Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (8 page)

I turn my back on the bar and face the crowded club. Caleb gives me my moment of silence while I contemplate getting the fuck out of this place.

It’s then that I notice someone familiar across the room. Sitting at a high-top table alone, is a chick smiling and laughing with a waitress. How do I know her? Her blond hair is loose and wavy over her shoulders. A long-sleeved black shirt hugs her curves and makes her golden locks stand out like a beacon in a sea of darkness. I squint and study her face as she tosses her hair, laughing. Holy shit.

I tilt my face towards Caleb, not taking my eyes off her. “Be right back.”

“Sure, man.”

I walk towards her, afraid she’ll disappear if I blink. She doesn’t notice me until I’m at her table. Her chocolate brown eyes go wide, and her lips part.

“Haven’t we met before?”

She shuts her gaping mouth and throws back her shoulders. The side of her mouth lifts, and her eyes sparkle. “Yeah, I work at the VD clinic.”

The waitress coughs to muffle her laugh.

Layla. The woman is an enigma. Fierce in one breath, shy in the next. Timid yet confident. A pint-sized package, she spews attitude like a pro. But now she’s fucking with the master.

“Mouse.”

She sits up tall, something I’ve noticed she does often, probably trying to make her five-foot-nothing frame look intimidating. “Snake.”

“I’ve never seen a woman come back from a Blake come-on,” Mac, the waitress, says with a laugh.

Layla’s eyes narrow. “You two know each other?”

Mac smiles and rocks her shoulder into my arm. “Yep. All the UFL boys come in here when Ataxia plays.” She looks at me. “I’m going to get Layla’s drink. You want anything?”

“No. I’m good.”

“Cool. Be right back.” She grabs her tray and scurries off.

Layla drops her head and uses her short straw to play with the ice in her empty glass. “Shouldn’t be surprised.” Her words are mumbled beneath her breath.

“Surprised by what?”

Her gaze darts to mine.
Yeah, Mouse. I heard you.

I pull out the chair next to her and notice her skin-tight jeans and black high-heel shoes before I sit. Damn. I’d give anything to watch her walk away in this get-up.

“Oh please, have a seat why don’t you.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms at her ribs. A mistake she’s made before.

My eyes drift down the length of her hair to her perfectly pert breasts.

“Do you mind?” She hooks her fingers beneath my chin, pulling up gently. “My eyes are up here.”

“Not looking at your eyes.”

“No shit.” Her sarcasm is thick and makes me grin.

I bite my lip to avoid giving away the fact that I find her big attitude a total turn on.

“What do you want, Blake? You obviously came over here for a reason.”

Fuck. Why did I come over here? This girl is not my typical lay. Granted, she’s hot as hell, but I can see that the baggage she carries runs deep. I can tell by the way her carefree smile disappears the second a man walks into the room. The way shadows move over her features when I flirt. She’s been hurt by someone—my guess is badly. And the last thing I need is to be picking up the pieces of some other guy’s mess.

“Wanted to see what you thought of the show.”

She blinks, surprised maybe? “Oh. Um… I think they’re really good. I liked the three-part harmony on that last song they played.”

Three-part harmony?
“You like music?”

She shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

“Favorite band?”

Her eyes drop to her lap then move to the stage. “I like rock.” I watch her hand glide through the silky waves of her long hair. Her fingers sift in and pull out a small section, which she twirls in rhythmic rolls around her forefinger. “Older stuff.”

I’m transfixed by her hair twisting, and for a second I wonder what it must feel like. My mind imagines its satiny waves brushing against my stomach, teasing my skin as it trails down to—

“Metallica.”

Say what?
“You’re kidding.”

Her bow-shaped lips break into smile. “No. Their
Black
album is a classic. Their best work, hands down.”

She did not just say that. Can’t blame the girl for not knowing she’s walking into massacre. “No way.” I shake my head. “
And Justice for All
is their best album. No comparison.”

She slams her palms to the table. “Bullshit! You can’t deny the musical magic that is ‘Enter Sandman’.”

“Metal fans everywhere just dropped dead.”

Her dark brown eyes grow even bigger. “‘Nothing Else Matters’ was groundbreaking for the metal world. The
Black
album single-handedly brought metal mainstream.” Her voice ends with a high pitch of frustration.

“Mainstream? That shit’s baby metal compared to a song like ‘Blackened’. Lars changes meter like five times in that song. It’s metal perfection.” I shrug, knowing I won that debate. No one can argue Lars Ulrich isn’t a percussion god.

“Three words, Daniels.” She holds up her hand and wiggles three fingers. “‘Through the Never.’” She raises one eyebrow along with one side of her mouth.

Touché. The girl knows her music.

I turn my chair toward her and lean in for the kill. “All right. Finish this sentence, Mouse. Metallica is…?”

“Easy.” She rests her elbow on the table, bending forward so that her delicate vanilla scent penetrates my senses. “James Hetfield.”

Blinking, I clear my head and then fall back into my chair, rubbing my eyes. “No, you’re so wrong. Lars Ulrich’s drumming is the fuckin’ glue that holds that band together.”

She shakes her head, making her hair dance around her shoulders. “You’re insane if you think Hetfield isn’t the heart and soul of Metallica. You wouldn’t even have
And Justice for All
if it weren’t for him, and you know it.”

“The hell I do.” The grin on my face makes my cheeks ache. When was the last time I’ve been this open?

The light sound of her laughter envelops me.
This chick is crazy.
Fun, but crazy.

“Here ya go, Layla,” Mac says as she puts a clear drink on the table. “You sure you’re cool, Blake?”

“Yeah, babe.”

I’m still stuck in the fuzzy bubble Layla and I created through our mutual love of Metallica, so I don’t notice the change in her expression until I look for it. Her eyes are shadowed and cold. She’s not smiling anymore, and her jaw is firm, her chin raised.

What the hell?
I look around then back at her.
What’d I miss?

She takes a sip of her drink, and as she wraps her lips around the cocktail straw, I notice that her upper lip is plumper than her lower one. I wonder if her mouth tastes as sweet as she smells. If her lips are as soft as they look.

“Stop it.” Her deep dark eyes meet mine. “I don’t like it when you do that.”

I’m still recovering from the whiplash of her mood swing. “Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to add me to your list of available vaginas.”

I check over my left shoulder, then my right. “You’re talking to me, right?” I point to my chest and decide I’m not at all happy with her accusation.

“Of course I’m—”

“Just wanted to make sure you were talking to me. Because now that I know you were talking to me,” I point to my chest, “I can tell you that you’re fucking crazy.”

Her mouth drops open then slams shut. “Oh puleaze. I caught you staring at my boobs.”

“You think a man stares at your boobs, it means he wants to fuck you? You’re wrong.”

And to think I actually considered it. This is exactly why I don’t date chicks with issues. It’s like walking a minefield. You take one step out of line, and all their baggage comes flying out in a flurry of shit talk. Fuck this.

“Right. Just like dear sweet Mac over there.” She tilts her head toward Mac at the bar. “I’m sure she thought you were charming and good looking. Now she’s nothing more than a goopy condom in your trashcan. You good-looking guys are all the same. Burning through women, caring about nothing except who to stick your dick in next.”

“Shit, Mouse.” I motion to her drink. “You drunk?”

“You wish.”

“What makes you think I slept with Mac?”

“Are you seriously going to try to tell me you didn’t?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I didn’t.”

“Bull. Shit.” Fire flares behind her eyes as they burn into mine.

I don’t need to justify myself to anyone. I made the decision a long time ago never to let another person define me again. This life is mine. Sometimes it’s shitty and messed up, but it’s still mine. And what if I had boned Mac? Hell, what if I nailed every girl in this bar? Why does she care?

I’m not wasting a single second on a girl that is exactly the type I’ve resolved to avoid.

I push back from the table and stand. “Whoever he is, the one that fucked you up?”

Her expression goes slack and her face pales.
No comeback for that one, eh Mouse?

“Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.”

She jerks at my words. Her body looks smaller as she sinks into her seat, eyes shining with moisture, as if I knocked down her confident disguise to reveal the broken woman beneath. It’s a look I’ve seen in my mom’s expression more times than I’d like to remember.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the destruction I’ve caused. A feeling of heaviness crushes my chest. At what point did I become
him
?

I turn and walk away before I can throw myself at her feet, begging for her forgiveness. I don’t know why I got so pissed. Usually I can blow someone off with some off-color remark. But I had no control. Fuck, I sounded just like my dad.

Ah, shit.
Disgust and self-hatred have me quickening my pace. I turned into my asshole dad… over a girl? One I don’t even want. We had a moment of fun, but the fact that I enjoyed the company of a girl when her face wasn’t buried in my crotch is proof positive that my head is fucked up.

Shoving my way out of the club and into the parking lot, I avoid the voice in my head that tells me she’s right. I didn’t sleep with Mac, but I have hooked up with most of The Blackout’s waitresses. Burning through women, sure, but only the willing ones.

I climb into my Jeep and punch out a quick text to Rex that I had to run and I’d catch him later. I can’t stand to be in the same room as Layla right now. And it has nothing to do with feeling like a complete dickhead for making her cry. No. I’ll keep telling myself it has nothing at all to do with that.

Layla

I’m a complete bitch.

What came over me? One second I was having a blast talking about music, and the next I was unleashing the psycho. I prop my elbows on the table and grab my hair at the roots with both hands.

“Layla?” Mac says from my side. “You doin’ okay?”

I’ve only known her for a couple hours, and already she’s my closest friend.
How pathetic is that?

I tilt my face up, meeting her unique, caramel-colored eyes. “Can I ask you something? It’s personal.”

She drags a chair out from under the table and sits across from me. “Ask away.”

Hoping for some insta-courage, I down the rest of my drink. “Have you and Blake, um, you know?”

Her nose crunches up and she purses her lips. “No. No way.” Shaking her head, her eyes dart to the stage.

I follow her stare to Rex, who is tuning his guitar and adjusting the levels on his amp.

She’s still shaking her head when she looks back at me. “I’m not like that.”

Shit.
I offended her. My first and only girlfriend in Vegas, and I dissolved the friendship in one night. That’s got to be a record.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s fine. Blake has a reputation around town. It’s normal that you’d think I’d slept with him. I
am
female.” Her eyes drift back to Rex. “Blake isn’t my type.”

Silence hovers in the space between us.

What is up with these two?
“And Rex is.”

Her face turns back to mine, eyes wide and jaw slack. “What?”

“Mac. It’s so obvious.”

The hint of an awkward smile ticks her lips. “He’s a cool guy. And I love his music.” She folds a cocktail napkin obsessively into squares. “But I’m pretty sure he’s taken.”

I squint my eyes toward the stage. “Really? I thought he was single.”

That’s a stupid thing to say. I know nothing about Rex. But it’s in his mannerisms. He doesn’t come across as a guy who goes home to the same girl every night.

“Thanks for coming out…” The deep timbre of Rex’s voice fills the room, followed by skilled picking of an electric guitar. “We’re Ataxia, and we’ll be making love to your senses tonight.” The crowd erupts in cheers. The deep thumping of the bass drum joins the guitar, and the bass follows suit. “So sit back and enjoy the foreplay.”

Mac leans in. “I better get back to work.” She yells to be heard over the music. With one last look at Rex, she swings her gaze to mine. There’s a softness in her eyes, sympathy or sadness maybe. It disappears before I can decide which. She mouths
I’ll check on you later.
I nod and she walks away, her midnight curls bouncing with each step.

The band explodes into a song. Club patrons jump to their feet to scream and sing along. The music is amazing. The energy infuses the air on a molecular level.

But I’m fixated on the empty seat at my side.

Talking about Metallica with genuine smiles and interest, he wasn’t the cocky jerk he was before. He seemed more real. I made the ultimate mistake by letting my guard down. Allowed myself to be
myself
for a minute. And then I got freaked out. It’s not his fault. He’s a playboy, and he makes no promises about being otherwise. He called Mac “babe”, and he became the old Blake in my eyes.

So I chased him away.

Backed him into a corner with my accusations. And he retaliated. Figured me out, exposed my weakness, and made me vulnerable. Then he delivered the punishing blow.