, by the way. High-end leather has gone colorful.”

“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes. Finally, you’re coming over to the dark side. I would just love to strap you into this new red catsuit I have in. I see it worn with this gold ball gag that’s totally safe after the last recall. I swear—”

“P,” she interrupted. “I’m serious. I’m down. What do you think if we take your leather designs and pair them with high-end models? Would you be up for working with tattoo artists to inspire a new line? Maybe even pairing some models with tattoo artists to work on some art pieces for photography that could be the backdrop for the show?”

He raised a perfectly shaped brow, microbladed fresher than hers. “Don’t toy with me,” he said. “Not unless you have a crop in your hand.”

“I’m not! I’m serious, what do you think?”

“I think it’s fucking brilliant. But I also think this isn’t a random idea from you. Spill the tea, bitch.”

“There’s nothing to tell! Seriously.”

“Lord, you’re easy to see through. I get the idea that, at the very least, you already have somebody in mind.”

She grinned at him devilishly. “As a matter of fact …”

Harper scrolled through her phone until she found the public Flickr photos of Sean she’d bookmarked after she’d first met him. “Holy fuck, who is that? And why isn’t he strapped to my bed as we speak?” P grabbed her phone and started to scroll through the photos. “Love the neck tat,” he said.

“Yeah.” She bit her lip as she remembered the perfect lines of the raven.

“Sean Cavanaugh,” P said as he read one of the descriptions. “I’m in. Like, balls deep in him if that’s an option.”

“Afraid not,” she said as she took her phone back.

“Oh, I see. You actually like someone! Oh, my God, there do be miracles. Thank you Jesus!” P yelled to the sky.

“Shh!” Harper said with a giggle.

“Okay, so where does Mr. Neck Tattoo with the forty-two inch chest work?”

“You know Mission Hells?”

“I’ve seen it,” P said. “Okay, I’ll get on it. And at least see what my boss says about the whole thing. I’d definitely need his inventory to complement my designs. I don’t do whips and chains, honey. Not my thing. Just the fab attire that goes with it.”

“I love you,” she said as she cuddled into his chest.