Page 97 of Poison Touch

His eyes widen, then slowly narrow into questioning slits. A slow grin slides over his mouth. He might be good-looking if it weren’t for his arrogant attitude. Plus his puffy cauliflower ears.

“Sometimes,” he admits as he shrugs. “That’s where the money is.”

I can’t blame him. If you’re good enough and willing to risk your life, you can make a good living. “So I’ve heard.”

“Do you fight?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, but not in the underground scene. I used to compete in tournaments but not anymore.”

“You any good?”

I shrug one shoulder. “I can hold my own.”

A loud whistle comes from down the beach. Dylan glances over his shoulder at a group of people waving him over. “Listen, I’ve got to get back to my friends, but maybe I’ll see ya around sometime.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

He stops mid-jog and shuffles backward to me. “Maybe I can get your number, and we can tumble some time.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Tumble?”

He combs his fingers through his light brown hair. “Yeah, maybe you can show me some of your moves, and I can show you mine. Come on, it’s not like I’m asking for a date or anything.” He shrugs, a grin growing across his face. “Seriously, I’m not even going to go there. You’ll probably kick my ass.” His friends call for him again. He holds up his hand with his middle finger pointed skyward. “How about I give you my number instead?”

I squat down to get my phone from my bag. “Okay, what is it?”

He tells me his number, and I save it to my contacts.

“I’ve got to go. Call me sometime and we’ll tumble.” He smiles and takes off toward his friends.

How ironic to see him here, of all places. It’s over an hour away from the dojo. I wonder if he knows about the underground fight that’s happening in two days. I bet he does. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s one of the fighters on the card.

30

EDGE

What I wouldn’t giveto know where my little Ninja is right now. Wherever it is, I’d rather be with her than spend another minute with my father.

It’s Thanksgiving, and he called me away from our guests to have a one-on-one. He only wants to discuss money and fighting with me. He never asks about my classes or if I’m seeing anyone. He doesn’t care about any of that shit. Winning the next fight is all he’s concerned with.

We’re behind closed doors in his dark cigar room. The humidor box rests on the side table next to the black leather club chair currently occupied by my father.

Taking out a cigar, he closes the lid, brings it to his nose, and breathes in the expensive scent of the tobacco. “There’s nothing like a fine cigar.”

I watch his deliberate movements from just inside the doorway. My hands are tucked deep into my pants pockets. I wish he would get to the real reason he brought me in here without all the fucking theatrics. Then we can get on with the conversation leading up to our inevitable fight and return to our guests.

He cuts the tip of the cigar, flicks his lighter open, then lights it. Smoke billows around him as he puffs on the end. The fiery-red and orange tip sears brighter as he brings the flame to life.

“As you know, you’re on the card to fight tomorrow night.”

“I know.” The last time I fought, I knocked the guy down and out. With the instruction from my manager, a.k.a. good old dad, I delivered a final blow to my opponent that didn’t kill him, but he won’t be fighting for a while.

Father picks up his brandy and takes a sip. “I have no doubt you’re ready. However, I did speak with your sensei earlier to confirm. The size of the bets is already quite impressive. I suspect it’ll be a high six- or seven-figure night.”

I don’t need to respond. He isn’t expecting me to.

He takes another hit from the cigar. “There’s another matter I want to discuss with you.”

I know exactly what the other matter he’s referring to, and she’s the last topic I want to discuss with him. I force myself to remain in place because I know as soon as he speaks her name, I’ll want to lunge for his throat.