Page 32 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

Finn, the manager, gave me a doubtful once-over. “Not to be that guy, but you sure about this? Tom won’t need both hands.”

He believed he was being reasonable. My cat disagreed.

“Just treat me like one of the guys,” I said, and climbed through the ropes.

Tom was already inside, bouncing lightly on his toes, loose and confident. I rolled my neck, swung my arms, and sized him up the way I did every opponent: reach, weight distribution, old scars, the way he carried his lead shoulder. He was assessing me too, but his gaze lingered in a different way, already convinced he knew how this would end.

Finn stepped between us, glancing at both fighters. “Keep it light. No cheap shots. Three rounds or until someone taps. Ready?”

I gave a short nod.

Tom smirked. “Ready.”

Finn backed out of the ring and slapped the canvas. “Fight.”

Almost immediately, someone near the ropes muttered, “This is a joke, right?”

A deeper voice chuckled. “Twenty bucks says she lasts thirty seconds.”

Tom stepped closer, mouth already opening with something smug. I moved first, landing a sharp uppercut, then another, and finished with a clean left cross that was fast and precise. I jumped back and raised an eyebrow.

Tom blinked, surprised, then let out a short, annoyed laugh. “Alright. Cute.”

He came at me this time. We traded blows. He was stronger than he looked and quicker than I'd expected, but still predictable. I slipped his next punch, drove two clean shots into his ribs, and heard him grunt.

“Keep that same energy,” I said.

His face darkened. Whatever restraint he'd been using disappeared. He exploded forward with real shifter speed, his fist catching my jaw hard enough to draw blood. Adrenaline lit up my system. Good. He had eighty pounds on me, and he knew how to use them.

The pace changed. Every punch carried more weight now. I gave ground when I had to, answered when I could, and punished every opening he left. A sequence I'd drilled for years split the skin beneath his left eye.

“Damn,” I said between breaths, circling him. “You're breathing pretty hard already. Need a break?”

Rage is predictable. The second the words left my mouth he lunged.

I sidestepped, changed the angle, and drove my knee into his ribs. He folded forward and I jumped, wrapping my legs around his neck and locking the triangle choke tight as we crashed to the mat together. He bucked hard, trying to slam me into the canvas, but I only squeezed tighter. His movements grew more desperate with each passing second.

“She's got him,” someone said.

“Tap, man. You're done.”

Tom's hand slapped the mat twice.

I released him, crab-walked back, and got to my feet, keeping my eyes on him. You never knew how someone processed a loss. My jaw was already swelling and my ribs hurt with every breath, but I felt clearer than I had in days.

Then I slipped through the ropes and picked up my water bottle and towel. Tom was still sitting in the middle of the ring, chest heaving, the gym strangely quiet around us.

“That was fun,” I said. “Same time next Sunday?”

I winked and walked away.

Chapter 13: We’re Partners

Monday morning I tried covering the bruise along my jaw with powder, but it only softened the edges. Tom had caught me cleanly, and shifter healing was not fast enough to erase the greenish-yellow spread.

"What happened to your face?" Cassidy asked, falling into step beside me before I'd made it ten feet from the locker room.

I touched the bruise absently. “Got hit.”