I’d correctly nailed her identity. One sidewalk starer, reporting for duty.
She’d twisted up her long dark hair to show off her face. That might’ve been a good thing had she not looked like she recently collided into rough concrete, lips first. They were swollen and split, but I could tell they were a good size even when they weren’t torn open. She had dark eyes and lashes and winter-white pale skin, which revealed all of the assorted marks and wounds—most of them fresh—that made her look so disturbingly…broken.
Once upon a time, I’d wanted to patch things together, but I’d discovered I was better at breaking them. So maybe that’s why she called to me. Or that magnet pull was still in full effect.
“Screw you, Carmine,” she called over her shoulder, offering a raised middle finger salute. “Shove your job and your attitude with it.”
Carmine responded in kind, and she sneered without saying anything more. She gathered her stuff from under the bar, coming up short when the blonde grabbed her arm. “Mia, come on. We need you here tonight. We’re already down a person. What are we supposed to—”
“He won’t let me work tonight, Shell. Did you miss that part?” Mia sketched a finger over her face. Even the unpolished nail on her index finger was broken to the quick. This babe didn’t mess around.
Anger flared in my gut and I rose to my feet. Had Carmine done that to her? From what I’d seen on the street, she’d been a little messed up, but I hadn’t gotten a close look. Could be their fight had been physical before it turned verbal. If so, the asshole was about to get a taste of my fists.
A real man never hit a woman. Never. Not for any goddamn reason.
“Why don’t you ask this guy to fill in?” Mia sneered again and jerked that same finger in my direction. A second later, her gaze followed suit. Then she let her arm drop limply to her side as if I were the one with the busted face.
“What?” I patted my chest. Nothing twinged or twanged more than usual, and I hadn’t sparred yet today. That would come tonight. I had a few bruises, most of them under my clothes, and a cut near my eyebrow, but I’d certainly looked worse. And I looked way better than she did.
“Fox,” she muttered. “Frigging figures.”
Disgust shot through me at the use of the ridiculous nickname. I’d rather take a fist to the teeth than hear that crap. Rather than look at Mia, I glanced at the blonde. She’d started polishing the bar with a dirty rag, her mouth set in a hard line. Personnel issues obviously weren’t important enough for her to risk missing a blemish on the already damaged wood. Apparently, neither was my nickname. The likelihood that Shell knew about the underground fighting scene was slim, but I took enough chances on a daily basis without running my mouth.
Since I didn’t intend to discuss out in the open how Mia knew who I was, I grabbed her arm and tugged her through the pass-through. She stiffened under my hand. Hardened like stone was a more accurate description. Great. I’d probably hurt her again.
I gentled my grip and lowered my face close to hers. She was tall for a woman, but no match for my height of six-foot-three. “How do you know my name?”
Trepidation swam through her expression. Then she gave me a smile cocky enough to belong to the most confident fighter I’d ever faced. That was saying a lot, considering I’d stared down some arrogant bastards.
“Word travels.”
Uh huh. Sure it did. But I didn’t dwell on the unlikelihood of her statement. Even with her face all fucked up, she yanked my chain—and mine was pretty thick. Not bragging, just fact. I hadn’t had sex for a while, and while I wanted to meet someone, I wasn’t looking for a soul mate or some ridiculous shit like that. My dad always said my mom was his, and he’d regularly used her for a punching bag. He probably still did, but I tried to see them as rarely as possible.
I pressed my lips against the shell of her ear, intending to continue our conversation at a lower volume. “Does it?”
Mia elbowed me back, putting a definite distance between our bodies. Hers was slight and angular, but her stomach muscles flexed against her tight tank. I’d been trained to watch people closely, to grab lots of details fast. That wasn’t just for curiosity’s sake. My safety—hell, my life—depended on how quickly I could assess an opponent. This chick was bruised and battered, absolutely. A little too skinny too. She was also fucking ripped.
“We just met. I’d rather not have your tongue in my ear.” She pushed past me, thumping my stomach with her oversized bag. Whether or not that was intentional was up to interpretation. Judging from the venomous glance she directed over her shoulder before she shoved open the door and stepped outside, my interpretation was intentional times five.
“She’s prickly.” Her coworker shrugged.
“I noticed. How’d she get that face full of bruises?”
The blonde shrugged again. “Think it’s something domestic. I don’t ask. Not my business.”
I stared at the closed door for all of half a minute, watching the steady flutter of snow through the single square pane of glass. Then I followed, job forgotten.
Curiosity was a fucking bitch.
Chapter Three
Mia
Fox lurking around meant one thing. I had to get out of there. Fast.
The temperature hovered at about ten degrees and the wind roared like a bitch. Snow flew straight into my sore eyes, intensifying the sting that drops couldn’t cure. I should’ve tried to bring down the swelling, but I’d been stupid enough to think being on time would make up for the state of my face.
Moron. I should’ve known Carmine would only tolerate so much.