Alpha Fighter (5 page)

Paired with that face and that body, she's dangerous. 

I pull into my parking space and turn off the car, locking it twice before I head out. I let myself in quietly, since it's pretty late and Savannah is surely asleep. It's dead silent. I check my watch as I flip on the light. One thirty in the morning Man, I'm going to feel this at morning training, considering that I have to be up before five to run to the gym.

Whoa. When I look up from my watch, I almost feel like I'm in the wrong apartment. The whole place gleams like an ad for some sort of cleaning detergent. I whistle.

A face, a brain, and a work ethic. Danger.

From her elegant way of holding herself and educated patterns of speech, I would have pegged her as a hoity toity rich girl, slumming it for God-knows-what reason. Or maybe a shunned princess, Daddy's little girl kicked out of the mansion to fend for herself among the regular people. But this isn't the work of a sheltered girl who's had everything handed to her all her life.

I whip a protein shake up to fuel tomorrow morning's workout. I take a look at my watch again. Make that today's workout.

A last look around at an apartment I barely recognize before I shut off the lights settles it. I'm going to figure this girl out. I've figured out the action plans of rogue military governments abroad, to be able to chart, and preempt, their moves and locations to the precision of a ten-yard radius. My ability to predict and block the moves of my opponents gets me out of the ring without a scratch, with guys fifty pounds heavier than me left bruised and confused. I can figure out this mysterious girl with the sweet ass and survivor attitude, too.

Savannah

W
hy did I think this was a good idea? I mean, yeah, Nate's the world's biggest dickhead and there's no way in hell that I'm marrying him. Just the thought of him touching me, or even coming near me, makes me want to hurl.

He's disgusting. Really? That's what I've been waiting for, what I've been staying 'pure' for?
That's
why I couldn't date like the other girls, why hot guys ran in the opposite direction like I was some kind of leper? My fiancé, who has the nerve to fucking cheat on me when I don't even want him?

Thinking about him there, in bed with her, reminds me of why I did what I did and why I was totally, completely right.

I push myself up off of the hard mattress and peel my sweaty tank off. It's an inferno in my room and the slow fan is more of an insult than anything. It makes so much noise I can hardly hear myself think, but it barely moves the air around at all.

Still, finding this place was a godsend. And Cooper...I feel my skin getting even

hotter as I think about him. Sure, I've been tempted before. I'm not exactly some naive prepubescent. But it's never been like this. I can still feel his hard bicep under my hand as I tripped in the kitchen this morning and he swooped down to catch me. If it wouldn't have meant death and dishonor if someone somehow found out, I would have given myself to him right then and there, on the kitchen counter. Oh, how I wanted to.

But it does mean death and dishonor, I remind myself. And not just for me—Cooper would be a bloody smear on the floor of an abandoned backwoods shed somewhere if one of Daddy's thugs got to him. I can't risk that.

I sigh and pull my long, black hair up into a ponytail. Anna-Lynne had called this morning with the great news that she’d talked to some friends, who’d talked to some friends, and that she’d landed an interview for me. It's at one of the tattoo parlors that I visited yesterday, not the super-ritzy ones but also not the crappies. It's a pretty standard, blue collar tattoo parlor in downtown and, with Anna-Lynne's recommendation, I have the chance to be considered for a position as general all-around lackey to the artists there.

So basically, I'll be their bitch.

But I really want it, because at least it's doing
something
in a parlor and it's something I can put on my resume. I'll also be the best damn lackey any of one of them has ever seen and maybe someone will give me the chance sometime, probably a ways down the road, to prove that I have what it takes to ink.

The place is called The Ink Joint and my interview is in half an hour. Beyond

my aspirations and just focusing on the practical side of things, I need this job. Even split with Cooper, it's not like I can pay the rent here without some kind of job. I can't file unemployment because I'm technically still an underage runaway. Besides, I'm a Santos, and Santoses don't take welfare.

I line my dark, almond-shaped eyes with kohl and rub a little lip balm onto my naturally cherry-colored lips. I pull a fresh shirt over my head, run a hand over my faded cutoffs, and give myself a quick look-over in the mirror. Not bad.

I lace up my sneakers, grab my bag, and head out of the door. Not looking where I'm going, I walk straight into a tall wall of muscle. It's like I've been electrocuted—my body is on fire with longing. I subconsciously cross my legs in front of each other, a pitiful attempt to control myself.

"Cooper," I breathe.

Cooper

F
uck, I can't remember what I came to say to her.

Petite with firm curves in all the right places, this woman is trouble. She's definitely not what I was expecting when I put in the ad for a roommate. She's the kind of woman I'd normally take straight to bed.

But she's my roommate; sex would complicate things. I don't do relationships and you can't exactly send a roommate home when you're done with her. Besides, I don't know anything about her. I don't know how old she is, where she's from, what her story is. If she hadn't made a face like she screwed up after she told me she's Savannah, I wouldn't even know if that's her real name.

Everything I know is telling me to stay away. But all my instincts are saying something quite different. Fuck, there's no question why I've been doing so many extra workouts and taking so many cold showers since she moved in. And there's no question that, just like I realized last night, I want to know more.

"You said you have an interview today, right?" I ask. I'd walked in when she was looking for something to make for breakfast this morning and tried to strike up some conversation. She had been half-asleep still, but had mumbled something about The Ink Joint.

"Yeah, I did," Savannah says. "Thanks for letting me bum some cereal off you earlier, by the way—I realized I forgot to thank you. I'm not normally so rude, but I was exhausted this morning."

"No worries." I smile. "You did an amazing job on this place. I get all that for a bowl of cereal?" I whistle.

She laughs. "I just needed to get some energy out. Yesterday wasn't going too great, but hopefully I'll turn that around today."

"Do you need a ride? The parlor is right by my gym," I offer.

"Didn't you just come from the gym this morning?" Savannah bites her lip and I grit my teeth. I cannot pick her up and throw her on my bed. That's not a good idea.

"Yeah," I say. "I have a big fight tomorrow." And I need to stop thinking about what I want to do to your body.

"Ah, cool." She nods. "Yeah, thanks. A ride would be great."

I grab my gym bag and then we walk to the door in silence, her looking over at me now and then, a tad uncertainly, and I swallow my smirk. Make them wait to talk and it barely takes any probing to get the words flowing when you finally do. I take my time opening the door for her, walking around the car, starting the engine, and driving a few blocks before I say something. Even then, it's not much. The trick to getting hesitant speakers to speak and, ultimately, to spill is by taking your sweet time. People will tell you everything you don't want to know, but too much interest will shut them up tighter than my left hook.

"Tattoos, huh?" I finally ask.

"Yeah," she says, shrugging and giving a nervous, relieved, laugh. Hurrying to fill the silence before it envelops her again, she continues. "It's one of the most permanent, and personal, forms of art. Takes a lot of trust, you know? Every piece has to have so much care in it, or you can tell. My—" She stops and turns her head, looking out the window.

"Hmm?" I prompt.

"Oh, my, um, interest is in the art," she replies. I can tell it's not what she meant to say. It's not what she means. But she's holding back. "I like drawing."

"Did you take a lot of classes?" I ask, not even looking at her or indicating any kind of interest at all as I glance over my shoulder to switch lanes.

"Eh, you know," she answers, shrugging her shoulders. "I took a couple classes in high school, but art is a passion. It sounds so cliche, but it's the expression of something that's more than just a technique. Learning the basics helps you execute the expression well, but you can't just do the techniques and expect them to produce art on their own. Or, at least, that's my opinion." The whole statement was so passionate and strong, with her face really lighting up as she talked, that I'm not buying the casual 'just my opinion' at the end.

"You always knew you were going to be an artist, then?" I ask.

She laughs, then shakes her head. There's a look in her eyes that I can't quite place, but I'm reading it as something between sadness and bitterness. "No. I would have loved it, but it wasn't what was meant for me."

I test my luck. "What, parents wanted you to be a hot-shot doctor or lawyer, instead?" I say it in a joking tone, but I still see her visibly tense at the word 'parents.'

She's silent for a moment, then hedges a response. "Something like that, I guess."

She doesn't offer anything else and I know better than to push any more right now, curious as I am.

"Here you are," I say, as I pull up to the front of The Ink Joint. "Need a ride back?"

"No, thanks," she says, almost leaping out of the car before it even comes to a stop. "I could use a walk and one way really isn't bad." She's already out the door before she catches herself and turns around to say a quick, "Thanks for the ride!"

Then she's bouncing off into the parlor, giving me a great view of her perfect ass. Looks like it's time for another workout.

Savannah

I
have to force myself to focus as I walk into The Ink Joint. That, in and of itself, is enough of a warning sign. This is what I've wanted for as long as I can recall—a chance to show my stuff as a tattoo artist and strike out on my own merit.

Well, okay. Maybe not
quite
as a tattoo artist, but this is the first step on the way to that. And the fact that a short ride with a handsome man who shows interest in me is enough to distract me and is highly disconcerting. I need to bring my A-game, and going all boy-crazy and crush-happy isn't a part of that. I need to keep my frickin' panties straight and focus.

I take a pause just inside the door, breathe deeply, and collect myself. Show time.

I walk up to the counter. "Hello!" I say. "I'm Savannah. I'm here to interview for a position as general assistant." It's the same receptionist as yesterday, but she doesn't seem to recognize me. It just goes to show how much of an impression I made, and chance I had, without Anna-Lynne's help. Thank the heaven and stars for that sweet godsend of a woman.

"Hi!" she chirps. Today, she deems me worthy of looking up from her desktop screen. She even grants me a smile. "Just give me a minute and I'll show you around. Are you ready to start working now?"

"Uh," I stammer, a little confused. I catch myself quickly. "Of course!"

"Great!" she says, beaming at me. "I'm Tamryn, by the way. We're pretty swamped with appointments this afternoon, so it's perfect timing. Everyone could really use a hand." She pauses to type something quickly, then closes a window on her desktop and looks back at me. "We'll skip the interview. You come with a strong recommendation. You can prove yourself with your work instead. Okay?"

"Works for me!" I think my face is going to split from the force of my grin, but it's entirely genuine. I'm beyond thrilled. I got the job!

"We always start by washing our hands, no matter what," says Tamryn, "The last thing we need is someone getting a skin infection and shutting this place down, or shooting our reputation to shit, so we're really careful about clean needles, clean hands, and clean workspaces. The sink is in the back. Why don't you head over there right now and do that."

"Of course," I nod. I walk to the back, looking at the parlor around me. It's true;

the place is pretty spotless. While the parlor isn't in the ritzy part of town and there's just a water cooler instead of pitchers of spa cucumber water and bottles of bubbly circulated by an attractive server, you can't say that it's a grimy place. The wooden floor is a little worn and the paint on the walls clearly isn't new. In fact, in a few places there are some bricks showing through the paint. It adds character, however, since the mirrors are spotless, the countertops shine, and the instruments are all neatly arranged and sparkling on clean trays. The workspaces are surgically clean, a fact that I admire as I wash my hands thoroughly in the sink at the back of the large room. I would be proud to be a tattoo artist here someday.

"Alright," says Tamryn, as I rejoin her at the front desk. "You'll be reporting to me today, but as you settle in, you'll start working with the guys." She gestures at the tattoo artists, all setting up shop at their respective workspaces. They're covered in beautiful ink in all different styles, each with a unique look that works. There are a couple guys and two women working.

"Is this the complete team?" I ask.

"More or less," answers Tamryn, with a shrug. "There are a few others, but we always have about five artists in the shop. You'll get to know them with time, but some of our guys are a handful."

I laugh. "I look forward to meeting everyone."

"Why don't you start by cataloging all of our clients from the past year and seeing who hasn't been in for a while," says Tamryn, handing me a big binder filled with receipts and sign-in sheets. "When you're done with that, we'll get in touch with them and see who's due for some more work."