“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.

“Don’t be such a baby. The website said the procedure is virtually painless. They use some sort of skin chiller.” She shrugged as she led the way up the stone pathway toward the front door.

Following her inside, he shook his head. “I’m just saying. They can claim whatever they want on their website. This shit’s going to hurt.”

Several other people waiting for their appointments glanced up at him with worried expressions and Parker hit his arm. “Shhh, you’re bad for business,” she said, as they approached the reception desk to check in. “Hi. Parker Hamilton and Tyson Reed—we have appointments with Dr. McNally at eleven.”

The young receptionist’s eyes lit up as she stood. “Oh my God. I saw the name on the appointment schedule, but I thought no way could it be you.”

Parker smiled. “Yes, I . . .”

But the girl was looking straight at Tyson. Parker stopped speaking and shot him a look.

He laughed as he shrugged. “What? Vegas is my city . . . go back to Hollywood,” he said with a teasing grin.

“Would you sign something for me?” the receptionist, whose name tag read Amber, asked. “Here. We also need these filled out,” she said distractedly, handing Parker a clipboard with a new patient registration form attached while she continued to stare at Tyson, waiting for an answer.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Tyson said.

Coming around the desk, she handed him a marker, then lowered the edge of her white uniform blouse, revealing the tanned, shapely swell of her breast.

Parker’s eyes shot daggers.

He hesitated. It wasn’t the first breast he’d ever signed, but they were in the middle of the clinic reception area. And Parker looked ready to punch the girl. “Are you sure you don’t want me to sign something a little more . . . permanent?”

Amber shook her head. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll take a selfie before I take a shower.”

“Of course she will,” he heard Parker mumble as she carried the clipboard to an open seat in the waiting room.

He signed his name, then hurried to sit next to her. “You know, this place doesn’t seem so bad after all.”

“Shut up and fill this out,” she said, handing him the clipboard.

He took it. “Are you jealous?”

“Why? Because you’re a fan favorite? Not at all.”

He set the clipboard aside, and turned to face her. “I meant because I saw her breast in record time.”

She scoffed. “I’m an actress. Are you going to be jealous when I’m kissing other men on set?” Her gaze was locked on his in challenge.

His smile faded. Shit. He hadn’t even thought of that until now.

“Good to know,” she said, her own smile returning.

*   *   *

“All right. Let’s see what we’re dealing with here,” Dr. McNally, a man in his late forties, early fifties said, putting on his glasses as they entered the treatment room.

“On three?” Tyson asked her.

“Just pull your pants down and show him your ass.” He probably wouldn’t have had a problem doing it for Amber, she thought wryly, lowering the side of her jean capris to expose her own tattoo regret.

The doctor studied hers first. “Yeah, we actually see a lot of these Japanese symbols. They were quite popular at one time.” Then he turned to Tyson. He squinted. “Obviously a homemade job . . . but what is it? A bird wearing a bike helmet?”

“Exactly,” Parker said with a smirk. She shook her head, seeing the tattoo for the second time. She’d have to have been pretty drunk to let that happen to herself.

“Hey, at least I know for sure what mine is supposed to represent. Yours could be the symbol for beef and broccoli and you’d never know,” Tyson said, pulling his pants and underwear back up.