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Shit, he has a hundred tattoos. I sound like a groupie.
Before he could leave I grabbed his wrist. It felt like gripping one of the thick steel bars on a subway train.
“Thistattoo,” I said, pointing downward.
His gaze followed my finger, which traced the dagger and crossed arrows. The banner beneath the tattoo had three words again, only this time I could read them:
DE OPPRESSO LIBER
For a moment I thought he’d yank his arm away. If he did, I’d be powerless to stop it. Instead, he raised a thick, curious eyebrow.
“Why?”
“Because a man saved my life last night,” I said quickly. “A man who looks a lot like you.”
“Describe him.”
Did he believe me? Was he testing me?
“He wore an MMA shirt and a faded leather jacket. He was about three inches shorter than you, but just as big. And he could fight,” I added. “I mean he couldreallyfight.”
Still clutching his wrist, I tapped his warm, sweaty skin.
“And he had a tattoo exactly like this.”
The man paused, remaining silent. But his expression said everything.
“What do you want him for?” he asked.
I ran a half-dozen answers through my mind, trying to find the one I thought he wanted. In the end, I bit my lip. “I need his help.”
“Sounds like you already got his help.”
I ignored his comment for the deflection it was.
“You know exactly who I’m talking about, don’t you?”
The fighter’s body shifted. One gigantic bicep curled into a boulder as he scratched at the back of his head.
“Come with me.”
He led me away from the source of his original destination, which was apparently the men’s locker room. I felt a little bad denying him his much-needed shower. Then again, the sight of his glistening, shirtless body wasn’t exactly unpleasant. His broad shoulders and sculpted back gave way to a sexy V-shaped depression, right above his blue satin boxer shorts. I didn’t have to imagine his ass, either. I could see the two muscular globes coiling and uncoiling as he walked, straining against the fabric while distracting me from the task at hand.
Easy, Brynne.
Into one of the side offices we went. The room was clean but cluttered and utilitarian. An old desk took up one side, while at the other stood a beat-up leather couch that looked oddly comfortable. A set of long windows looked back into the gym’s central area.
“Tell me again why you need this man,” he asked once we were inside.
With the door closed, the room was surprisingly silent. The whole place smelled like bad coffee.
“I’m in trouble,” I told him. “Or rather… my brother’s in trouble.”
“And who’s your brother?”
I shook my head slowly. “Nobody you’d know.”
“Then why should I care?”
