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.