Page 188 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

I grimace. “Shit, that doesn’t sound good.”

“Nope. Hurts like a bitch.”

I hold up my beer. “You want me to get you one?”

“Nah. Thanks. I took some painkillers, so I probably shouldn’t drink.”

I nod, then drop to the opposite end of the couch. “Are they gonna be able to manage without you for a while?”

“Yeah. I have the place running like a well-oiled machine. I can take a couple of days off.” I take a drink and drop my head against the back of the couch, blowing out a long breath. “You had the interviews today, right?” I nod without lifting my head. “How’d they go?”

“Yeah, good … I guess. I offered the female candidate the job.”

He looks at me closely. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“Because I’m not.” I exhale a long breath.

He sits forward, wincing. “Then why’d you give her the job?”

“Her artistic talent is phenomenal.” I take another drink.

Aaron adjusts the ice pack. “What’s the problem, then?”

“She’s never held a tattoo gun.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah.” I fidget with the label on the bottle. “I needed someone to walk in and start tattooing from day one, which isn’t gonna happen with this chick.”

“What about the other applicant?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what it was about her that made me offer her the job.” I look at my long-time friend. “Her design skills are top-notch. Her eye for detail and color … man … fucking remarkable. But there was another guy who was pretty good and could have walked straight into the job. He just didn’t seem to have that … passion that Sophie had.”

“I hear ya. Sometimes passion for the job outweighs the other stuff. Do you think she’ll pick it up quickly?”

“I do. Ken and I spoke about it after she left and after some convincing, he’s happy to train her. I told her we wouldn’t pay her for the training and she was happy to accept.”

He raises a brow. “That says a lot.”

“It says everything.” I finish my beer. “Anyway, I’m heading out for a fight. You need anything before I go?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll probably go to bed soon. Hopefully, I can sleep off the pain.” He readjusts the ice pack again. “Be careful, hey.”

I stand. “I’m always careful.”

He barks out a laugh. “Bullshit.”

I toss my empty bottle in the trash and head for the door. “Night.”

“Night.”

* * *

I climb to my feet and rub my jaw; sweat rolls in rivulets down my torso. I flick my damp hair out of my eyes and raise my hands, protecting my face. He lunges and I dance out of the way, then duck to jab him in the ribs, knocking him off balance. Before he can regain his footing, I kick out at his obliques, then follow up with a round kick to his head as he staggers, and he drops to the mat like a stone.

Blood trickles from his nose as the referee squats next to him and rubs his hand across his lifeless back. He swipes his arms across his body and euphoria sweeps through me.

I don’t come here to lose.

---