The Fighter Duet: Two Full-Length, Red-Hot New Adult Fighter Romances Read Online Free

model on the cover had long, straight-black hair like mine, and her arms were covered in a colorful pattern that twisted and flowered up her biceps. It looked like the artist had used a watercolor technique, and the year I’d been at Living Arts Tattoos with Carl crept across my memory.
    Carl had done elaborate tattoos like these, ones that took multiple sessions to complete, and I’d watched him closely, learning how to take blank skin and turn it into a canvass. I wasn’t there long enough to get as skilled as he, but I’d enjoyed the few works of art I’d created. Most of them were on my own body, from the tear in my hand to the star on my hip. The only one I hadn’t done was the butterfly on my ribs. It was my first ink, and Carl had done it for me after I lost Blake.
    When I moved back to Bayville, I’d let that part of me go. I was pregnant, and I needed allies. I couldn’t be the rebellious teenager who’d run off and married the delinquent everybody hated.
    Something in me twisted at the loss, and I added the magazine to the basket on my arm. From there, I went to the hair care aisle. Walking slowly, I saw a box for deep violet-colored dye. It had been years since I’d done anything interesting with my hair, and the urge to change everything pulled hard at my insides. The bottle went into the basket, and I headed to the front.
    The cashier didn’t even blink when I placed a bottle of wine, a tattoo magazine, and a box of purple hair dye in front of her. As far as she cared, she saw shit like this every day. Whatever. I was shaking things up, seeing if a little change would release the tension.

    * * *
    S itting in front of the television with my hair wrapped in plastic, I sipped a glass of wine as I thumbed through the magazine. I traced my favorite tats into my sketchbook and tried to decide which I would do if I still had a gun.
    Men’s tattoos were so straightforward, tribal bands or broad Samoan patterns across shoulders and over backs. I stared at a photo of a pale, skinny guy with spikey blond hair and a square jaw. He had gauges in his ears and both arms were covered in green and black sleeves that were a mixture of skulls and chains. His light eyes pierced out from the pages at me. Trouble was written all over his expression, and the muscles low in my belly tightened. Of course, this was the type of guy Kenny the Tigress wanted to maul. Or was I Wonder Woman?
    One thing was for sure, I was buzzed. I pulled myself off the floor, stumbling to my closet, glass of wine still in my hand.
    All the way in the back was a box I never opened anymore. Lifting the lid, I dug through the napkins and matchbooks from clubs we’d visited, dried flowers and a diary. I shoved them all aside trying to find it. Was it all the way at the bottom?
    A hard cube met my fingertips, and I pulled out a cheap, red-vinyl box that opened with a squeak. Inside was the thinnest gold band anybody had ever seen. It was all we’d been able to afford. I think it cost twenty dollars. Pulling it out, I slipped it on the third finger of my left hand, and my breath hiccupped.
    Going back to the box, I dug some more until I found the one picture I still had of us together. Blake had his skinny arm thrown over my shoulder, and I was leaning forward laughing, clutching his waist. A cigarette hung out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were half-closed while he flipped off the photographer with his other hand.
    God, we were so young—not that I was so old now, but when this was taken, I’d only been eighteen. Mrs. Clarkson was eighteen when she’d married her husband. But they’d had forty years together. Blake and I only had three.
    Staring at the faces, I waited for the tears to start. I braced myself for the gut-wrenching sobs that used to double me over and have me silently screaming. It always happened when I looked at these mementos. How long had it been since I’d done this? A year?
    Nothing happened. I sat in silence