Three
Blake
No shit. Layla Moorehead?
This babe’s hot as hell, and she’s named after sex and blowjobs. That’s a combination impossible to ignore. And that’s not where the dick-swell stops. The chick has attitude. Most girls do the blush-and-duck when I tease them. Miss Sex and More Head gave it right back. I like that.
“So you’re the new executive assistant Taylor’s been blabbing about?” Damn, guess I won’t be seeing that gorgeous body in a Cage Girl uniform after all. Not that the tight sweater dress she’s wearing leaves much to the imagination. And fuck me if she doesn’t smell downright edible.
She wiggles her nose and then pushes her glasses up with her middle finger. I squint toward her and grin. She just flipped me off like grade school kids do. Yep, seriously diggin’ the attitude.
“I guess I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She checks her fancy wristwatch. “I’m late.”
She walks past me, and the scent of vanilla from her sunshine-blond hair penetrates my senses. I resist the urge to lick my lips and sample the air. She smells like she looks. Delicate and irresistible.
I enjoy the show, watching the tight curves of her body roll beneath the fabric of her dress as she heads toward the wrong door. She reaches for the handle that opens into a large storage room and yanks hard. It’s locked. Instead of walking away when it doesn’t budge, she yanks again. She squeaks in frustration, just like she did in the lobby when I found her on her knees with that fine ass in the air.
Hands on my hips, I watch and wait. And grin like a fool. This girl is fucking hilarious. She tugs again, like maybe the sheer will of wanting to escape will magically open the door. The Cage Girls giggle.
“Mouse. Wrong door, sweetheart.”
She spins around, fast and angry, a long piece of her shining hair falling from its ballet girl bun and dancing down her face. She pushes it back only to have it fall right back down. Fuck, this girl is cute.
I point to the door she needs, and she straightens her shoulders. Cradling her broken bag in her arms, she marches toward the door, throws it open, and disappears behind it.
“Too bad,” Melinda, the captain of the Cage Girls, says. “She would have made a great CG. A little short, but perfect body.”
“Hmm.” I’m smiling at the door that Mouse just left through. “Yeah, too bad.”
What’s a shame is that Layla’s too locked up in her head. She’s fun as hell to play with, and her body alone promises a different kind of excitement. But there’s one thing I know about girls like Miss Moorehead—they’re more chore than whore. But I’ll enjoy the eye-gasm I get every time I pass by that sweet piece.
After tossing the Cage Girls a quick later, I make my way to the weight room, the place I was headed before I got sidetracked by Taylor’s new hire. The place is practically empty except for Rex and the boys, who’re already lifting.
“Late, bitch.” Owen’s spotting the new kid, Mason, on the bench press.
“Had to show Taylor’s new assistant around.” I pull my thermal over my head and toss it aside, leaving me in my sleeveless undershirt.
“Finally. That guy needed to get rid of Helga years ago.” Rex curls his weights, talking to my reflection in the mirror.
“Her name was Heidi, dumbass.” I stop at the bench and glare at Mason.
He hops up, and I take my place under the bar.
“She acted like a Helga. Fuckin’ girl was as slow as a ninety-year-old woman on muscle relaxers.”
Owen throws on a couple more weights and locks them on the bar. I brace my shoulders against the bench and then push up and out, steadying the bar that’s loaded to 300 pounds. I drop the weight to my chest and thrust it back up.
Owen hovers at the bar. “What’s she like?” He looks down at me. “The new one.”
I grind through a few more reps and slam the bar back onto the rack.
What’s she like? Hot, cute, and full of attitude. Her eyes are the color of dark chocolate, sultry and exotic, the complete opposite of her bubblegum-blonde good looks. Getting lost in those eyes would be easy, but there was something else there. Even with her sexy librarian glasses, I could see it. The disconnect in her gaze, like she was talking to a wall rather than a human being. If I had to guess, I’d say she carries a lot of shit on those perfectly toned shoulders.
I shrug. “Cool, I guess. Seems smarter than the last one, that’s for sure.”
I shake my arms out and prepare for my second set.
“Good. Maybe she’ll help Gibbs pull his head out of his ass. He’s becoming a media slut. That shit that went down with Jonah gave him a freakin’ hard-on with all the national coverage it brought.” Rex drops his weights and rounds the leg press machine.
“Yeah, I heard about that. Sucks for ‘The Assassin’ and his wife.” Mason sits on a bench across from mine, his eyebrows pinched together. “What’s he doing with the media?”
Owen clears his throat. “He’s less about the sport and more about the attention. Letting bitches backstage before a fight, joint promotions with the female team. Shit, yesterday he had a film crew in here talking about taping our training sessions for a reality show.”
Mason’s eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head. “None of that sounds bad.”
I finish my second set, sit up with my elbows on my knees, and face him. “It ain’t good. A fighter needs focus. His head needs to be clear, not filled with the complications that unnecessary attention brings. Not messed up about how he’s being portrayed on some piece of shit TV show.” I lean in closer to Baywatch. “You here to fight or are you here to get your damn face on TV with the Kardashians?”
He nods. “Here to fight.”
“Damn straight you are.”
“But hanging with the Kardashians doesn’t sound too bad either.”
I scrub my face with my hands. This guy has got to be kidding. I’m a motherfucking jiu-jitsu black belt. The Brazilian founders of the sport are probably shittin’ their gi’s at the direction the sport is taking.
MMA, going to Hollywood in a shit can.
Choosing to ignore Baywatch’s stupid comment, I set up the weights to do some dead lifts. My first day back to training after some well-deserved time off, I’m hitting it hard. Fight night will be here shortly, and there’s no way I’ll be satisfied with anything other than a win.
“Dude, hold up. I’ll spot you,” Owen calls from across the room.
“I’m good.” I squat low and find my footing. Counting three quick breaths, I throw my weight under the bar, and push the 450 pounds to my chest. I drop it and repeat, three, four, five—.
A sharp pain twists in my back. Motherfuck. I drop the heavy bar to the mat and bend over, hands on my knees, wheezing through the pain.
“You all right, man?” Rex is the closest to me, and I’m grateful everyone else is far enough away that they don’t seem to notice my doubled-over pain-fold.
I grind my teeth and stand straight. “Yeah, man.”
What was I thinking, taking that much weight after two weeks off? I grab my water bottle and head to the treadmill, hoping to walk this shit off. Every step is torture, rocketing pain from my lower back to my ass.
Well, shit. So much for starting the New Year strong.
Layla
Irritating prick.
He thought I was a stripper. Maybe things are different in Vegas, but where I come from, assuming a woman dances naked for money is not a compliment. And the way he smiled—like he could see right through to my soul, and found it hilarious. Who does that?
After wandering around and asking for directions, I’m finally in the right place. I walk down a hallway lined with empty executive offices. At the end of the hallway there’s a reception area with an empty desk and a closed door with a gold plaque.
Mr. Taylor Gibbs, CEO
I smooth my dress and straighten my shoulders. The morning threw me a few speed bumps in the form of Blake Daniels, but all is not lost. Pushing past my most recent upset, I focus on my original plan.
Confidence. Even if it’s fake.
Eyes closed, I take a deep breath.
New year. New career. New life—what is that? The sound of an angry voice filters out from behind the door.
I step back, afraid to knock and interrupt, or worse, have the anger turned on me. The words are garbled, but the voices are definitely male. I contemplate going back down to the lobby and waiting, but my morning detour has made me late, and that’s a horrible first impression. I decide to sit at the desk, which I’m sure is mine, and wait it out there so I can pop in as soon as they’re done.
Aggressive murmurs continue for a few more minutes until finally the door swings open. I jump up from my chair and smile.
Two men come out of the office. They don’t see me at first, so I take quick inventory. They’re both average height, but whereas one of them is nicely dressed in a collared shirt and slacks, the other looks scruffy. His wiry salt and pepper hair is disheveled and a little too long, and his Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants look like they could use an ironing.
The cleaner of the two must catch sight of me from the corner of his eye. He jerks his head to face me, and I see a tinge of anger in his expression before he wipes it away. “Oh, hey.” His eyes dart to the clock on the wall.
Damn, he’s going to know I’m late.
“You must be Mrs. Moore—”
“Miss.” I hold out my hand. “Layla’s fine. It’s nice to meet you. Mr. Gibbs, right?”
He shakes my hand and smiles. “Yes, and thanks for being on time. I apologize for not meeting you in the lobby.” Shifting on his feet, he clears his throat. “Last minute meeting.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence passes between us as I wait to be introduced to the man in the Hawaiian shirt.
“Hi, I’m Michael Xavier,” the man says. He slicks back his hair with one hand while offering his other.
“Yes, Z is our new doctor on staff. He’ll be treating the athletes and working with the trainers.” Mr. Gibbs explains how the last doctor left to practice family medicine in Arizona and how Doc Z is taking his place.
This guy is a doctor? Well that’s probably what the fight was about. He clearly needs a more professional look, or at least a cleaner one.
“The two of you will be working together from time to time. If I’m not available, he’s instructed to report to you.”
To me? The cool air from the room burns my eyes. I’m not blinking. “I’m not qualified to—”
“Don’t sweat it.” He claps the doctor on the back. “He’ll do all the work. You just sign the dotted line.”
“I uh—”
“It was nice to meet you Miss—”
My eyes return to the greasy doctor. “Layla.”
“Layla. See you around.” Doc Z turns and walks away.
“All right.” Mr. Gibbs claps his hands. “I don’t have anyone to train you, so I’m afraid this will be a-learn-as-you-go situation.” His bright blue eyes sparkle against his tan skin. Judging by the gray hair in his sideburns, I’d guess he’s in his fifties, and although he’s a little short, I’d think most women would consider him attractive.
“That’d be great.”
“Come on. I’ll show you the main training space.” He motions for me to follow him into the warehouse-style room that I walked through earlier.
The sound of rap music and men’s voices fill the air. Now that I’m not on a frantic search, I notice the smell of sweat and spice. Not a bad sweat smell, just one that reminds me I’m surrounded by men. Padded bags, equipment, and mats line the large space, and in the middle, sitting like a crown jewel, is an enormous octagon.
“Left is the men’s locker room and medical facilities, right is the ladies locker room.” He points down a hallway. “Random offices and meeting rooms.”
Motioning for me to follow, he heads toward a set of double doors. “And in here we have a state-of-the-art weight training facility.”
The rumble of deep voices and rock music sounds from behind the set of doors. He swings it open and walks through with me on his heels. I’m caught up in the tour when my eyes land on the figure of a man. The sight of him makes me freeze in place.
Dammit. It’s him. Blake’s standing there with a couple of guys. I couldn’t describe the other guys because my eyes are glued to Blake’s bare arms. I thought they looked superb beneath his long sleeves, but uncovered—I can’t swallow. He looks better than real, like a weight training Ken doll, all hard lines and sinewy curves. His shoulder cuts flow with an elegant masculinity down to his biceps and triceps, which are bulging and glistening with sweat.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Even at this distance, I’m sucked into the deep green nirvana of his stare. My heart rate speeds up, and a slow, steady smile curls his perfect lips.
Everything about you screams easy.
The voice in my head slashes through the spell. Blinking to clear the haze, I curse the debilitating abuse that haunts me still.
“…available to you as well.” Mr. Gibbs stands smiling at me, and I register what was apparently the tail end of a longer sentence.
“Excuse me?”
He narrows his eyes at me, and I stand a bit taller, hoping he doesn’t mistake my drifting away for a moment as incompetence.
“The gym. It’s available to you as well.” He raises his eyebrows. “Do you work out?”
“Sure.” In my old life, working out was the only way I could work off my anxiety. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Great. Let’s move on to—”
“I see you found our little mouse.”
My skin flames at the nearness of his voice, and my stomach tumbles.
“Ah, perfect. Blake Daniels, I’d like you to meet Lay—”
“We’ve met.” His eyes are locked on mine, and my glasses slide down what feels like the entire length of my face. I wiggle my nose to get them back into place. He smiles, his gaze bouncing back and forth from my eyes to my lips.
I glare at Blake, quickly remembering that he may be the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, but he’s still a jackass. “Yes, Mr. Daniels was very helpful this morning.” Not.
He dips his chin and rubs the back of his neck. Is he embarrassed? Well, maybe this guy has a heart after all.
“Looks like you found your way okay,” he says, motioning to Gibbs, who is talking to a good-looking guy with dark skin and arms bigger than my waist.
“No thanks to you,” I whisper and bite down hard to keep from calling him a dick.
“Owen, Rex, and Mason, this is my new assistant, Mrs. Layla Moorehead.”
“Layla.” I correct him, and then shake hands with the guys, mentally running their stats.
Owen Miller, MMA champion on the National circuit, retired fighter, current trainer. Rex T-Rex Carter, kickboxing champion and former Olympian, known for his superhuman leg strength. And the UFL’s most recent acquisition, Mason “Mayhem” Mahoney, all-state college wrestler and jiu-jitsu red belt.
“It’s nice to meet you all. I’m…”
Blake’s still standing in the same spot, and his eyes spear me with a glare. I cringe beneath its weight and forget what I was going to say. What’s his problem?
“Layla will be your contact for all things when I’m unavailable.”
I’m grateful for Mr. Gibbs’s interruption, but I can’t drag my eyes away from what looks to be a seething Blake.
“She’ll be taking on more responsibility than Heidi did.”
Suddenly I remember what I was going to say. “I’m looking forward to the opportunity—”
“Shit, you already got the job.” Blake’s comment makes the guys chuckle. “This ain’t an interview.”
His sudden change in personality makes me fidget. He’s not teasing, he’s pissed. As I drop my gaze to the floor, a stubborn piece of hair falls into my face. I smooth it back and hope to hide my embarrassment. “Of course.” Be confident. I lift my head and straighten my shoulders. “You’re right. I apologize—”
“Apologize?” Blake looks at me, and I don’t miss the flash of disappointment in his eyes.
What did I do wrong? And why on earth do I care what this guy thinks? He’s the worst kind a jerk. Cocky, arrogant, and condescending. I glare at him, and he meets my eyes with an unwavering scowl. Staring at each other, we lock into a battle that I refuse to lose.
“I’m going to get Layla started, so I’ll see you guys at the meeting later this afternoon,” Gibbs says.
Blake’s gaze moves away from me.
Ha. I win. I exhale a deep, gratifying sigh and remind myself that sticking my tongue out does not scream professionalism.
The guys mumble their goodbyes, and I follow Mr. Gibbs from the weight room, grateful to be free from the stifling presence of Blake Daniels.
“Wish I could tell you things will get better, but they won’t. Professional fighters aren’t the warmest bunch. Sooner you get used to it, the better.”
I smile and choose not to share that I just out-intimidated one of those fighters in a staring contest. Oh great, now I’m thinking like an eight-year-old.
“Nothing they can throw will surprise me.” Asshole jerks are my forté.
~*~
My eyes ache as I read through what feels like the eight millionth document to be filed. It’s been a long day of organizing paperwork, the perfect way to detox from my hectic morning.
After my run-in with Blake in the weight room, things have gone smoothly, and I’m falling into the job well. Other than fielding phone calls for Mr. Gibbs and filling file cabinets, the afternoon has been uneventful.
I check the clock on my computer screen. It’s almost five, and I want to wait outside for Elle so she doesn’t have to come in and hunt me down. I log out and organize my desk so that I can get right back to work first thing tomorrow morning. Footfalls sound from down the hallway, and I pray to the gods of executive assistants that it’s not Mr. Gibbs with more paperwork.
A big guy, obviously a fighter, makes his way to my desk. He wears his baseball hat crooked, off center just enough to look cool, and cocked low over one eye. I can’t tell who it is, and my heart races until I notice black hair sticking out from the sides of the hat. Not Blake. Phew.
Earlier today, I had the energy to put on my confident wares, but exhaustion has set in, and I don’t think I could stand up to him now. The last thing I want is to expose my insecurities. Especially to a guy like him.
“Hey.” He steps up to my desk.
This is one of the guys I met in the weight room.
“Hey. Rex, right?”
“Yeah.” He smiles, and his lip ring shines against the backdrop of his straight, white teeth.
Huh. He didn’t have that lip ring in earlier. I tilt my head. Or the one in his eyebrow. This guy has a unique style.
“Mr. Gibbs is gone for the day.” I point over my shoulder to the empty office. “I might be able to help you, but I’m still so new I—”
“That’s cool.” He shrugs. “I’m actually here to talk to you.” He turns his head and digs in his back pocket.
My eyes go directly to an orange, red, and blue tattoo that snakes up the side of his neck. Part of it disappears beneath his sweatshirt, but I can tell that it’s a dragon.
He turns back to me, and I’m forced to pull my eyes from his body art. He drops a bright yellow folded piece of paper on my desk. “That’s my band.”
“Oh.” I pick it up and unfold it. “You’re in a band?”
“Yeah. I know you’re new in town, and I thought you’d—”
“How do you know that?” I cringe, and immediately wish like hell I could take back my outburst. Hiding things from people will be much easier if I don’t act like I have something to hide. “I mean, I don’t remember telling anyone that.” I try to force a playful laugh, but it sounds anything but.
His eyes move to the side of my head.
A loose strand of my hair is quadruple wrapped around my index finger. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. With a quick shake, I free it and tuck it behind my ear.
He points down the hallway. “Taylor put up a memo in the locker room announcing your addition to the team, and it said you moved here from Seattle.”
“Oh, right.” I lean back in my chair, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose to study the flyer Rex gave me. “Ataxia” is printed across the top in letters that look like they’re dripping. Dates and club names are listed beneath it.
“I figure you probably don’t have a huge social circle yet, so thought I’d drop by a flyer. Maybe you could hit up our next gig.”
“Looks interesting.” My heart warms at his thoughtfulness. I don’t have any friends in Vegas. And I love music. Live music is even better. Not that I have a ton of experience with concerts, but I’ve always been curious. “What kind of music do you play?”
“Melodic punk rock. Don’t know if it’s your thing, but it’ll give you an excuse to get out. Meet some people.”
“Sure.” A smile tugs at my lips. He’s like a big city boy with small-town charm. “Thanks.”
“Sunday night’s at The Blackout. We get a pretty good crowd.”
I clear my throat. “How long have you been in a band?”
“Been playing local clubs for a few years.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. “Fighting comes first. Music second.”
“Well, thanks for this.” I hold up the band flyer. “I’ll definitely check it out.”
“Right on.” He rolls his lip ring between his teeth then releases it. “See ya tomorrow, Layla.”
“Good night.” I watch him walk away, both surprised and excited to have plans.
Nothing says roots like a job and plans with friends. The warm feeling of belonging floods my chest. I take a deep breath and allow the sensation to sink in and penetrate the frigid chill of aimlessness that I’ve felt for years.
I’m determined to make this new life of ours beautiful. I can’t accept anything less. Not again.