“You should be covered up,” Abigail said, forming as much of a frown as she could with the Botox filler in her forehead.
“I like the heat on my skin.”
“You won’t like the wrinkles.”
“That’s what Botox is for, isn’t it?” she said, though she was still opposed to the treatment. Injecting a disease into her face seemed counterproductive somehow. Though she’d never admit as much to her grandmother, who’d invested in a dermatological company the year before. Beauty for Life MD was making her grandmother almost as much money as her career in movies had and the additional perk—probably the biggest one for Abigail—was the free cosmetic procedures. Parker knew she could get the family discount if she wanted, but she hoped to hold onto her natural look as long as possible.
“You’ve gained weight,” Abigail said, setting her latte aside.
It wasn’t a question, so Parker didn’t answer.
“I can see it in your face and neck . . .” She removed her sunglasses to study her. “I thought you were working out all day, every day, for this new role.” The look of disappointment and judgment was one Parker should be used to by now.
“I am working out, but I needed to put on some muscle,” she said, knowing this was one conversation her grandmother just wouldn’t understand. A low number on the scale was her number-one priority. How many times had she heard that growing up? And despite Hollywood’s changing landscape and its increasing acceptance of plus-size models in the fashion industry, her grandmother was old school. Gain weight, your career was over. End of story.
“Have you cleared it with the director?”
Oh God—how many times over the years had she heard that? As a child actress, she couldn’t cut her hair without her current director or agent’s approval. If she got a bruise anywhere visible, they had to be notified immediately in case a job came up . . . which meant she wasn’t allowed to get a bruise or cut or scratch . . . which meant she wasn’t allowed to play anything where she could get hurt. Basically anything fun.
The year she lost her front tooth was like Armageddon at home. She’d had to keep her mouth closed during all of her casting calls and the inevitable speech impediment that accompanied missing teeth had cost her so many jobs that year her grandmother had exclaimed dramatically, “Career over at nine.”
At the time she’d cried her eyes out, but now she laughed at the memory whenever she recalled it. Her grandmother still didn’t think it was funny.
“Trust me, Grandma, the weight gain is fine.”
Abigail didn’t look convinced. “You know I don’t understand it when actresses gain weight or purposely try to look hideous for a role. I’m not sure they can ever recover from that.” She rolled onto her stomach.
Parker bit her lip, fighting the urge to remind her grandmother of the many actresses who’d taken such a gamble and it paid off with an Oscar. She reached for her drink, but then thought better of it and set it aside.
The gamble had paid off for other actresses, but would it for her? What if she was gaining weight and putting her future prospects at risk for no pay off in the end. Her gut feeling that this movie was going to be a hit could be wrong after all. “Grandma, are you sure taking this role was a good idea?” she asked quietly, watching the glistening reflecting off of the pool.
The sound of her grandmother snoring was the only response she received.
Sighing, she stood, and, bending to kiss the sleeping woman’s cheek, she whispered a good-bye and let herself out. This was one internal battle she was going to have to fight alone.
* * *
Reluctantly, Parker stepped onto the scale a few days later. After a ten-minute battle, of course. He’d never seen anyone so freaked out by a scale before. Tyson frowned as he slid the slider to the left instead of the right. What the hell? “What happened?”
Parker didn’t look at him as she stepped down. “I don’t know. Maybe your meal plan isn’t as solid as you thought.”
No, that wasn’t it. “You’re not eating everything on the daily menu.”
“Yes, I am.”
“There’s no way you would lose weight if you were.” He placed his hands on his hips and studied her.
“What do you want me to say, Tyson? I’m eating.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know what to tell you. Besides, it’s only four pounds. I think I’m good enough where I am anyway.”
Good enough where she was? Their goal had been twenty pounds; they’d agreed on it. Something was going on with her. He checked his watch. “Okay. Well, it’s after twelve. Let’s go eat.”
“Now? I didn’t bring much . . .”
“I have enough to feed an army.” He’d stepped up his own training as well in recent weeks to be ready for the fight, which was drawing nearer faster than he liked. “Let’s go.”
She let out a deep breath, glancing around to make sure they were alone in the cardio area before speaking. “It’s too much, Tyson . . . all the food, getting up at two a.m. to drink that awful shake. It’s bullshit and I can’t gain any more weight.”
“What you’re gaining is muscle, Parker, not fat. What are you stressing about?” Man, he’d never get women and their weight issues. Beautiful was beautiful, sexy was sexy, no matter what number the scale read. “Believe it or not, you look smaller now than you did when you walked in here four weeks ago—tighter, toned . . .” His dick perked up as his eyes danced over her, and he sighed.
Really not the time.
Taking her hand, he led her away from the scale. He sat on the bench and she sat next to him. He waited for her to talk, sensing there was plenty she wasn’t saying.
Finally she cleared her throat. “My grandmother is Abigail Hamilton . . .”
He nodded. He’d Googled Parker weeks ago, so he knew she’d been raised by her Hollywood actress grandmother after her parents died in a fire when she was seven. He’d also seen pictures of her walking the red carpet as a kid and then, as she got older, accompanied by movie producers and other male actors who he couldn’t name if his life depended on it. All he knew was that it had annoyed him.
“My grandmother is all Hollywood—she’s glamour and glitz, she’s elegant, and she’s an icon in the industry . . . It’s a lot to live up to.”
He waited for her to continue. They were more alike than she knew. Living in the shadow of Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed hadn’t exactly been easy either. His father had set standards no one could live up to.
“My parents were the complete opposite—so down to earth. My mom was a literary agent and my father was a lawyer. When I was born, my parents moved away from California to keep me as far away from the acting world as possible but as I got older and spent time with my grandmother during the summer and watched her old films . . . I just fell in love with it all. My parents hoped it was just a phase, but I knew from early on I wanted to be just like her.” She paused. “After my parents died and I moved in with her, she started sending me to casting calls, which I loved, but the feedback for an eight-year-old who’d never been exposed to this world before was devastating. They would say I was too fat, or too thin, or my nose was too big.” She shook her head.
“Idiots,” he mumbled.
She smiled softly. “Unfortunately, I didn’t think so—I thought they knew what they were talking about and by the time I was sixteen, I’d been on too many diets to count, I’d had plastic surgery”—she motioned her chest—“and I’d had a slight nose realignment.”
“At sixteen?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Her grandmother should have been charged with child abuse. Then an image of his father waking him up at three a.m. at the age of twelve to run eight miles before school flashed in his mind . . . followed by the intense weight training he’d insisted on before his body had had time to develop. Okay, maybe parents fucked up often in their attempts to give their children the futures they wanted . . . or the ones they wanted for them.
But he wouldn’t fault his father for anything,
the same way he suspected Parker would never hold any of this against her grandmother. Ultimately, they’d both succeeded because of the intensity of the guidance they’d received—depending on the definition of success.
“Anyway, as you can tell, image is important to me and a lot of my self-worth is tied to that. My career, my passion for making movies relies on it.”
He understood. He also knew changing her body was the easy part; changing her mind-set about nutrition and body image was the challenge. Standing, he took her hands. “Come on . . . let’s go train. Do you still want to look the part?”
She nodded. “Yes, I do . . . I’m just freaking out a little.”
“Well, stop. I’ll make a deal with you,” he said, “Keep training and eating the way I’ve told you to for now and then after you’re done filming, I’ll help you get your old body back. If you want it back.”
A momentary look of surprise and something else in her expression made him a little uncomfortable, before she grinned. “Did you hear what you just said?”
“Yes.”
“So, you realize you just offered to train me again . . . beyond our original agreement.”
He nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.
“I mean, in a few weeks you could be done with me, never have to see me again, yet you’re offering . . .”
“Okay! Stop, don’t make me retract the offer,” he said with a grin.
She laughed as she walked away and headed downstairs. “I won’t let you, and you can count on me taking you up on it, Coach.”
Alone, he ran a hand over his head. She was right—he had just extended his time with her, which was counterproductive to his vow of never being with her again. In a few weeks, the temptation would have been gone, but he’d opened his big mouth and invited it to stay.
Now it was his turn to freak out a little.
Chapter 9
As Parker collected her training gear later that day, she noticed Tyson’s brother, Connor, wiping down the cardio equipment upstairs. She’d seen him around the gym a lot lately—mainly keeping to himself as he collected used towels or mopped the floor or Windexed the mirrors near the free weights. The guy didn’t stop. Tyson hadn’t said anything about him being there, and she was curious. Not that she thought for a second she was going to actually get an answer from him.
Regardless, clearing her throat, she asked, “What’s the story on your brother?” She nodded toward Connor.
Tyson didn’t turn to look as he continued unwrapping his hands. “No story.”
Bullshit. “The guy doesn’t have laces in his shoes and he has track marks on both forearms. I could probably guess . . .”
He sighed. “And you’d be right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s just here helping out for extra cash.” He paused before adding. “Just stay away from him though, okay?”
She nodded. “He’s younger than you?” She couldn’t determine his age. He was so thin and pale—he could be sixteen or sixty. She was just guessing based on Tyson’s protective attitude he’d displayed toward him.
“Older.”
“Does he fight too?”
“Funny thing. The MFL doesn’t really have a crackhead weight division,” he said harshly.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, stashing her gear inside the bag. Clearly this conversation was over.
He sighed, grabbing her arm as she turned to leave. “That was rude,” he said tightly. “I’m sorry. Connor is just a hot topic for me, okay?”
“Yeah, I get it. I was just curious.” She shrugged as she studied his conflicted expression. She wanted to know more about him . . . wanted to spend more time with him outside of the gym . . . was desperate to somehow get back to being in his arms, even if there was no future and only heartache in them.
“He’s harmless though, so you don’t have to worry. If you feel uncomfortable at all, just say the word and he’s out of here.”
She suspected Connor was already struggling with having his brother there in the first place.
“Can I just ask one more thing?” She bit her lip.
He sighed. “Sure.”
“That tattoo on his neck . . . is that a prison tattoo?” she whispered, as the man in question descended the stairs, carrying disinfection spray and an armful of towels.
Tyson laughed. “No.” He leaned against the wall and slid his back along the length to the floor, patting the mat next to him.
She sat and waited, hoping she was finally about to get another glimpse into his world and eager for it.
“It’s a homemade tattoo of our family crest.”
“Wait—homemade as in he did it himself?” she asked in disbelief.
“Yep.”
“And it’s your family crest? What is it?”
“Have you ever noticed the symbol on the Punisher Athletics sign out front?”
She nodded. “The suit of armor helmet and some kind of bird?”
He smiled. “It’s a dragon bird. It’s cool,” he reassured.
She laughed, holding her hands up. “I wasn’t judging. There’s also words—Pax . . . something?”
“Pax Copia—it’s our family motto. It means Peace, plenty.”
“Ironic for an MMA gym, don’t you think?”
“Maybe . . .”
“Anyway, I have to say that thing on his neck looks nothing like the picture on the sign.” It didn’t look like much of anything, the ink faded and missing in sections. Made sense now that she knew it hadn’t been done professionally.
Tyson stood and extended a hand to help her up. “I know, and the worst of it is, I’m branded with one as well.”
Her eyes widened. “Noooo.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, turning and lowering his gym shorts down over one butt cheek.
One sexy, tight butt cheek . . . branded with the same weird design. Parker stared at it in disbelief. She hadn’t noticed it the few times she’d gotten him naked. Of course there had been plenty of other things to focus on then—like his sculpted pecs and abs, the large biceps, and thick thighs . . . She shook the thoughts away. “You let your brother do this to you?”
“Hardly. I was drunk and passed out. It was the first and last time I ever drank that much,” he said, raising his shorts. “It was the first tattoo I ever received, and the only one I wish I didn’t have. When Connor had come home that night with a tattoo gun claiming he wanted to become a tattoo artist, I refused to be his practice canvas.”
“Then you started drinking,” Parker said.
“And the next morning woke up with a sore ass and a permanent warning never to drink so much again.”
Parker laughed. “Well, at least you learned your lesson.”
He shot her a look. “Oh, come on, I see the way you try to hide that tiny Japanese symbol on your hip—you have ink regret too. At least I had no choice in mine.”
She sighed, lowering her shorts to look at the blurry, faded tat. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed it. He was right—she did go to great lengths to keep it covered. “I hate it,” she admitted. “I got it to piss off my grandmother when I was seventeen. Biggest mistake ever. I lost modeling jobs because of it and the makeup crews on set have to constantly keep it covered while filming. I’ve thought of getting it removed . . .”
“But . . .”
“I hear it hurts a lot, like a million times worse than getting the tattoo in the first place.” She’d researched it a million times, but always chickened out when it came down to placing the call for the appointment.
“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” Tyson said.
“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you removed yours?”
“It’s on my ass, I never see it.” He shrugged. “And most women only get that one chance to possibly see it and usually they are a little too preoccupied.” He smirked.
Her eyes narrowed and she punched his shoulder. “Yes, I’ve heard.” She paused. She really must be desperate to spend time with him outside the gym, she thought, as she said
, “I’ll remove mine if you remove yours.”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve heard it often takes several sessions for it to disappear completely.”
“Fine. If you’re afraid . . .”
Before she could utter another syllable, he charged toward her and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder and spanking her ass before carrying her into the change-room, where he set her down and backed her up against the lockers. Taking her hands, he pinned them above her head before kissing her hard.
Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled under her as she returned the kiss, releasing all of the pent-up attraction and sexual frustration she’d been battling for weeks. Thank God, he hadn’t been able to stick to his word about keeping it professional. When he broke away, she smiled. “So, is that a yes?”
“Make the appointments,” he grumbled against her lips before kissing her again.
* * *
As Tyson pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of Serenity Laser Tattoo removal clinic, he still couldn’t believe she’d been successful in her bullying technique to get him to agree to this. Sure, he couldn’t stand the ugly, unreadable tattoo on his ass, but he’d lived with it this long.
A part of him was also reluctant to part with it—a good memory of times with his brother.
Cutting the engine of the bike, he removed his helmet and glanced back at Parker. “You’re sure about this?” Give her time to chicken out now that he’d called her bluff and they were there.
Unfortunately, she nodded eagerly as she removed her helmet and shook her blonde waves free. “Definitely. Look at this place. It looks more like a day spa than a medical clinic,” she said, climbing off of the bike.
He glanced at the building. The pink concrete exterior with the inviting, peaceful palm trees around it didn’t fool him. Awaiting them inside were lasers. Lasers. Did Parker fully understand the word? “I wouldn’t get my hopes up for a nice relaxing time,” he mumbled, fastening their helmets to the back of the bike. “You do know how this works, right?” He did. A little too well. He’d spent the day before watching YouTube videos of the procedure. Since watching his opponents previous fights always helped to prepare him for the battle ahead, he’d hoped the same concept would apply . . . it hadn’t. It had only terrified him. While the whole thing was relatively quick, the people in those videos looked like they were in serious pain.
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