Regardless, clearing her throat, she asked, “What’s the story on your brother?” She nodded toward Connor.
Tyson didn’t turn to look as he continued unwrapping his hands. “No story.”
Bullshit. “The guy doesn’t have laces in his shoes and he has track marks on both forearms. I could probably guess . . .”
He sighed. “And you’d be right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s just here helping out for extra cash.” He paused before adding. “Just stay away from him though, okay?”
She nodded. “He’s younger than you?” She couldn’t determine his age. He was so thin and pale—he could be sixteen or sixty. She was just guessing based on Tyson’s protective attitude he’d displayed toward him.
“Older.”
“Does he fight too?”
“Funny thing. The MFL doesn’t really have a crackhead weight division,” he said harshly.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, stashing her gear inside the bag. Clearly this conversation was over.
He sighed, grabbing her arm as she turned to leave. “That was rude,” he said tightly. “I’m sorry. Connor is just a hot topic for me, okay?”
“Yeah, I get it. I was just curious.” She shrugged as she studied his conflicted expression. She wanted to know more about him . . . wanted to spend more time with him outside of the gym . . . was desperate to somehow get back to being in his arms, even if there was no future and only heartache in them.
“He’s harmless though, so you don’t have to worry. If you feel uncomfortable at all, just say the word and he’s out of here.”
She suspected Connor was already struggling with having his brother there in the first place.
“Can I just ask one more thing?” She bit her lip.
He sighed. “Sure.”
“That tattoo on his neck . . . is that a prison tattoo?” she whispered, as the man in question descended the stairs, carrying disinfection spray and an armful of towels.
Tyson laughed. “No.” He leaned against the wall and slid his back along the length to the floor, patting the mat next to him.
She sat and waited, hoping she was finally about to get another glimpse into his world and eager for it.
“It’s a homemade tattoo of our family crest.”
“Wait—homemade as in he did it himself?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yep.”
“And it’s your family crest? What is it?”
“Have you ever noticed the symbol on the Punisher Athletics sign out front?”
She nodded. “The suit of armor helmet and some kind of bird?”
He smiled. “It’s a dragon bird. It’s cool,” he reassured.
She laughed, holding her hands up. “I wasn’t judging. There’s also words—Pax . . . something?”
“Pax Copia—it’s our family motto. It means Peace, plenty.”
“Ironic for an MMA gym, don’t you think?”
“Maybe . . .”
“Anyway, I have to say that thing on his neck looks nothing like the picture on the sign.” It didn’t look like much of anything, the ink faded and missing in sections. Made sense now that she knew it hadn’t been done professionally.
Tyson stood and extended a hand to help her up. “I know, and the worst of it is, I’m branded with one as well.”
Her eyes widened. “Noooo.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, turning and lowering his gym shorts down over one butt cheek.
One sexy, tight butt cheek . . . branded with the same weird design. Parker stared at it in disbelief. She hadn’t noticed it the few times she’d gotten him naked. Of course there had been plenty of other things to focus on then—like his sculpted pecs and abs, the large biceps, and thick thighs . . . She shook the thoughts away. “You let your brother do this to you?”
“Hardly. I was drunk and passed out. It was the first and last time I ever drank that much,” he said, raising his shorts. “It was the first tattoo I ever received, and the only one I wish I didn’t have. When Connor had come home that night with a tattoo gun claiming he wanted to become a tattoo artist, I refused to be his practice canvas.”
“Then you started drinking,” Parker said.
“And the next morning woke up with a sore ass and a permanent warning never to drink so much again.”
Parker laughed. “Well, at least you learned your lesson.”
He shot her a look. “Oh, come on, I see the way you try to hide that tiny Japanese symbol on your hip—you have ink regret too. At least I had no choice in mine.”
She sighed, lowering her shorts to look at the blurry, faded tat. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed it. He was right—she did go to great lengths to keep it covered. “I hate it,” she admitted. “I got it to piss off my grandmother when I was seventeen. Biggest mistake ever. I lost modeling jobs because of it and the makeup crews on set have to constantly keep it covered while filming. I’ve thought of getting it removed . . .”
“But . . .”
“I hear it hurts a lot, like a million times worse than getting the tattoo in the first place.” She’d researched it a million times, but always chickened out when it came down to placing the call for the appointment.
“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” Tyson said.
“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you removed yours?”
“It’s on my ass, I never see it.” He shrugged. “And most women only get that one chance to possibly see it and usually they are a little too preoccupied.” He smirked.
Her eyes narrowed and she punched his shoulder. “Yes, I’ve heard.” She paused. She really must be desperate to spend time with him outside the gym, she thought, as she said, “I’ll remove mine if you remove yours.”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve heard it often takes several sessions for it to disappear completely.”
“Fine. If you’re afraid . . .”
Before she could utter another syllable, he charged toward her and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder and spanking her ass before carrying her into the change-room, where he set her down and backed her up against the lockers. Taking her hands, he pinned them above her head before kissing her hard.
Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled under her as she returned the kiss, releasing all of the pent-up attraction and sexual frustration she’d been battling for weeks. Thank God, he hadn’t been able to stick to his word about keeping it professional. When he broke away, she smiled. “So, is that a yes?”
“Make the appointments,” he grumbled against her lips before kissing her again.
* * *
As Tyson pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of Serenity Laser Tattoo removal clinic, he still couldn’t believe she’d been successful in her bullying technique to get him to agree to this. Sure, he couldn’t stand the ugly, unreadable tattoo on his ass, but he’d lived with it this long.
A part of him was also reluctant to part with it—a good memory of times with his brother.
Cutting the engine of the bike, he removed his helmet and glanced back at Parker. “You’re sure about this?” Give her time to chicken out now that he’d called her bluff and they were there.
Unfortunately, she nodded eagerly as she removed her helmet and shook her blonde waves free. “Definitely. Look at this place. It looks more like a day spa than a medical clinic,” she said, climbing off of the bike.
He glanced at the building. The pink concrete exterior with the inviting, peaceful palm trees around it didn’t fool him. Awaiting them inside were lasers. Lasers. Did Parker fully understand the word? “I wouldn’t get my hopes up for a nice relaxing time,” he mumbled, fastening their helmets to the back of the bike. “You do know how this works, right?” He did. A little too well. He’d spent the day before watching YouTube videos of the procedure. Since watching his opponents previous fights always helped to prepare him for the battle ahead, he’d hoped the same concept would apply . . . it hadn’t. It had only terrified him. While the whole thing was relatively quick, the people in those videos looked like they were in serious pain.