Page 2 of Dirty Love

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” The chanting crowd echoes what’s inside me as I make my way inside. I catch the eye of the organizer and give him a brusque nod.

Yeah, I’m here. Bring on all challengers.

But first there’s another pair of contenders in the ring. I unzip my hoodie and roll my neck, my shoulders. Bounce on my toes and start to move through some range of motion shit as I watch them move around each other.

They’re both too cautious. The big guy will probably win. Everything else being equal, that’s usually the way it goes. Might makes right.

The smaller guy is fast, though. If he got over his fear, he’d be worth putting money on.

If.

But that’s the thing. What might happen if you get your shit together doesn’t help you here, in the now, with some big guy’s fist barrelling toward your jaw.

Sorry, bud. Not your night.

As the winner collects his earnings, I’m introduced. My fighting name is Nix, and it means absolutely nothing to me, like any of the other personas I put on to get a job done.

I’m Gough—pronounced Goff—when I’m impersonating an FBI agent.

Branch when I’m on the dark web.

Even Wilson Carter isn’t a real name, but I made a choice six years ago. A choice to step into the light, to work with Mack Evans and now his half-brother Jason, and be a real person—as much as possible for someone like me.

And Wilson is as close to my real identity as I’m ever going to get.

Plus there’s the fact Tabitha whispers that name when she comes. That would imprint it on my skin even if time and normalcy hadn’t already done most of the work for her.

Tabitha.

Fucking hell.

I summon the rage that always simmers right beneath the surface and step forward, into the ring.

Bring it on, bastards.

—two—

Tabitha

San Francisco

Tonight’s show was great. Long, though, with two extra encores, and I’m wiped. There’s a girl backstage who’s been shooting me looks, like she’d like to help me burn off some of this excess energy.

I think of him. Of how long it’s been. Months since we last touched, since he’s been inside me. Since we fucked, over and over again.

Since he imprinted himself on my skin and inside my soul.

A little black, bitter mark.

Nothing romantic about it.

But it’s changed me, because I should want this girl. On her knees, between my legs. Her cute little pink tongue flicking at my clit, and an evil little part of my soul whispers it would be within the bounds of what he’d allow. She wouldn’t fuck me. I wouldn’t fuck her. Just a little taste.

But there’s that mark. I’m his, for better or for worse.

And when I bump into her, and she spontaneously hugs me, there’s no leap of hunger inside me. No shift into primal sex mode. I don’t want her, not really. I want to not be so fucking lonely it hurts, but I don’t want her. I don’t want a stranger.

I want him.

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