The letters. The underwear. The bra. Even if Ty were the nicest, most loyal guy on earth, it’s too much to handle. We sit across from each other and he rests his head back agaisnt his armchair. His living room is slob-central, full of men’s gadgets, books, Xbox games, three laptops, clothes and weightlifting equipment. I press my fingers to my eye sockets and try not to think about all the underwear I’ve just seen outside. The man is literally surrounded by * 24/7. How can I even concentrate on the interview?

His low voice soothes, “They’re just fans, you know.”

I drop my head into my hands. “And they're majorly supportive, in more than one way.”

“Come on, that’s bullshit. They don’t even have the guts to come and see me face to face.”

“Some of them do.” I think about the bra hooked on the Harley.

“Yeah, some. And they're good for killing time. I think I'm done killing outside the cage. Now let’s do this interview.”

I place the recording device on a table between us in his living room and take out a notepad and a pen. I hate taking notes when I interview people, afraid to miss the flicker of emotion in their eyes when they say something important, scared they'll close up when I scribble something like a shrink and remind them that, ultimately, this is not a conversation, more like an interrogation. But busying myself with setting everything up allows me to gather my thoughts. Tyler really does seem to be genuine about his intentions toward me, but it's difficult to place my trust in his hands, because these hands have touched, caressed, pinched and stroked so many other women.

I turn the recorder on. "Start from the beginning. What made you become a MMA fighter?"

"Anger tantrums, mostly." He chuckles to himself, running a hand over his buzzed hair thoughtfully. He stares hard at the floor, not meeting my eyes. “I’ve always been physical, and as a kid, I was all over the place. Everyone knew how easy it was to get Tyler into a fight. I wouldn't back down, no matter how big, older or scary the other kid was. It wasn't bravery, it was rage."

I purse my lips, drawn to his sudden fragility. Tyler is always honest, but he isn't the brooding type.

"Let me guess, you always won?"

"Nope," he answers casually. He sends me a lazy smile, shaking of his weird mood. "And it didn't matter. Still doesn't. I want to win...but I don't need to. I want everything else that comes with the fight. The anticipation, the head games, the thrill, the fear, the pain, the touch of my skin against someone else's. I need it like I need to breath. And if I manage to pay my bills by entertaining a bunch of people while doing what I love...well, it's a win-win situation."

He enjoys pain. Thrives on it. How sick is that?

"So you were a handful as a kid?" I steer the conversation back to the original subject. My body is inferno hot, and I feel a bead of sweat traveling down my spine.

"That's a nice way to put it. After I got into a lot of trouble and was suspended from school, my mom signed me up for this wrestling class for kids."

I smile. "You got hooked."

"Yeah, the rest is history."

"And the anger tantrums?"

He cocks his head to the side, a funny look plastered on his face. It's more of a personal question than a professional one. I clear my throat and straighten in my seat. “You're right. None of my business. Do you have any hobbies other than MMA?” “Sure. Krav Maga.”

I roll my eyes. Tomayto, tomahto. Krav Maga is just an extension of MMA.

"You’re called The Zombie in the XWL. Why?"

“People say my eyes look kind of dead when I enter the ring." He pauses. "And all the other cool names were already taken.”

I laugh, and this makes him grin, like he's succeeded in doing something he wasn't sure he was capable of.

"Why do all MMA fighters have huge, dead-ugly, in-your-face tattoos?"

"Multiple blows to the head?" He scrunches his face, and I laugh again, and now his face practically radiates happiness. “Same reason the mob throws around body parts in neighborhoods—to spread fear.”

I stare down at the next question on my notepad and fidget in my seat. That's an awkward one, but I had no problem running it with Jesse, so Ty needs to answer it too.

"You make sweet money—50k per fight, and another 75k per win. Hey, dude, just reading your stats." I smile angelically as his face tenses. "What the hell are you still doing on the wrong side of Concord?"

"I like it here. It's close to the gym, to my friends..." He shrugs. "And it's not like I'm rich or anything. I get by, but I can't fight more than three or four times a year, I need time to recover, and paying for the gym, equipment, nutritionist, etc., drains your bank account." He lets this sink in before he finally adds. "Last but not least, I'm not money-driven, and neither are you, Blaire."

My chest tightens. I'm glad he picked up on that. I'm not sure how, but he did. It's one more step toward not being referred to as Barbie.

"What’s the worst injury you’ve taken in a fight?"

“Broken nose, arms, legs. Cuts, blood loss. Hematoma right above my brow. I looked like the elephant man for two weeks.” He touches the bridge of his nose, smiling, like the memory of it is sweet and laced with nostalgia. God, he is crazy. And sexy.