Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) Read online

  Someone clears his throat. “Your box, huh?”

  Annnd, I’m back to Caleb’s chest. I nod, trying to force my eyes to his face. I succeed for the most part.

  “Well, come on in.” Owen gives me his back while he fishes around in his locker for something. Probably a shirt. It’s then that I decide to petition Mr. Gibbs to have a strict no-shirt policy in the training center.

  “You coming to the show tonight, Layla?” Rex, the one in the towel, has his head down, and I take a moment to appreciate his artwork. Not his body. Nope. Not at all.

  His arms are covered in tattoos from his wrist to his neck. His chest and ribs also have ink, but I don’t take time to study them. I’m distracted by the silvery glint coming from each one of his well-formed pecs. Nipple piercings.

  A gasp escapes from my throat. His eyes meet mine, and heat rises in my cheeks. I look away and walk to the opposite end of the room with my dolly.

  Rex laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  I run my hand along my head, smoothing loose hairs back into my ponytail. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

  “Sweet.” I hear the metal clank of a locker door opening.

  Is he putting clothes on? Eyes forward. Don’t peek.

  Staring at a wall of cubby-like boxes, I try hard to ignore the conversations behind me and focus on my task. I will not turn around.

  Each box has a gold nameplate with a fighter’s name on it. The t-shirts only have initials. This will take my higher functioning brain. Focus.

  One by one, I read a fighter’s name and match it with the appropriate packaged shirts. Eventually, the three guys filter out of the room, giving their versions of goodbye until I’m finally alone without distraction.

  I hear the door behind me open occasionally, but I keep my back turned to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about my being in a man-only zone.

  “T.B.” I search the cubbies until I find Trent Barker.

  Shirts in. Next.

  J.S. for Jonah Slade. Easy. Next.

  The shirts get distributed quickly, and I relax knowing I’ll be out of there soon. Halfway through my task, I grab the next bundle.

  “B.D.” I suppress a growl.

  Thank goodness my interaction with Blake Daniels has been minimal my first week here. I stick to my desk, and he sticks to the training room. The few times I’ve seen him, we both do a great job ignoring each other.

  “B.D., B.D., B.D….” Where is his name? I squat down, making sure to squeeze my knees together and turn to the side to avoid splitting my pencil skirt. His name isn’t down here either. “B.D.” I stand back up, my thighs quivering with the effort. Monday I’m wearing pants.

  “That’s me, Mouse.”

  I squeal and jump. The deep voice is so close to my ear, his hot breath tickles my skin.

  Whirling around, I scowl. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  The side of his mouth lifts. “Oh, now you’re back to street talkin’, huh?”

  “Street talk… what?”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “When I found you in the lobby you were street talkin’, then in front of Taylor you were all business. Surprised I got you back, Mouse. Thought I’d lost you to uptight corporate ass-kissing.”

  I gasp, loud. “I do not ass-kiss.”

  “The fuck you don’t.”

  “You’re…”

  “What?” He steps in close, his deep green eyes locked on mine.

  I shake away the foggy feeling his proximity brings. “Crude.”

  His lips twitch. “Crude?” Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head. “You kiss your husband with that mouth?”

  Recoiling from his question, I regain my composure as best I can and scowl. “I don’t have a husband. Not that that’s any of your business.”

  His expression softens. “No husband?”

  I’m not going to repeat myself.

  I shove his t-shirt bundle into his chest, not at all noticing how incredibly hard it is. “Here. These are yours, B.D.”

  He holds my hand to his chest, the folded tees being the only thing keeping me from flattening my palm against the heat of his body. My stomach flutters, the vibrations stirring my blood. What is it with me? It’s like I’m bait for cocky assholes.

  “You want to know what B.D. stands for?” His eyes travel from my lips to my cheeks and back. My skin warms. “Do I make you nervous, Mouse?” His eyes look deep into mine, and I’m helpless to pull them away.

  I want to scream that he makes me furious, but he holds even my speech captive.

  “No husband.” He takes a step back, releasing his hold.

  I blink, the connection severed by the distance between our bodies and the cold indifference in his eyes.

  He tilts his head, and that panty-dropping crooked smile that radiates bad-boy like nothing I’ve ever seen lights his face. “Big Dick.”

  “Excuse me?” My voice screeches and echoes throughout the room. I throw back an arm to steady my weight against the wall. Why am I so wobbly?

  “B.D.” He chuckles to himself, turns, and walks to the back of the locker room and out of sight.

  I stand and stare. What in the fuck just happened here? My mouth is dry, and my arms are tingling, my belly still tumbling.

  He caught me off guard. I didn’t have a chance to put up my barrier, to put on the full armor of my confidence and my snark. Then he got close. Those eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones. No, I’m not attracted to that jerk.

  I haul what’s left in my box onto the dolly and decide that finishing the job later sounds better than throwing myself at a guy I can’t stand.

  This is wrong. I’m sick. I’ve been in a horrible relationship for so long I don’t even know what healthy attraction is.

  I need to make new friends, meet new people. Tonight, I’m going to the bar for Rex’s show. Anything to get my mind off Big Dick.

  Five

  Blake

  Fast and hard, exactly how I like it. The driving beat forces back my nagging thoughts. The pressures of life dissolve with a simple power chord or double bass hit. I break down each sound, mentally assigning it into its own category. I memorize without even trying. That’s the way it’s always been. Effortless.

  “Hey, B. What’s up, man?” Caleb squeezes in next to me at the bar. “Fuck, I’m late. How long have they been playing?” He tilts his head toward the stage, where Ataxia is shredding.

  “’Bout thirty minutes.” I take a swig of my beer, grateful for his interruption.

  “Shit. I thought I’d get here in time for the first set.” He waves over the bartender and orders himself a drink.

  I’m tired. After talking to my brother the other night, I’ve gotten shit for sleep. “I’ll take a double Jack. Neat.” A few of these should help knock me out.

  The bartender nods and busies himself with our order.

  Sorting through all the things I’m thinking and feeling, I’ve determined the mind-fucking culprit is anger. I’m mad that my dad’s a dick. Pissed that I had to give up things that were important to me. Resentful that I spent the first fifteen years of my life protecting a woman who couldn’t keep a fucking secret. Furious that my brother’s still stuck under my dad’s thumb.

  The rest of my beer goes down in one chug. Ataxia drops a key, and Rex’s voice fills the room to explain they’ll be taking a break, but will be back for a final set.

  “I thought you were training.” Caleb motions to the fresh drink the bartender placed in front of me.

  “I am.” What’s he, my fuckin’ keeper? “What’s it to you?”

  “Seems you should probably lay off the hard stuff before your fight. Wade’s been training like a maniac, man.”

  Slamming the glass on the bar, I turn to face him. First Jonah, now Caleb? “You think I don’t know that? Shit, everyone in our camp’s been reminding me.”

  He’s right. But between the shit in my head and the pain in my back, I need a little liquid painkiller. The new doc has m
e drinking protein shakes with some super-powered, medical-grade glucosamine and popping pills with ingredients that I can’t pronounce, but it ain’t helping.

  I hold my head in my hands. It’s time to go see the doc about getting some real treatment. I hate admitting to my weakness. Any guy with a pair does. But Jonah had a point. I can’t pass up a shot at the title because I’m too prideful to get help. I hate it when he’s right.

  I take another hit off my drink, but it tastes bitter. I ball up my napkin and toss it into the glass, where it soaks up the remaining Jack.

  Fighting is my life. I need to pull my shit together. Nothing is more important. Including the pussy-ass pity party I’ve been throwing myself. No time to dwell on the shit I can’t change.

  I turn my back on the bar and face the crowded club. Caleb gives me my moment of silence while I contemplate getting the fuck out of this place.

  It’s then that I notice someone familiar across the room. Sitting at a high-top table alone, is a chick smiling and laughing with a waitress. How do I know her? Her blond hair is loose and wavy over her shoulders. A long-sleeved black shirt hugs her curves and makes her golden locks stand out like a beacon in a sea of darkness. I squint and study her face as she tosses her hair, laughing. Holy shit.

  I tilt my face towards Caleb, not taking my eyes off her. “Be right back.”

  “Sure, man.”

  I walk towards her, afraid she’ll disappear if I blink. She doesn’t notice me until I’m at her table. Her chocolate brown eyes go wide, and her lips part.

  “Haven’t we met before?”

  She shuts her gaping mouth and throws back her shoulders. The side of her mouth lifts, and her eyes sparkle. “Yeah, I work at the VD clinic.”

  The waitress coughs to muffle her laugh.

  Layla. The woman is an enigma. Fierce in one breath, shy in the next. Timid yet confident. A pint-sized package, she spews attitude like a pro. But now she’s fucking with the master.

  “Mouse.”

  She sits up tall, something I’ve noticed she does often, probably trying to make her five-foot-nothing frame look intimidating. “Snake.”

  “I’ve never seen a woman come back from a Blake come-on,” Mac, the waitress, says with a laugh.

  Layla’s eyes narrow. “You two know each other?”

  Mac smiles and rocks her shoulder into my arm. “Yep. All the UFL boys come in here when Ataxia plays.” She looks at me. “I’m going to get Layla’s drink. You want anything?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  “Cool. Be right back.” She grabs her tray and scurries off.

  Layla drops her head and uses her short straw to play with the ice in her empty glass. “Shouldn’t be surprised.” Her words are mumbled beneath her breath.

  “Surprised by what?”

  Her gaze darts to mine. Yeah, Mouse. I heard you.

  I pull out the chair next to her and notice her skin-tight jeans and black high-heel shoes before I sit. Damn. I’d give anything to watch her walk away in this get-up.

  “Oh please, have a seat why don’t you.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms at her ribs. A mistake she’s made before.

  My eyes drift down the length of her hair to her perfectly pert breasts.

  “Do you mind?” She hooks her fingers beneath my chin, pulling up gently. “My eyes are up here.”

  “Not looking at your eyes.”

  “No shit.” Her sarcasm is thick and makes me grin.

  I bite my lip to avoid giving away the fact that I find her big attitude a total turn on.

  “What do you want, Blake? You obviously came over here for a reason.”

  Fuck. Why did I come over here? This girl is not my typical lay. Granted, she’s hot as hell, but I can see that the baggage she carries runs deep. I can tell by the way her carefree smile disappears the second a man walks into the room. The way shadows move over her features when I flirt. She’s been hurt by someone—my guess is badly. And the last thing I need is to be picking up the pieces of some other guy’s mess.

  “Wanted to see what you thought of the show.”

  She blinks, surprised maybe? “Oh. Um… I think they’re really good. I liked the three-part harmony on that last song they played.”

  Three-part harmony? “You like music?”

  She shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Favorite band?”

  Her eyes drop to her lap then move to the stage. “I like rock.” I watch her hand glide through the silky waves of her long hair. Her fingers sift in and pull out a small section, which she twirls in rhythmic rolls around her forefinger. “Older stuff.”

  I’m transfixed by her hair twisting, and for a second I wonder what it must feel like. My mind imagines its satiny waves brushing against my stomach, teasing my skin as it trails down to—

  “Metallica.”

  Say what? “You’re kidding.”

  Her bow-shaped lips break into smile. “No. Their Black album is a classic. Their best work, hands down.”

  She did not just say that. Can’t blame the girl for not knowing she’s walking into massacre. “No way.” I shake my head. “And Justice for All is their best album. No comparison.”

  She slams her palms to the table. “Bullshit! You can’t deny the musical magic that is ‘Enter Sandman’.”

  “Metal fans everywhere just dropped dead.”

  Her dark brown eyes grow even bigger. “‘Nothing Else Matters’ was groundbreaking for the metal world. The Black album single-handedly brought metal mainstream.” Her voice ends with a high pitch of frustration.

  “Mainstream? That shit’s baby metal compared to a song like ‘Blackened’. Lars changes meter like five times in that song. It’s metal perfection.” I shrug, knowing I won that debate. No one can argue Lars Ulrich isn’t a percussion god.

  “Three words, Daniels.” She holds up her hand and wiggles three fingers. “‘Through the Never.’” She raises one eyebrow along with one side of her mouth.

  Touché. The girl knows her music.

  I turn my chair toward her and lean in for the kill. “All right. Finish this sentence, Mouse. Metallica is…?”

  “Easy.” She rests her elbow on the table, bending forward so that her delicate vanilla scent penetrates my senses. “James Hetfield.”

  Blinking, I clear my head and then fall back into my chair, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re so wrong. Lars Ulrich’s drumming is the fuckin’ glue that holds that band together.”

  She shakes her head, making her hair dance around her shoulders. “You’re insane if you think Hetfield isn’t the heart and soul of Metallica. You wouldn’t even have And Justice for All if it weren’t for him, and you know it.”

  “The hell I do.” The grin on my face makes my cheeks ache. When was the last time I’ve been this open?

  The light sound of her laughter envelops me. This chick is crazy. Fun, but crazy.

  “Here ya go, Layla,” Mac says as she puts a clear drink on the table. “You sure you’re cool, Blake?”

  “Yeah, babe.”

  I’m still stuck in the fuzzy bubble Layla and I created through our mutual love of Metallica, so I don’t notice the change in her expression until I look for it. Her eyes are shadowed and cold. She’s not smiling anymore, and her jaw is firm, her chin raised.

  What the hell? I look around then back at her. What’d I miss?

  She takes a sip of her drink, and as she wraps her lips around the cocktail straw, I notice that her upper lip is plumper than her lower one. I wonder if her mouth tastes as sweet as she smells. If her lips are as soft as they look.

  “Stop it.” Her deep dark eyes meet mine. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

  I’m still recovering from the whiplash of her mood swing. “Do what?”

  “Look at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you want to add me to your list of available vaginas.”

  I check over my left shoulder, then my right. “
You’re talking to me, right?” I point to my chest and decide I’m not at all happy with her accusation.

  “Of course I’m—”

  “Just wanted to make sure you were talking to me. Because now that I know you were talking to me,” I point to my chest, “I can tell you that you’re fucking crazy.”

  Her mouth drops open then slams shut. “Oh puleaze. I caught you staring at my boobs.”

  “You think a man stares at your boobs, it means he wants to fuck you? You’re wrong.”

  And to think I actually considered it. This is exactly why I don’t date chicks with issues. It’s like walking a minefield. You take one step out of line, and all their baggage comes flying out in a flurry of shit talk. Fuck this.

  “Right. Just like dear sweet Mac over there.” She tilts her head toward Mac at the bar. “I’m sure she thought you were charming and good looking. Now she’s nothing more than a goopy condom in your trashcan. You good-looking guys are all the same. Burning through women, caring about nothing except who to stick your dick in next.”

  “Shit, Mouse.” I motion to her drink. “You drunk?”

  “You wish.”

  “What makes you think I slept with Mac?”

  “Are you seriously going to try to tell me you didn’t?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I didn’t.”

  “Bull. Shit.” Fire flares behind her eyes as they burn into mine.

  I don’t need to justify myself to anyone. I made the decision a long time ago never to let another person define me again. This life is mine. Sometimes it’s shitty and messed up, but it’s still mine. And what if I had boned Mac? Hell, what if I nailed every girl in this bar? Why does she care?

  I’m not wasting a single second on a girl that is exactly the type I’ve resolved to avoid.

  I push back from the table and stand. “Whoever he is, the one that fucked you up?”

  Her expression goes slack and her face pales. No comeback for that one, eh Mouse?

  “Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.”

  She jerks at my words. Her body looks smaller as she sinks into her seat, eyes shining with moisture, as if I knocked down her confident disguise to reveal the broken woman beneath. It’s a look I’ve seen in my mom’s expression more times than I’d like to remember.