Thirty-two
Blake
I’ve been at it for nine hours. Sitting in front of my computer, exhausting every search engine ever created, and nothing. No record of a Doctor Michael Xavier. Anywhere.
I took a break from my online manhunt to research the drugs that were found in my system. Both can be ingested and injected. Easily given without a patient’s knowledge.
That bastard totally fucked me. And now he’s gone.
Slamming my laptop shut, I toss it on the bed next to me. My stomach growls, reminding me that I’ll have to leave the safety the spare bedroom eventually or starve to death. As appealing as the latter option is, I can’t die yet. Not before I find that motherfucker who ruined my life and make him pay.
My fists dig into my eye sockets. “This pity shit isn’t going to get me anywhere. Concentrate.”
I grab my cell phone. Missed calls. Two from my brother, one from Lieutenant Hodgeson. No Layla.
Calling her isn’t an option. What if she tells me to fuck off? I scroll through my directory to her number, my thumb making passes over the word call lit up in green. I try to ignore the voice in my head that taunts me. I’ve done this at least a dozen times since I woke up. “Fuck it.” I hit the button.
It’s ringing, and I hold my breath waiting for her voice. Shit, what am I doing? She’ll call me if she wants to talk. An automated voice comes through the earpiece, asking me to leave a message. I grumble at being cheated of hearing her voice on an outgoing message. Even that would have been something.
The high-pitched beep sounds, and I freeze. Do I leave a message? What would I say? My throat is dry. I open my mouth to speak, but can’t do it. I pull the phone away from my ear and hit “End”.
I run my hand over my head. A million different things whirl through my mind, and I can’t get the shit to slow down. Layla’s got a lot to deal with right now. She’ll call me when she’s ready. Or not. Dammit.
This head-fuck is sidetracking me. I’ve got things to do, and I need to get to them. I redirect my energy to proving my innocence, and call Lt. Hodgeson.
“Mr. Daniels.”
“Hey, Dave. Did you call to tell me I left my toothbrush in jail? If so, you can keep it.”
He laughs. “No, nothing like that. Do you have time today to come down to the station? There’re a few things I need to talk to you about.”
Dropping my head back to my pillow, I groan. “I don’t know, man. Last time you and I talked at the station, I ended up behind bars.”
“Good point. Meet me for a beer?”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Great. Armadillo’s at five.”
“See ya then.”
~*~
At five o’clock on the nose, I’m walking through the front door of Armadillo’s. It’s a dive bar for locals and boasts the coldest beer in town. One of those places you walk in and it takes ten minutes for your eyes to adjust from the bright sun to the dark room. I welcome the sound of pool balls smacking together and crappy country music. It’s a great distraction from the chaos whirling in my head.
As I move through the room towards the bar, eyes follow my every step. The pool balls fall silent, and the chatter turns to whispers. I drop my face and rub my forehead in a pathetic attempt to hide. Should’ve known being out in public would be uncomfortable. After all, these people think I’m a cheater who’s dirtied Las Vegas’s most profitable sport. Maybe meeting at the station would’ve been a better idea.
Dave’s sitting at the end of the bar, beer in hand. He waves me over.
Squeezing past a couple of bikers who don’t make it easy it on me, I’m grateful to make it to my barstool. “You’re early.” I motion to Dave’s half-empty pint glass.
“It’s been a crazy day.” He motions to the bartender for another. “What’re you drinking?”
I order a Sierra Nevada and notice activity in the room has gone back to normal. “What’s up?” No use avoiding the issue. He’s obviously got something he needs to say, and I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.
“We made some headway in your case.” The bartender puts our beers down, and Dave nods his thank you.
“That’s great news. You find the prick doctor who dosed me?” I grip my beer bottle so tight my fingers go numb.
“No.”
“Fuck.” My bicep jumps, and I want to hurl my beer across the room, but without the drugs in my system, I control the wild urge with ease.
“There’s been a development. Something that was brought to our attention by an eyewitness—”
“Dave man, cut the shit. I’ve lost everything. My career, my woman, and her kid. If you’ve got some good news, just fuckin’ tell me.”
“Fair enough.” He turns his stool toward me. “Stewart Moorehead set up his wife. He’s the one responsible for what happened to you. But he didn’t act alone. He had a partner to pull it off.” He leans in. “Taylor Gibbs.”
I shove back from the bar, my pulse drumming in my ears. My muscles contract with the urge to break something. “You’re fucking with me.”
He shakes his head and then goes onto explain how Stewart got Layla the job with the UFL, promising Gibbs the publicity he was looking for.
Unable to sit back down, I take a moment to register this new information. It doesn’t surprise me the lengths that Stew went to in order to ruin Layla. She even mentioned that he’d let her go too easily.
But Gibbs. I knew he was a media whore of the worst kind, but to discredit the sport for a headline is some fucked up shit. And throwing out one of his fighters is unfathomable. He’s not only killed my career, but he’s tainted the UFL name, and taken a shit on mixed martial arts while flippin’ it a big fat “fuck you”.
“We’ve arrested Mr. Moorehead, and we’re in the process of getting Gibbs. That’s where you come in. The LVPD’s going to need your help in getting a confession. If not, it’s his word against Stewart’s.”
“I’ll do it. Whatever it is, I’m game. As long as it means he goes down hard.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” He nods to my barstool. “Have a seat.”
I’m so hyped up on adrenaline it’s hard to sit still, but I pull my shit together and hear him out. He explains the plan, and for the first time in a while, I feel hopeful.
“You think it’ll work? Getting the recorded confession?” I take a long drag off my beer.
“It worked beautifully today.” He smiles and tries to cover it with a cough.
“What’re you talking about? And why are you grinning like a girl?”
“How do you think we got that information out of Stewart? We mic’d Layla and sent her in.”
My stomach drops, and the mention of Layla and Stewart in the same sentence makes my flesh crawl. But overriding my irritation is anger. “Why would you do that? Guilting Layla into coming face to face with the man who had her gang raped? Who lied to her about being the father of—”
“Calm down, Blake.” He holds up his hands. “She came to us. It was her idea.”
“Her idea.”
“She had suspicions about Doctor Xavier. Your positive blood test sent her on a mission to prove her theory. She came to me with the idea and said she’d get the confession.”
I’m dizzy, my mind spinning. I brace myself against the bar to keep upright, my head in my hands.
She did all that. For me?
The guy who choked her in her living room? In front of her kid?
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “She did that?”
He has the decency to keep his gaze forward, allowing me my privacy as I process all he’s shared. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
She’s a single mom with a mouth to feed. Her job is her lifeline away from Stewart. And yet, she risks it to save my reputation. After everything I’ve done, she throws herself up to shield me?
That is what’s going on here, right? It has to be. But one question nags me to ask. If she cares about me, why haven’t I heard from her? Where was she when I was in jail, and why didn’t she answer my call? Maybe this is her parting gift. Her way of saying thanks for the good time, sorry it didn’t work out.
I groan and rub my temples. This is all so damn confusing. One thing at a time. First Gibbs.
“I’ll get Gibbs to confess. You name the time and place. I’m there.” Even off duty and in his civilian clothes, I decide not to share my plan to break Gibbs’s nose for conspiring with Stewart against Layla. I’ll wait until after he confesses, but it will happen.
“Meet me at the station at oh-six-hundred. We’ll go from there.”
I push my beer bottle away and stand to leave. “Thanks for the drink.”
My mind is miles ahead of my body, envisioning my confrontation with Taylor, planning my speech to perfection.
This is the final obstacle to getting my life back. Saving my career is an added bonus, but not the prize.
I want my woman back. And Gibbs is going to make that happen. I won’t accept anything less.
~*~
Stepping foot into the training center feels like strutting down Las Vegas Boulevard naked with a propeller strapped to my johnson. And it has shit-all to do with the mic stuck to my chest. Everyone here, from front desk to fighters, is staring. And these stares aren’t giving me the warm and fuzzies. It’s all death glares and whispers. Not that I blame them. They’re convinced I’ve shamed the UFL. I’d do the same thing if our roles were reversed.
I drop my head and play the part. It’ll help if they believe I’m guilty.
I’m halfway through the sparring floor when I hear my name. I quicken my pace.
“Wait up, dude.” Rex jogs to me, and unless I want to run off like a pussy, I have to stop.
“What’s up?” I flick a glance toward the hallway that leads to the executive offices. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”
Breathing heavy, he pulls off his gloves. “I heard about what happened. Tried calling a few times, but got your voicemail. You okay?”
“Fine. We’ll talk later. I’ve got shit I need to talk to Gibbs about.” I turn to leave.
“Blake, man.”
I stop and look over my shoulder at the concerned sound in his voice.
“I know you didn’t do it. Been fighting with you for years, and…” He pulls at his lower lip, probably looking for that damn lip ring he never wears when he trains. Giving up, he shrugs. “Just thought you should know.”
“Thanks, dude. Appreciate it.” I move toward the hallway, knowing that if I stand there for another minute talking about my innocence, I’ll get too fired up to do what I have to do.
Stopping just before the corridor that leads to Taylor’s office, I take a deep breath. I’m not nervous to get his confession as much as I’m dreading Layla’s desk. Jonah had told me that she was taking time off to sort her shit, but he never said how much time. What will I do if she’s there?
With no time to consider the possibility, I make my way down the hall. Her desk is empty. Thank God. I take a quick glance. It looks exactly the same, down to the picture of Axelle with a sweet smile on her face centered among her things. I accept the pain that twists in my chest and use it to push my legs forward.
Taylor’s door is open. He’s sitting at his desk and looks up from his computer but says nothing.
I put on my most pathetic gait and step into his office, shutting the door behind me. “You got a minute?”
“You’re not supposed to be here. You’ve been put on probation.” He almost sounds happy about it. And now, I know why.
“I’m not here to train.”
He motions to a chair. “Have a seat.”
I sit and keep my eyes to my lap. My redirected gaze serves two purposes. One, to look desperate. Two, if I look into this fucker’s face, I may be forced to break it. “I’m not one for candy coating, so I’m just going to come out and say it. I know you made a deal with Stewart Moorehead. He’s confessed to sending Doc Z in exchange for you hiring Layla.”
Taylor’s eyes are intent, his lips pressed into a tight line.
“Layla’s gone back to her husband. Stewart got what he wanted, but I’ve been fucked in the process.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Taylor, I’ve lost everything. The girl, my career, my reputation. Fighting’s all I have. I’m here to make you a deal.”
He doesn’t say yes, but he’s not telling me to fuck off and get out of his office either.
“I’ll confess to taking steroids. I’ll admit that I was weak and the pressure of my fight with Wade was too much. I’ll beg for my fans to forgive me. It’ll be great publicity for the UFL.”
The motherfucker’s eyes light up. Asshole.
“I’ll do the talk shows, interviews, whatever you want. All I ask is that you keep me on as a fighter, and that you back my confession. Show the public that you’re forgiving me and giving me another chance.”
“That’s it? All I have to do is show support?”
“Yeah, that’s it. I have to say, this was brilliant. I’ve never seen so much UFL media coverage. You played that perfectly.” I scratch my chin and grin. “I do have one question though. The steroids angle was a huge risk. It could have discredited the sport, and you could have lost.” I lean forward and keep my voice quiet, but loud enough to be picked up by the mic. “How did you know it would work?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Cut the shit, Gibbs. If we’re going into this together, let’s do it without the piles of lies between us. This deal I’m offering is huge. The cops will back off their investigation of the UFL, of Doc Z, but I need to trust you. So tell me. How did you know?”
He looks around the room as if contemplating my words. “How do I know you won’t fuck me?”
I hold up my hands. “You’ve got the upper hand. It’s the owner of the UFL’s word against the jailbird fighter’s. No one will believe me over you.”
Exhaling a long breath, he shrugs. “It was a business deal. Nothing personal.”
It was personal to me, you son of a fuck! “Right, business. I get it.”
“Lance Armstrong brought bicycling to the forefront with his blood doping. I thought I could do the same.”
My temper threatens to overcome my restraint. If I blow this now, I’m back to Internet searches for doctor that doesn’t exist. I bite back my rage. “But blood doping and steroids is bad publicity.”
His lips curl into an evil smile. “No such thing as bad publicity.”
It takes every bit of my energy to fake a grin. His answering chuckle tells me he bought it. I still need more.
“I get it wasn’t personal, but why me?”
“Wrong place at the wrong time. We could have doped up one of the other fighters with oral steroids, but you needed the cortisone. That helped. I would have waited until the perfect opportunity arose, but your fight was right around the corner so…” He shrugs. “I thought we’d have to wait until you got tested before your fight. It was Stewart’s idea to provoke you into a fight at Layla’s place. As over-doped as you were, he was convinced he could get you to roid rage. Doc Z told him you were getting close to that on your own. He provided the push. I want you to know, I didn’t agree to that. I thought the steroids was enough, but he wanted retribution for you banging his wife.”
“I appreciate your honestly, Gibbs.” I stand, unable to take another word from his backstabbing mouth. The steroids are leaching from my system, so I no longer have the urge to rip off people’s limbs, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to beat this fucker’s ass bloody.
He stands and moves around his desk. “I’m glad you came to me, Blake. Now that everything’s out on the table, I think we’ll be able to spin this to our benefit, as well as to the UFL’s.” He offers his hand.
I smile and shake his hand. “I agree.” Yanking his arm, I grab him behind the head and smash his face into the corner of his desk.
He grunts and cups his face. Blood spills from his nose.
“Spin that, bitch.” I turn and walk to the door just as it opens.
Undercover cops file into the room, yelling for Taylor’s cooperation. Lieutenant Hodgeson is waiting outside, leaning on Layla’s desk. He pops the earpiece from his ear. “Easy enough?”
I rip the mic from my chest and hand the equipment to him. “Yep. Just uh… be careful.” I point over my shoulder. “The floor in the office is uneven or something. Gibbs tripped and busted his face up.”
He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t call me out. “I’ll make sure to watch where I step.” Shifting slightly, he spots the picture of Axelle and picks it up. “Pretty girl.”
“She is. Just like her mother.”
“Well, looks like we’re all done here. I’m sure your lawyer will be in touch with the details.” He hands me the framed photo. “Looks like you got your life back, Snake.”
My life, yes.
But not my heart.