Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (11 page)

That’s the second woman she’s accused me of banging, and both times she was wrong. I’d gloat if my head wasn’t so fucked up.

Jonah’s gunmetal gray ’69 Camaro is parked out front. He grins at Layla. “My wife told me you needed a loaner.”

“Oh, yeah.” Layla looks at me, and even in my peripheral vision, I can see the blush of her embarrassment.

What’s that saying? Never assume, because it makes you look and feel like a jackass idiot?
Something like that.

“We have a few extra cars at home. Thought you might be able to use one.” Jonah motions with his head to the Camaro parked behind him.

He dangles the keys in front her face. Axelle squeals, but Layla locks her hands behind her back and shakes her head. “I can’t. I uh…” Her eyes move from the keys to the car and back again. “It’s, wow, but…”

Hell, I’ve never met a more stubborn woman in all my life. “Mouse. Remember what we talked about. Take the fucking keys.”

She swings her gaze over to me.

I nod. “Take ‘em.”

And holy shit. There it is.
A huge grin, carefree and unguarded, spreads across her gorgeous face. Last night at The Blackout, talking about Metallica, I saw one similar. And fuck me if it isn’t the sweetest damn thing I’ve ever seen.

“I’ll take it. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Sl—”

“No, please. First name basis.” Raven curls into her husband’s side.

“Thank you, guys.”

Jonah tosses her the keys. “Right, well Blake and I need to get back to training. Layla and Elle, enjoy the ride. If I know my woman, she’ll have your truck back together in no time. That is, unless she talks you into a rebuild.”

Raven’s eyes get big. “Oh, that would be cool. Throw on some forty-inch tires, a six-inch lift, and a paint job?” She looks between Layla and Axelle. “How do you feel about flames?”

“Flames are hot!”Axelle says. She starts going back and forth with Raven about color combinations.

Layla stays silent and looks oblivious to the chatter going on around her. Her eyes are unfocused, as if her mind is off somewhere else.
What’s going on in that head of hers?
Maybe I’ll drag her back to my car and make her tell me what she never finished saying about her ex. Something’s bothering her—
Dammit, what the fuck is wrong with me?

I need to get the hell away. “You ready?”

Jonah kisses his girl goodbye, and I give a general peace-out to the group. Halfway to my car, I overhear Axelle telling her mom she has to be at school early tomorrow for tutoring. “That means I can’t take you to work.”

“That’s fine. You can drop me off at work before you go.”

“Mom, that’s an hour and a half early.”

“So what. Life’s about adjusting and making sacrifices.”

Don’t do it, dude. Do not fucking do it.
“Mouse, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

I did it.

“Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ll—”

“Take the help, Layla.” I lock eyes with hers. “Seriously. This shit is not a big deal.”

“Okay, Blake.”

I turn around and continue to my car. I’m pissed and stoked as hell. Playing chauffeur to a chick with baggage, and a kid.

Fuck me.
I’m gonna regret this.

Eight

Layla

I’m back at work after the trip to the garage, and I can’t stop grinning. Sure, I compromised and let Blake negotiate my rental. But really, it was Jonah who hooked that up. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. It feels less dependent. I mean, if anything, I’m helping him and Raven out by using a car that would be collecting dust.
Yeah, that makes complete sense.

What doesn’t make sense is that for a brief moment behind Blake’s car, I allowed myself to consider what it would be like to be kissed by him. At one point it seemed like he might try, but all I could think was that Raven might get jealous and do something crazy like poke holes in my gas tank. It wasn’t until later I realized what an idiot I was for assuming that Blake was having some sort of a sexual relationship with Raven, when she’s Jonah’s wife. My cheeks burn at the memory.

The shame of accusing Blake of two love affairs with two different women made me acquiesce and accept the help. Those moments of weakness were totally worth the full-blown euphoria of driving that Camaro—windows down, music up, and the roar of the engine vibrating my vital organs. Invigorating would be an understatement. I’m watching the clock, eager for the chance to get back into that thing. Tonight I’m taking the long way home.

I’m straightening up my desk, preparing to leave for the night, when the phone at my desk rings. “Taylor Gibbs’s office, this is—”

“Layla, it’s Xavier.”

“Hey, Z. What’s up?”

“I need your signature on a few things. You want to come down to my office, or should I come to you?”

I check the clock. Almost five. “I’m on my way out. I’ll come down.”

“Great.”

Grabbing my things, I head to his office. Luckily, the room is at the opposite end of the locker room from the showers, or coming down here would make my job very uncomfortable. Pushing the door open, I keep my eyes to the ground and make a beeline to the back room.

His office door is open a crack. I knock lightly and push my way in.

He’s sitting behind his desk. “Layla, that was fast.” Papers rustle as he slides them into his top drawer.

“Oh, yeah. I’m in a rush to get home.” Not really, more like a rush to drive the kick-ass hot rod that’s waiting for me in the lot.

He sorts through a short stack of papers, pulling out a few and handing them to me. “Just need a signature on these treatment forms.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Routine red tape.”

I grab a pen off his desk then flip through the papers, giving each a brief scan. Pharmaceutical orders. I’ve seen similar order forms before, and even recognize the company logo belonging to of the big pharm companies that’s putting the smaller ones out of business. It was a topic I heard about often in my old life. The thought gives me the creepy crawlies. I sign quickly and drop the pen. “That it?”

He looks them over. “Sure is. Thanks.”

After a smile and a friendly good-bye, I leave the office. I keep my head low and make my way back through the locker room, using the tile on the floor and my peripheral vision to find my way. I’m halfway to the door when I slam into a solid wall of muscle.

I throw my hands up against a knotted abdomen covered in a cotton T-shirt. Thank God, I didn’t run into one of the guys naked. “Sorry. Shoot, I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

I swallow a breath at the familiar voice. Blake.

“I stepped in front of you.” The rolling bass of Blake’s words draws my gaze up.

His stare is severe, despite his blank expression.

I take a step back and drop my hands. “Hey.”

He lifts his chin in greeting.

“Listen, I uh… didn’t get a chance to thank you properly at the garage. You’re right. I need to be better about accepting help. So…”
So what? How do I thank him?
A handshake seems too formal.
A hug?

He stands still, his eyebrows raised.

I awkwardly open my arms. “Um…” I push up to my tiptoes and move in for a hug.

He leans back fractionally, and, in a moment of terror, I wonder if a hug is too personal. Too late now.

Even on my tiptoes, my arms don’t reach his thick, corded neck. I lock my hands at his nape and pull him in. He leans down, the raw strength of his powerful arms wrap around my waist and tug me close. I’m practically lifted off my feet as he holds me to his body. His firm chest presses against mine, the heat of his skin penetrates my thin sweater and coils deep in my belly.

The safety of his strength and the warmth of his touch, combined with the clean, spicy scent of his skin, would be any girl’s happy place. With my cheek pressed to his shoulder, I bite my lip against a moan. How something can feel so good and be so, so bad, I’ll never know.

I pull away, and he releases me easily. “Thanks.”

His eyes do that thing where they travel from my lips to my hairline. Like he’s looking at a steak and doesn’t know which bite to take first.

A slow shiver crawls down my spine.

“Your place.” His strange statement has my cheeks burning.

My place. As in…
no, that’s not what he means. Is it? What would I do if it was?
“What?”

“Your address.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “For tomorrow.”

Uncomfortable laughter shoots from my lips. “Yes. Of course.” I dig in my purse looking for a piece of paper and a—
oh, found a pen
. “One second here. If I could just find something to write on.”

He puffs out what sounds like an impatient breath. With one yank, he has the pen in his hand, and one move later, my hand is in his. “Text it to me.”

A little buzzed from the combination of his big hand consuming mine and the subtle forest smell I’m beginning to associate with only him, I bob my head affirmatively as he scribbles something on my palm.

He drops my hand and pops the pen into my purse. “Eight AM.”

“Um… eight, that… good. I’ll uh…” I struggle to get the words out, but he’s already turned and disappeared behind a row of steel lockers.

What the hell was that? One minute the guy treats me like a friend and the next a burden. And the almost kiss behind his Jeep today is the whipped topping on this mind-fuck sundae.

I shake off the awkward exchange. Whatever is or isn’t happening between us isn’t worth my overthinking. His actions prove he’s a friend. That’s enough for me.

Blake

It’s late, and I’m still up. I read the text that came in a few hours ago one more time.

237 N. Tulum Dr. #290 See you in the a.m. Layla

Shortly after I added her number to my contact list, right below Lanette and above Leah, I punched her address into MapQuest. She’s in one of the worst neighborhoods in Vegas.

If I was a good guy, I’d drive over there right now, pack up all their shit, and take them to a hotel until they find somewhere safer. I groan and rub my forehead, my brain feeling like a party mix of compulsion and annoyance.

Something ain’t right. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to tune this girl out. I’ve done it countless times in the past. All I have to do is decide not to care. But no matter how many times I make that decision, Layla Moorehead continues to grate against my determination.

Fuck.
I push up from the lounger on my patio and head back inside. My back is completely numb now from the good doc’s cortisone injections, but I don’t want to take any chances. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and throw back a handful of Doc’s prescription holistic crap.

Standing in the kitchen, I look around my condo. The lights of the Las Vegas strip blaze in the distance. The floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows do nothing to ease the feeling of being shrink-wrapped in my own skin. I’m edgy, ticking, and on the verge of explosion.

Just like my dad. Pissed off, irritable, ready to take on the world with my bare knuckles.

Maybe it’s the fight coming up. That has to be it. I can’t stand to entertain the alternative. But the possibility lingers.

And for whatever reason, Layla’s presence in my life seems to aggravate the situation. Holding her in my arms, her fragile little body pressed in close from chest to hip. Vanilla spice curling through my senses and practically dropping me to my knees. Fuck. I was a half a second away from pushing her back against a wall and tasting that sweet mouth.

My words from the night before come flooding back.
Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.

She’s too fragile. Broken in a way that makes a guy like me Riddex to my emotionally fractured Mouse.

Attacking Layla’s weak spot at the club, reeling her in just to kick her in the gut, was a typical Duke Daniels move. And as desperate as I am to avoid becoming even a shadow of a man like that, it’s out of my control. I’m furious at how easily I become what I hate the most.

And I’m bitter as hell that there was someone in my life who should’ve protected us, but didn’t. If only my mom would’ve done her job as a parent and left his ass in order to protect us from the verbal abuse. But no, it was me who protected her. Always. She was so damn weak.

My head pounds. This feeling-sorry-for-myself shit has got to stop. I move through my living room and down the hallway. Stopping at the only locked door in the house, I reach up and pull down the single key hidden on top of the doorframe.

I unlock the door and push into the dark room. It’s windowless and soundproof. Without turning on a single light, I know where everything is. My mind has memorized it. I move deeper inside, allowing the scent of maple, rosewood, and mahogany to soothe my damning thoughts. Ready to purge the negative shit coursing through my veins, I take a seat and let the tension melt into the floor.

There in the dark, hidden from even myself, I drown in the one indulgence that has never let me down.

Layla

“Ouch, shit.” I shove my finger in my mouth, cooling the burn from the toaster that I just stuck my finger in to fish out my breakfast. That’s what I get for being in a hurry.

Blake will be here to pick me up at eight, and I want to make sure I’m ready. He’s going out of his way to help me out, and the least I can do is be waiting when he gets here.

After the way he acted in the locker room yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes up with an excuse to get out of taking me to work. Flat tire. Out of gas. Sleepover guest he’s not ready to kick from his bed.
Lucky girl.

The thought brings me back to our talk at his Jeep, his big body hovered over mine. How the smell of his skin seemed to heighten my senses. I was acutely aware of the heat rolling off his body and the muscles balled up tight beneath his tan skin. And so close… so, so close to—I shake free the images of what being with him would be like.

It’ll never happen, not even for one night. Why would a young, handsome guy like Blake go for a woman like me when he has his pick from all the available girls in Vegas? What I’d assumed was flirting was probably nothing more than a bad boy with a hero complex. Maybe doing a good deed for a person down on their luck helps him justify his less-than-respectable lifestyle.