J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forgive

“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.

Blake

“Damn, I’m fuckin’ full.” I lean back in my chair, propping my weight on its back legs. “That was great, baby girl.”

Raven looks to her husband, one eyebrow raised. “See? I told you I could learn how to cook.” She tosses her napkin at him, and he catches it mid-flight.

“Baby, it’s spaghetti. I was cookin’ this shit when I was thirteen,” Jonah says, but his smile gives away his true feelings. He’s proud of his girl.

She stands and grabs my plate. “I’m glad you liked it, Blake.”

“I never said I didn’t like it.” He pulls her into his lap and nuzzles her neck, making her squeal. “Best spaghetti I’ve ever had.”

I avert my gaze with a roll of my eyes.

After a few giggles and playful kicks, she gets him to let her go. She grabs his plate, and he runs his hand along her belly. Something passes between them, not through words but a look, and whatever it is has them both smiling like dumbasses.

What is it with couples?

Jonah pulls his girl close for one more kiss before she heads off to the kitchen.