Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (3 page)

“Get’chur ass up. Raven and I’ll be up in a minute.” He disconnects the call before I have a chance to reply.

I toss my phone on the empty pillow next to me. Placing my arms behind my head, I enjoy the view of the room full of naked women as they sort through their clothes, stumble over their shoes, and get dressed.

What I’m sure is an evil smile dances across my face. “Ladies, take your time. I could watch this all day.”

The blonde—Sara or Sandra—giggles, and the brunette drops to all fours looking under the bed.

After a quick call for a cab to escort last night’s entertainment home, I get up and throw on my boxers. Better unlock the front door for Jonah or the asshole will break it down. I did promise him I’d be at the party today. It means a lot to Raven, and after everything that girl’s been through these last few months, Jonah would kill anyone who got in the way of her happiness.

I take a quick leak then head down the hallway. Ginger, the brunette with legs that go on forever, is jiggling the knob of a locked door.

“You lost?”

Her eyes find mine, and I watch her once confident demeanor fall into an embarrassed frown.

“What do you need, babe?” I lean my shoulder against the wall just shy of the doorframe.

“Oh, I thought it might be a bathroom.” She studies the door for a moment then swings her gaze to mine. “Do you have a roommate?”

“Nope.”

She studies the door again then drops her eyebrows in confusion. “Wait, then what’s in there?”

I wag my finger and shake my head. “Top secret.” I step into her space, gliding my fingertips along her cheek and down the side of her neck. “If I told you, I’d have to punish you.”

She shivers, and a smile that screams anxious anticipation cuts through her earlier embarrassment. It’s obvious what she’s thinking. She’s experienced my kinky nature first hand. But I’ll never open that room up to anyone. Mainly because it’s none of their business, but also because I’m ashamed.

“Bathroom’s down the hall to your left.” I kiss her cheek and head to the front door.

“So, you like to play?” Her voice carries the sound of intrigue and lust.

I freeze mid-step, not turning around to face her. “More than anything.” Next to fighting,
the room
is the only thing that helps me decompress. If I didn’t have my career and my passion, I’d end up like him.

A loud banging shakes me from my standstill. “Chill the fuck out. I’m coming.”
That’s what she said, multiple times.
I smile at how quickly my memory of last night washes away the haunting thoughts associated with
the room
.

I swing open the door to see Jonah and his wife, Raven, hand in hand.

Jonah hooks her shoulder, pulling her body to his side. “Come on, Blake. You knew I was with my girl. Get some clothes on before you scare her.”

“I ain’t got nothing she hasn’t seen before. Although…” I smirk in her direction. “Mine’s bigger.”

Her cheeks flame to match her bright pink, long-sleeved shirt. She laughs, making Jonah scowl so hard I can feel it.

A laugh bursts from my throat. Damn, I’m still drunk. “Fuck, man. Calm down.”

Jonah pushes past me with Raven in tow. They stop in the foyer, and the sound of Raven clearing her throat fills the quiet.

After shutting the door, I turn and see why. Two of the three girls from last night face off with my friends. “Oh, um… Faye, and…”—I’m feeling lucky, so I take a guess—“Sara, these are my friends, Jonah and Raven.”

The girls stare at Jonah like I just introduced them to Channing Tatum. Raven moves closer to his side and wraps her arm around his waist in an act of possession.

I hold open the front door. “They were just leaving, right girls?”

With a few mumbled “nice-to-meet-you’s”, they scurry out the door. I give them each a parting kiss, thankful that my raging headache is holding back my libido.

Closing the door behind them, I turn to Raven and Jonah, who are both watching me with a mix of amusement and disgust.

“What?” I stretch my arms high and yawn. “I had to ring in the New Year properly.”

“Hope you got it out of your system, bro. Training for your fight with ‘The Fade’ starts first thing tomorrow.”

I rub my aching head. “Good. That’s about how long it’ll take me to sober up.” A grin tugs at my lips. “And recover from my extracurricular activities.”

Jonah laughs humorlessly. “You better be careful, man, or your shit’ll fall off and—”

The sound of a door slamming sends their gaze toward the hallway. Ginger strolls out and freezes at the sight of my guests.

I do a quick introduction. “Jonah and Raven are here to pick me up.”

Ginger takes her cue like a good little one-night stand. “Oh, right. Well, you guys have a happy New Year.”

I open the door for her. “You too.”

She mouths, “Call me,” and slips a piece of paper into my palm. After shutting the door, I take a peek at her handwritten note.

If you’re looking for a playmate, I’m game.

Her phone number’s there too, along with a fresh lipstick kiss. Nice. She’ll never get in the room, but I like that she’s open to play. I make a mental note to add her number to my phone for a rainy day.

Only twelve hours into the new year and I’ve got a no-strings playmate at the ready, and the fight of my career to train for that will put me up for title contention.

Yep, this year’s promising big things.

And nothing short of a damn tsunami in the desert will get in my way.

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.