“It’s just her,” I said.
Kane looked disappointed. What he’d gotten up to with the girls after Ingrid and I left them alone the other night, I didn’t know, or want to know.
I made a move toward my station when Kane snapped his fingers. “Oh, dude. I forgot to ask, uh, earlier. Are you still on for Friday night? Organizers need to know.”
Ingrid looked up at me. “What’s happening Friday night?”
I shot Kane a glare and Ingrid’s brows furrowed as she looked between us, sensing the shift in the air.
The idiot answered, “It’s the gym’s boxing tournament. Tristian’s one of the gym’s best fighters.”
“Kane, you didn’t need to tell her that…” I growled, trying to suppress the anger rising in my throat. I didn’t want her part of that world.
Ingrid looked up at me, eyes wide. “Do you not want me to come?”
I sighed. “I would love for you to come, doll, but… I don’t think it would be good for you to go.”
“Really? Why?” She sounded genuinely curious.
Kane, sensing he’d stirred the pot enough, took the opportunity to slip away before I could rip into him.
“Boxing tournaments down at the gym are very… gruesome,” I said. “See these?” I held up my hands, the dark knuckles. “That’s what I got training. Now imagine the real deal. Much worse. A boxing match is nothing a sweet girl like you should go to see.”
“Oh… OK.”
She accepted it. She trusted my judgment. Good.
The truth was, when I fought, I wasn’t the guy rubbing her hand in a café. I wasn’t merciful; Brandon knew that well. I took out my anger on whoever was stupid enough to get in the ring with me. I made easy money because I never lost, but I didn’t want Ingrid seeing the blood on my hands.
Boxing tournament talk defused for now, I headed to my station and prepped for clients. Ingrid sat next to me, and I gave her a run-down of my equipment as I went. She seemed genuinely interested, and even began to look at ease.
The bell over the door rang. A client walked in, spoke to James, and then headed toward my station.
“Hey, Tristian, got anything for me today?”
I nodded and slid a few sketches across the table. I’d seen this guy a few times; he was a regular, harmless enough. He had enough tattoos as it was but I never minded the practice.
“Give me this on my wrist with my name,” he said, pointing to a small, intricate design comprised of interlocking, woven coils of rope.
I prepped the skin and started the line work. I worked fast, the buzz of the needle filling the silence. Ingrid watched in awe, her eyes tracing the ink as it settled into his skin.
The client looked over at her. “Your guy’s a good artist.”
I paused, the needle hovering just off his skin.
Your guy.
I slid a side-eye toward Ingrid. She was looking down, a furious blush staining her cheeks.
The client looked confused. “She’s not your girl?” he asked me. “Because I figured…”
I wanted to sayyes. The instinct that rose in me was territorial. The word was on the tip of my tongue. But it wasn’t true. I liked her, thatwas a fact I was trying to come to terms with, but we’d met all of twice. I barely knew her. So I shook my head. “Just a friend.”
“Right.” He looked to Ingrid. “Well, yourfriendis a good artist.” Then tipped her a wink.
She shifted, looking uncomfortable. My grip on the gun tightened until my knuckles turned white. I clenched my jaw, hoping the guy would just shut his mouth before I had to shut it for him.
Friend.
