Cameron
“Mornin’, Layla.” I stop off at her desk and sort through new messages. “World still turning after the fight on Saturday?”
“Seems to be.” She hands me the hour-by-hour schedule of my day. “You’ve got a lunch meeting with Jonah and Owen and then two more on site this afternoon.”
Lunch. I forgot, not that I should be surprised. I’d planned to sit down with the guys and talk game plan to make sure this intro of new fighters runs smoothly.
“Looks good.” I thank her and move into my office only to sit down and see her sit down across from me. She’s smiling, and I don’t have a good feeling about what the smile is about. “What?”
“Did you have fun at the after party?” There’s a casual anticipation to her voice that makes me leery. She can’t possibly know about Eve? They’re not even friends. Are they?
I tug at my shirt collar to hide the memento from last night that marks my neck. “I did. You?”
“I heard you gave Eve a ride home.”
She doesn’t pussyfoot around the subject¸ I see. Not good, the last thing I need is my employee knowing I slept with a twenty-four-year-old girl. “She had too much to drink.” I shrug, playing it off. “You guys left. I was her only option.”
She twirls a section of hair. “A cab would’ve been an option.”
I pin her with a glare that only widens her grin. “You trying to get at something? If so, get to it. I’ve got a busy day.”
“Just thought that was super cool of you.”
“Thanks, because that’s what I live for. To be super cool.” I shake my head and flip through my notebook. Hell, it’s like being in grade school again with these women. “Happy to hear my life is gossip-worthy.”
“Oh well, Mason told Blake”—yep, grade-school he-said-she-said bullshit—“that she didn’t even put up a fight, which is kinda surprising since Eve’s, ya know, off men.”
I take a grateful breath that my nosey assistant actually believes that Eve really is off men. Blake, Layla, Eve, this circle runs a little too tight for my taste. It’s good that last night was limited to just that. One night of fun with lasting memories of her luscious body. I can’t ask for more than that.
“If you—”
The intercom on my desk phone buzzes. “Mr. Kyle? There’s a man here to see you.”
I press the orange talk button. “A man? Gonna need more than that, Vanessa.”
“He says his name is Rusty Faulkner.”
Faulkner? What the fuck is he doing here?
“Says he’s here to talk to you about a fight.”
“Holy shit.” My old rival in more ways than one. We both fought for the UFL back in the day, but he never honored the sport, always treated it like a free ride to becoming a celebrity. For him, it was always about the show, and less about the fighting. Just the sound of his name has my muscles bunching.
He’s been lying low for years. Opened an MMA training gym in Portland, or so I hear, but he hasn’t been turning out any exceptional fighters as much as he’s producing fame-hungry actors.
“Who’s Rusty?” Layla mouths.
“Douchebag.” I grab my notebook and hit the intercom. “I’ll be right down.”
A click sounds from the speaker. “I’ll let him know.”
I scan my schedule for the morning. Free until lunch. Perfect.
“What do you think he wants?” Layla’s up, her yellow legal pad tucked under her arm and a pen behind her ear.
“Come with me.” I stand and head toward the lobby. “Whatever it is, it ought to be good.”
Passing through the training center, I ignore the voices of fighters talking shit back and forth. Heated, but harmless enough. As long as they don’t kill each other, I’m good.
Walking down the hallway toward the lobby, I can already see the telltale white Ferragamos propped up on the coffee table. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Lounging against the leather couch, feet up as if he fucking owns the place, is Rusty Faulkner. Other than his hair being a little thinner than I remember, he hasn’t changed a bit with his black suit, red tie, and neck dripping in gold jewelry.
“Rusty, what brings you to Vegas?” I move toward him and he stands.
“Fuck me sideways.” He shakes my hand. “Cameron ‘Kyle-Driver’ turned big dick promoter and now the Prez. You’re dippin’ your stick in everything, huh?”
I ignore his attempt to get me riled. After I stopped fighting and started promoting, this dick bag treated me like shit stuck on his shoe. I was a better fighter and a great promoter while he dropped off the radar after he retired. And now I’m CEO. Asshole can’t stand to be one-upped by a washed-up fighter with a fucked-up noggin.
“You show up in my house, represent a past I’m not interested in relivin’, and now you’re talkin’ shit?” I cross my arms over my chest, afraid that if I don’t lock them down I might take a swing. “Speak your peace.”
“Cut to the chase, huh? Don’t want to talk about old times? Relive the glory days.” His eyes slice to Layla. “You Kyle’s woman?”
She juts out her chin and shakes her head. “No, sir, I’m Layla, Mr. Kyle’s assistant.”
“Assistant. Very nice.” He draws out his words, making his implication clear.
“Easy. Layla’s man is Blake Daniels. Not sure if you caught his fight this weekend, but you’d be smart to keep your opinions about Layla to yourself unless you want Blake in here mopping the floor with your corpse.”
He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Business it is.” His eyes scan the room before coming back to me. “Right here in the lobby?”
I don’t answer and wait. The more I’m around this guy, the more I feel as if he’s got something to say that’s just gonna piss me off.
His beady brown eyes narrow on mine. “I’ve been training.”
“You come all the way here to tell me that?”
“Rumor has it you’re coming full circle. Going back into the cage?”
It takes everything I have not to give away my shock. How the hell does he know that? No use in covering it up, but the board strictly said they didn’t want talk of the possibility until they made a decision. Something about a media nightmare. “Not sure what you’re talking about, but if I ever had the opportunity to re-enter the octagon, I’d take it.”
“So you need a challenger.” He scratches his jaw and shrugs. “I’m interested.”
“You shittin’ me?”
This little nugget of good news almost makes it worth all I had to do to get here. I’d pay money for the opportunity to kick this guy’s ass, but to get paid to do it is better.
“Not even a little. You and I were lined up to fight back before you quit.”
My body tenses. “I didn’t quit.” The words are shoved out through clenched teeth.
“Uh. . .” He scratches his chin. “Pretty sure you did. I was at the press conference.”
He knows exactly why I had to walk away from fighting. He fucking knows it!
I’m breathing heavily as I step into his space. As expected, he doesn’t back down and a slow grin spreads across his ugly mug. I’m giving him what he wants, falling right into his trap, but fuckin’ A if I give a shit.
“I’ll take the fight. You pick the date and—”
“Cam.” Layla’s at my side, her hand on my forearm. She looks from me to Rusty. “Would you mind giving us a second?”
The asshole completely ignores Layla’s question, and my fists clench ready to teach the dick a lesson in manners.
She jerks her head to the side, and I follow her out of earshot of Faulkner.
On tiptoes, she leans in. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m taking the fight.”
Her gaze swings up to the ceiling where she stares as if she’s trying to gather strength, and then swings it back to me. “I see that. But why not give him an answer later? You don’t call these shots, Cam. The board does.”
Good point. “Knee-jerk reaction.”
“I get that, but right now you’re CEO. Not a fighter.”
Fuck. I take a deep breath. “Agreed.”
“All right.” She pushes back her shoulders and cradles her legal pad to her chest. “You good?”
Brain damaged, not incompetent. I glare my response.
She nods, sharp and quick. “Good enough.”
We move back to Rusty, and he doesn’t even try to hide his greedy eyes as they move over Layla’s body. Sick fuck. I’d give anything to have Blake walk in while this shit’s going on.
“I’ll meet with the board first and then give you my answer.” Not that it matters what they say. I’m taking this fight.
“Gotta be complicated, eh, Cam?” He pulls a card from his breast pocket and throws it on a nearby coffee table. “Here’s where to find me.”
I stare at his back until he disappears from view. This is the fight I’m looking for, everything I’ve ever wanted dropped directly into my lap. No way am I backing away from an opportunity to return to the octagon and prove I’m not a failure. I mean what’s the worst that could happen? One more punch to the head kills me, that’s what. Fuck. So what do I do?
As soon as the question filters through my brain, the fighter in me rages his answer.
I will fight Rusty Faulkner.