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that were wrapped in yellowed newspaper. When he’d cleaned out his mom’s apartment before she’d been sent away for distribution of a controlled substance—meth, of course—he’d packed up everything of value that she hadn’t already sold or pawned and had shoved it under his bed at the gym.
    With a deep breath, he reached in and withdrew a framed picture of his Grandma Gunn. He looked into the heavy-set woman’s eyes and wondered what she was like. Did she think about him or even know that he existed? His mom had been a runaway. Lucky knew that much, but he didn’t know the circumstances behind her desire to flee with no money to the unkindness of a city the size of Chicago. Still, he couldn’t believe the smiling woman in the photograph had forced her daughter out of the house.
    He stood and carried the picture across the room. He placed it on the rickety shelf that doubled as a TV stand before stepping back to eye it again. As a child, he’d made up stories about the woman in the photo, praying that she’d swoop in and take him away from the life he’d been forced to live. Of course, she’d never come, never would.
    The sound of his ringing phone finally pulled him out of his thoughts. He pulled the cell out of his pocket and sighed. “Hey.”
    “Brick told me you moved out of the gym,” Dray said.
    “Yeah.” Lucky returned to the couch and stretched out as much as he could. “It feels weird,” he confessed.
    “I bet.” Dray chuckled. “I remember the size of that storage room.”
    So what did it say about him that he’d much rather be back in his old space? Lucky decided to steer the conversation away from his new place. “How’s the tattoo business?”
    “Okay, I guess. I’ve been working more than I want, but I don’t have anything else to do. I noticed you still don’t have ink. What happened to change your mind?”
    “Nothing. I haven’t changed it. You just left before you could do it,” Lucky confessed. He’d even considered asking Dray to do it when he’d fought in Kansas City a year earlier, but according to Brick, Dray had refused to see them.
    “There’re other artists in Chicago,” Dray pointed out.
    “I know, but you promised me a discount.” Lucky hid behind the old agreement. “Maybe if I ever get another fight in Kansas City, you’ll actually see me, and you can do one then?”
    Dray was quiet for several moments. “You know why I had to turn down Brick’s offer to see you fight when you were here, right?”
    “Not really. Brick just said you weren’t ready to see us again.” Lucky scraped his teeth over his bottom lip. He didn’t tell Dray how much it had hurt. How the pain of being turned away by Dray had been worse than the day he’d tried to visit his own mother.
    “It wasn’t that—not really.” Dray sighed. “If I’d shown up to that fight, I would’ve cast a shadow over your career. You’ve worked too damn hard for something like that to happen. The last thing you need is a photographer to snap a picture of you with the Fighting Fag.”
    Lucky hated the nickname the fans had given Dray after the affair with Vince had come out. He wanted to tell Dray he didn’t give a fuck what the fans thought, but he couldn’t. Although he held them in contempt for the way they’d treated Dray, Lucky knew the only shot he had of rising above the life he’d grown up in was through fighting. Still, as long as he kept his dick away from what it really wanted, no one could ever accuse him of being gay.
    “Unless someone took a picture of the two of us making out, I think my career would be safe,” Lucky replied.
    Dray went quiet once more. “I’m not willing to take that chance… Not with you,” he added after several heartbeats.
    “So forget the fight. What if I borrow a car and drive down? Would you still give me that discount on the tat?” Lucky held his breath, waiting for Dray’s answer.
    Dray chuckled. “Maybe, but I’d suggest you wait for