Full Contact
Page 3

“Get in the vehicle.” He raises his voice so loud, heads turn. My cheeks heat. But his anger isn’t just coming from concern. Before he became a cop, he was a fighter and a damn good one. But he had to give it up because of me. And although it’s hard for him to teach at Redemption, it is harder for him to be here because he loves the underground fights most of all.
“I brought my Volvo.” I lean against the metal railing and sigh as the waves lap sympathetically against the wall below, sparkling under the light of the street lamp above me. Definitely not the car of my dreams, but safe, reliable, and acceptable to Tag, who helped me finance the deal.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t like you driving alone at night. I’ll take you home, and we’ll come back tomorrow to pick it up.”
“C’mon, Tag. I’m twenty-five years old, and you made me take every driving safety course in the known universe. I have no desire to ride home in the back of a police car like some vagrant you picked up off the street. I promise I’ll drive carefully.”
His jaw twitches and the pulse in his temple throbs as his foot taps an impatient beat on the cement. Uh-oh. Something else must have happened tonight because he’s about to lose it, and in a big way. Tag has one hell of a temper, but it takes a lot to get him riled.
“You know where I was all night?” He thuds his hand on the metal railing and the clang of his watch rings down the dock. “I spent the night at the crime scene of an eighteen-year-old girl who was—”
Anticipating what he’s about to say, I cut him off with a raised hand. “Stop. Please.”
But he doesn’t listen. He’s ranting now, his face a mask of pain. The pain is why he’s here. It’s a pain he never should have been burdened with and one he should never have to experience again. Pain I gave him.
Turning away, I look out over the water, trying to tune him out, but I catch a few words I didn’t want to hear: sexual assault, knew her attacker. He knows I don’t want to hear this. He knows it brings back the nightmares. Whatever he saw tonight must have been bad, because Tag has never been anything but sympathetic and understanding about what happened to me.
I focus on my breathing, just like my therapist taught me to do in times of crisis. In and out. I hear nothing but the sound of my breath. I see nothing but inky black waves. I feel nothing but a gentle stroke on my cheek.
So gentle.
Looking up, I see the Predator with one hand on Tag’s shoulder and the other drifting away from my cheek.
“You okay?”
My breath catches as I stare at my savior—strong jaw, dark with a five o’clock shadow; rough craggy face; and eyes as deep and blue as the twilight sky. Eyes that have haunted my dreams for almost a year. The face of my every fantasy.
The Predator. In. The. Flesh. Up close and personal.
“Hey,” he says, meeting my gaze.
“Hey.” I try not to melt into a puddle on the wharf.
His gaze flicks to Tag and he raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “You alright, Fuzz?”
Fuzz. Despite the tension thick around us, laughter bubbles in my chest. My poor brother has the worst ring name ever, given to him by his teammates to put him in his place because he is such a hard-ass when he teaches his classes. Soft and fuzzy Tag is not.
Tag’s jaw tightens. “We’re fine here.”
The Predator doesn’t move. “Man hears a woman yelling ‘stop,’ he’s gotta investigate.” His gaze drops to me. “You do something to get yourself arrested?”
I give an exaggerated sigh. “I didn’t listen to my brother.”
“You’re Fuzz’s sister?”
“Unfortunately.”
The Predator studies me for so long I drop my gaze and twist my Claddagh ring around my finger, hoping he doesn’t recognize me from the fights. Jess gave me the ring the first day we met as a sign of friendship, and I’ve never taken it off.
“You got a name?”
“Sia.”
“I’m Ray.”
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out in a soft voice, “I know.”
Tag makes a choked sound, halfway between outrage and disbelief, and I cringe, knowing he has just figured out the real reason I’ve been coming to the fights. Sometimes having a close, overprotective sibling can really suck.
“Seen you before,” Ray says.
My cheeks burn. How could he have noticed me in the crowd, especially when I made a point of keeping to the shadows at the very back? “Yeah. I…get inspiration for my art at the fights.”
“Tattoos aren’t real art.” Tag recovers quickly so he can launch into one of his favorite speeches. “And the people who get tatted up are not the kind of people you should be hanging around.”
Teeth gritted, I glare. We’ve had this argument a million times. Tattoo parlors rank on Tag’s “Sia no-go” list, along with fight clubs, bars, parties, raves, racetracks, and restaurants where people have come down with food poisoning. And although I make an effort to play to his overprotective streak, I had to draw the line with my ink. Art has always been my outlet, and when my painting muse deserted me, I would have succumbed to the darkness if not for Jess’s suggestion that I turn my talent to tattooing.
Ray gives me a measured look. “You got a shop? I’ve been looking for someone…”
My throat constricts. Ray has awesome tats; on the left, a half sleeve of a black, stylized, twisted lightning design that spreads over his shoulder, and an orange design on his right arm that I’ve never been close enough to see. Alone in my bed at night, I have imagined inking my own design into Ray’s skin, marking him as mine.