Two
Layla
New year, new career.
I can do this.
I shove my hand between two hangers in the tiny closet overflowing with my clothes. The apartment’s crap because I’m broke. But at least I brought a few nice things from my old life. Wearing designer clothes will be the perfect way to veil my poverty.
I grab a pair of black pants then toss them on the bed to look for a top. It’s colder in the desert than I thought it’d be. It’s nothing like a Seattle winter, but there’s a bite in the air that calls for long sleeves.
Red silk blouse. Perfect. I’ll need a power color to make a strong impression.
I slide my towel off my body and shiver from the chill in the room, or possibly my nerves. Slacks in hand, I sit on the edge of the bed to get—
Black pants are for fat girls.
The sound of his voice knocks around in my head as if he were standing two feet away. My stomach cramps then rolls. With the offending pants halfway up my leg, I shake my head.
No. I won’t let him ruin this for me.
I shove my other foot into the other pants leg—dammit. I gaze down at my body and feel my confidence drain. I’m 110 pounds, far from overweight. Although, I suppose I could lose a little around my waist. Maybe I should start doing a few more sit-ups before bed—no.
I rip the pants off and toss them to the floor. He’s doing it again. He’s not even here, and I’m questioning myself. Baby steps. Today isn’t the day to tackle my black pants issue. I can’t show up at my new job feeling like a whipped dog.
Without looking, I reach into the closet and grab an outfit. Anything will be better than wearing his memory.
“Elle, ten minutes,” I shout towards the hallway while sliding on a cream-colored sweater dress.
“Duh. I’ve been ready for the last ten,” she says from what sounds like the kitchen.
Who knew raising a teenager would be so much fun? I don’t remember sassing my parents this badly at sixteen. Coming home pregnant, yes. Sass, not so much.
I squint at my reflection in the murky glass of the old full-length mirror that came with the apartment. Business casual and fashion forward. After all, the Universal Fighting League isn’t some stuffy corporate establishment. From what I could tell from the pictures online, it seems like a pretty hip place.
I yank my hair up into an extreme ponytail at the crown of my head then wrap it into a tight bun. It’s important that no pieces of hair escape, or I’ll end up twirling them obsessively, like I always do when I’m nervous. I finish by spraying a cloud of hairspray that’s so thick it makes me cough.
You look like a bimbo when you twirl your hair.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I breathe deeply to block out his voice. How long until his constant taunts fade?
I want to come across as confident and capable. Chewing my bottom lip, I look through my closet again. Maybe an accessory will help. A scarf? No. Suit jacket? Too hot. I turn away from my closet and find exactly what I’m looking for on my bedside table. Thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses.
I slide them on and give my reflection another once-over. Perfect. I’m ready.
While walking the short distance from my bedroom to the kitchen, I push back the resurfacing butterflies. One of the benefits of a 700 square foot apartment is that everything’s only a few steps away.
“I get off at five. Since we’re still new in town, I’d like for you to come back here after school and hang out until you have to pick me up.” I grab the things I’ll need for the day and pile them on the small chrome and yellow table that seats two.
Elle’s leaning against the stove, one hand on her slender hip. She shrugs her shoulder that’s carrying the weight of her messenger bag. “Fine.”
Purse, keys, water bottle, and nutrition bar. Check. “Did you pack a lunch?”
“No. That’s for dorks. I’ll eat there.” She grabs an energy drink from the fridge.
“I hate those things. You should get your energy from healthy food and exercise. Not caffeine.”
“That’s such shit,” she mumbles to the floor.
“Elle, seriously? Watch the langua—”
“You drink coffee for breakfast.”
“That’s different.”
“Whatever.” She uses that affected tone that makes me want to shake her.
After locking up, we head down the stairs into the parking lot, where our 1991 Ford Bronco is waiting. We got it the day we rolled into Vegas. It was parked on a street corner with a price painted on the windshield. One phone call later, and it was ours.
“Mom, come on,” Elle says, and unlocks the driver’s side door.
First official day of our new lives.
I hop into the passenger side and listen as Elle tries to get the truck started. On the third try, it finally starts.
We drive toward the UFL Training Center. Since we only have one car, it makes more sense for Elle to drop me off and pick me up. She seems happy about the arrangement. I guess being picked up and dropped off by your mom when starting a new school mid-year is equivalent to social suicide.
After one wrong freeway exit and a missed turn, we finally arrive in the parking lot of my new job. I have a job. My nerves flutter behind my ribcage.
I check my watch. Thirty minutes early. “So you’ll pick me up at five?”
“Yeah.” Elle smoothes her long dark hair and checks her dramatic make up in the rearview mirror. I should tell her to tone it down, but she might be nervous. I wouldn’t want to make her any more self-conscious than she already is. Not on the first day at a new school.
“Elle.”
Her crystal-blue eyes dart to mine, and she gives me an annoyed look. “What?”
“Are you okay? I mean, you’re going to a new high school in a new city. Is there anything—”
“Ugh! No. I’m fine. Please, just go to work. I can handle it.”
Nope, she’s not nervous. She’s pissed. She may not say it outright, but how could she not be? I pulled her away from everything she knew. All her friends, and what little family we still had. I chew the inside of my cheek. Did I do the right thing by leaving?
“Look, I know you’re mad at me, but—”
“Stop.” She holds her palm up to my face. “Just go.”
I exhale a long breath, resolving to deal with her another day, when things have mellowed out. Maybe after she settles in a bit, makes some new friends.
Grabbing my things, I hop down from the car. “Have a good day, Elle. I love you.”
She turns up the radio before I’m finished. I shut the door and watch until her taillights disappear down the street.
I’ve completely ruined her life. Screwed her up in the worst ways, and I have no one to blame but myself. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I won’t cry. Not today.
New year. New career. New me.
I suck in a deep breath and hold my head high. Being a mess on the inside doesn’t mean I have to be a mess on the outside. Putting on a show is something I’ve mastered. And even though I earned this job, having applied online and interviewed over the phone, everything in me says I’m not good enough. My stomach churns with anxiety.
Stop it. They think I’m worth hiring. It’s about time I believe I am. Or at least fake it until I feel it.
After one more strengthening breath, I push through the double doors. Heavy metal music pumps from speakers in a modern lobby that smells like expensive furniture and rubber mats. Multiple flat screen televisions flicker with clips from UFL fights, one in particular showing different knockout punches on a loop. I cringe at the violent hits and turn my eyes to the reception desk.
A pretty girl with strawberry-blond hair, who looks to be in her twenties, greets me with a tight smile.
Shoulders back, chin up, think confidence. “Hi, I’m Layla Moorehead. I’m here to meet Mr. Gibbs?”
She blinks at me with big hazel eyes. I watch while she looks back and forth between a piece of paper in front of her and her computer screen. Her eyebrows slam together.
This isn’t good. Mr. Gibbs should be expecting me. Am I in the right place? I slide my eyes back to the door where the words “UFL Training Center” are painted in bright orange on the glass.
Yep, this is it.
Maybe I should pull up his last email on my phone. I could have gotten the date wrong. I shift, move my purse strap to my other shoulder, and begin digging for my phone. The cavernous depths of my purse seem to have swallowed it. I push deeper, and suddenly the bag is weightless. Before I know what’s happening, my purse and its contents clack against the treated concrete floor.
“Crap.” I watch as my water bottle and several other personal items roll across the floor in every direction.
Broken purse strap. Lovely start to my day.
I kneel down and rake my things into the bag, making sure to shove the tampons in first before anyone sees them.
“Seriously? Is this really happening?” My voice is soft, but its high pitch must reveal my frustration. “Stupid purse.” I get down on all fours to retrieve a runaway lipstick that rolled under a nearby couch. Cheek to the floor, arm outstretched, I feel under the couch. My fingertips barely touch it. Come on, just another inch. I push my arm farther beneath, my shoulder hitting the base of the couch. Almost got it—Ah-ha!
“You alright down there, Mouse?”
I freeze at the sound of the deep, booming voice behind me. How must I look from this angle? Ass up, head down. I practically groan at being caught in such a ridiculous position.
Lipstick in hand, I scramble to my feet. “Yep, I’m good.” I hold the lipstick tube out and push my glasses up on my nose. “Just lost—” Holy huge guy. My breath catches in my lungs as I face off with the owner of the baritone voice.
He’s at least a foot taller than me. His legs are so long that the white stripes running down the sides of his warm-up pants seem to go on forever. My eyes linger on the fabric, which is baggy and clingy in all the right places. My face instantly heats as I move my eyes from his legs to his chest. A grey long-sleeved thermal shirt accentuates his broad upper body, his muscles straining against the cotton.
“You forgot this.” He flashes a crooked smile that softens the hard angles of his jaw. His high cheekbones are set below the most striking pair of green eyes that whisper all kinds of dangerous. And dirty.
I clear my throat and reach for the object he’s holding—oh my gosh! I snatch the tampon from his hand, its crinkling paper sound igniting my cheeks even more. So much for acting confident. I’m a mess, and I can only pray that my glasses help to hide a little of my embarrassment. Burying the offending object deep into my purse, I consider running out of the lobby and calling in sick. “Thanks.”
“Happy to help. Wouldn’t want you to get caught without those.” He runs a hand across his upper lip, trying to cover a smile and failing horribly. “Could get messy.”
The tension in my jaw goes slack. He didn’t just say that. Jerk.
So he saw me on the floor with my ass in the air… and handed me a tampon. He probably thinks I’m some silly girl that he can push around with his good looks and that panty-melting smile. But I won’t cower to his presumptions.
I glare into his bright green eyes and straighten to my full five-foot-three, and a half thanks to my high-heeled boots, hoping to feel less intimidated. It’s impossible. But he doesn’t need to know that. “Have you ever heard of Emily Post? She’s an expert on etiquette. You might want to look her up.”
“Yeah?” He rubs his chin, making a show that he’s considering what I said. He lifts one eyebrow. “She single?”
I prop both hands on my hips and run an overly obvious gaze from his black athletic shoes to his eyes. “Maybe, but she’d only date a gentleman.”
He lifts his chin, then bites and releases his lip. “I could be a gentleman. I like role play.”
Adding sexy banter to the list of things this guy is good at, next to tampon retrieval, I make a mental note to stay the hell away from him. With an exaggerated roll of my eyes that I hope he’s smart enough to notice, I turn my back on the giant.
Clutching my broken bag, I wait on the girl to buzz me in, or whatever she has to do to get me away from this arrogant ass.
“Hmm, yeah. You’re not on the visitors list.” She shrugs like I should just grab my scraps of purse and leave.
On the inside, I’d be happy to slink away with what little is left of my pride. But my life doesn’t afford those luxuries. Not anymore. This is my only chance to move on.
“If you’ll get Mr. Gibbs on the phone, I’m sure he’ll vouch for me. My name is Lay—”
“Don’t worry, Vanessa. I got this.”
I drop my head and groan. He’s still here?
Whirling around to face him, I plan on telling him that he can go about his business and that I can take care of my damn self. But he’s standing no more than a foot away, and his eyes, which are the color of spring grass, penetrate mine. They’re intense, and… amused? He’s smiling, but only slightly. I narrow my gaze. His grin expands.
“Is there something you find particularly funny?”
He doesn’t answer, but continues to study my face. His eyes roam from my mouth to my neck and then back. What’s this guy’s problem?
I wave my hand in front of him. “Hello? Yo habla English?”
The side of his mouth lifts, and his eyes sparkle.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“Not a cat.” He takes a step closer. “But I’d give it to a mouse.”
He called me “Mouse” earlier. “What the hell does that mean?” I shift my loose belongings in my arms and dig for my phone. Anything to take my attention from the man towering above me. “Look, if you two won’t call Mr. Gibbs…” Shoveling junk to the side, I search every crevice of my purse. Where is it? Ah, there it is. I yank out my phone and scroll through my contacts. “I’ll call him myself.”
My phone is snagged from my hand. “Wha—”
“He’s not who you want.”
“You just… I can’t believe you just…” I thrust my hand forward and stomp my foot. “Give me my phone.” This guy has some nerve. I wish I could smack that smile from his face.
He plops my phone into my hand. “Come with me. I’ll take you to tryouts.” His voice no longer drags with a teasing tone, but is laced with sincerity, as if he’s really trying to help.
I don’t know if I should trust him. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even… who are you?”
“Whoever you want me to be, Mouse.” And he’s back to teasing.
“Look, Mr…?” Why is he smiling? I follow his eyes to my—oh my gosh.
He’s staring at my boobs.
I cross my arms at my chest and cock my hip. “I’m here for a job.”
His eyes flare as he stares at my breasts that I’ve now propped up on my forearms for his viewing pleasure.
I drop my arms and scowl. Ugh, why do I feel naked right now?
“Oh, I know why you’re here,” he says with a deep chuckle.
“No you don’t.” I’ve barely managed to get a word in.
“Mm-hm.”
“Fine, Mr. Mindreader. Why am I here?”
“Follow me.”
I don’t like him ordering me around, but I’ve got less than ten minutes before I’ll be considered late. Maybe if I follow him in I’ll be able to find someone to help me locate Mr. Gibbs.
I slide my pile of broken purse pieces from the reception desk. “Well, aren’t you…” Impossible. Annoying. Conceited. A groan rumbles up my throat. “Fine.”
“Some women call me fine, I prefer handsome.” He walks down a hallway, motioning for me to follow. “Sexy works too, or you can call me Blake.”
What is he, a friggin’ comedian? This guy’s so full of himself. It’s not like he’s some big shot fighter… oh no. Realization dawns in a face-flaming instant, and my one stroke of good luck is that I’m behind him so he can’t see me. He’s one of the UFL’s top fighters.
Blake Daniels, nicknamed “The Snake” for his submissions. Jiu-Jitsu black belt, fighting for the UFL since 2006, middleweight title contender. I read all about him in the prep email Mr. Gibbs sent me.
Blake has a big fight coming up. It’s the reason Mr. Gibbs wanted me to start right after the New Year so I could learn the ropes as the fight night approaches.
No more mouthing off to one of the UFL’s golden boys. I follow him into a warehouse-like gym, my mouth tightly shut. He greets a few other guys by name. I recognize some of them, and run through their stats in my head.
He pushes through a door and into a smaller room. The wall is lined with mirrors, and there’s a group of girls sitting at a table. One is sitting on top of it.
“Hey, Blake,” the girls sing in unison.
I shake my head at the seductive tone in their voices.
Guys like Blake Daniels are bad news. Breaking hearts with a look, no doubt.
“Ladies. I found this one lost in the lobby. Thought I’d escort her in.” He looks around the room, his eyebrows low. “Where’s everyone else?”
“No tryouts today.” The blonde who was sitting on the table hops off and struts toward us.
What tryouts?
“Hm. Well, you guys should get, uh…” He looks down at me. “What’s your name, Mouse?”
What is up with that nickname?
I glare up at him. “Stop calling me that.” I face the blonde and her two sidekicks. “I’m not here for tryouts for, um, whatever you—”
“Cage Girls,” a redhead girl says.
I point at her, glad somebody finally let me in on what’s going on. “Cage Girls. Right, I’m not here for that. Mr. Gibbs hired—”
“You’re not here for tryouts? With that hot little body?” Blake’s compliment has me shifting on my feet.
“No, or thank you, I guess, but no. I’m Mr. Gibbs’s new assistant.” I shove my hand toward Blake, acting firm and professional. Confident. “Layla Moorehead.”
His expression is blank, giving nothing away but a slight twitch of his lips. “What did you say?” He ignores my proffered hand.
I pull it back and clutch my bag to my body. “Mr. Gibbs hired me to—”
“No, I heard that.” His lips curve up on one side. “What’s your name?”
“Layla. Moorehead.”
He throws his head back with a laugh so loud and deep it resonates off the walls. “Fuckin’ A, Mouse. That’s the best name for a chick I’ve ever heard.”
Oh, here we go. I should have known a man like this would have the sense of humor of an eighth grader. I rub my temples, pushing back the oncoming headache. “Are you finished,” I say as dryly as I possibly can, but most likely not loud enough to be heard through his howling.
“That’s some funny shit.” He catches his breath after his fit of laughter. “Wait, let me guess.” He scratches his cheek, which is covered by the perfect amount of stubble. “You’re a stripper, right?”
What. An. Asshole.