Page 94 of Dead Girls Don’t Forget

He stopped a respectful few feet away, hands on his hips, head slightly tilted.

“Hey,” he said.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Hey.”

“Heard you took down Tom.”

“Heard right.”

A small grin tugged at his mouth. “You got a round in you tonight?”

I studied him. No theatrics, no fake toughness. He just looked like someone who actually knew how to fight. After the encounter with John, that was exactly what I needed. The restlessness and ugly anger were still sitting under my skin, and I wanted to hit something until it burned itself out.

“One round,” I said. “And stay away from my face. I’ve got plans tomorrow.”

Jackson would be pissed if he knew.

“Deal.”

Finn crossed the floor, looking resigned. “Ring’s free in five. Get your wraps on and mouthguards in.”

I set my bottle aside and tightened the wraps around my wrists while he stretched across from me. Up close he looked even bigger, thick through the torso, his hands scarred and callused from years of fighting.

The moment I ducked through the ropes the crowd thickened around the ring. Phones came out almost immediately, people shifting closer for a better view.

“You got a name?” he asked.

“Harper.”

“Wyatt.” He gave a two-finger salute. “Try not to make me look too bad.”

“No promises.”

A low oooh rippled through the guys at the ropes. Wyatt grinned and slipped in his mouthguard. I did the same.

Finn pointed between us. “Keep your egos under control.” Then he stepped back and blew the whistle.

We traded blows for a full five minutes. It was hard, fast, and honest. Wyatt was good. Stronger and sharper than most of the guys I faced here. But I was faster and I wanted it more.

By the time Finn blew the whistle again, I had him backed against the ropes, breathing hard, with a clear decision in my favor.

Wyatt pulled out his mouthguard and shook his head with a laugh.

"Fuck. That no-face rule really screwed me." He was still catching his breath. "Had to pull half my shots."

“Mm.”

“Not making excuses.”

“You sort of are.”

He laughed. “Yeah. A little.” He rolled his shoulder once, a reluctant grin tugging at his mouth. “Rematch sometime? No restrictions?”

“Maybe.”

He offered a fist. I bumped it, then stepped back.

I ducked out from under the ropes before anyone could start a post-match analysis. My ribs lit up the second I straightened. My arm was already its own complaint, and my hip joined in. Tomorrow was going to be ugly under long sleeves.