Fighting to Forgive

Four

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.

“You two done, or should I head out? I’m getting a bellyache from all this sugary sweet bullshit.” I’m still not used to seeing Jonah all wrapped up with a chick. He was my wingman for years, and now he’s Mr. Raven.

Married, just like Mrs. Moorehead. That’s how Taylor introduced the little mouse today in the weight room. Not miss, but missus. She’s fucking married. I can’t believe I didn’t see that shit earlier. She wasn’t wearing a ring—probably forgot it on the table next to the bed that she shares with Mr. Moorehead. Lucky fucking bastard.

Hearing that she’s married pissed me off. What I can’t figure out is why? I mean, she’s hot, and cute, and fiery in a way that makes me want to tame her, but I decided early on I wasn’t going to put on my best moves. Too much work.

Then again, I don’t like being told I can’t have something. And knowing that she’s off limits just turned Mrs. Moorehead into something forbidden. Fuck, if I—

“Did you hear me, bitch?” Jonah chucks a piece of garlic bread across the table, nailing me in the head. “Wake up.” I throw it back harder, but he deflects it with a swipe of his arm. “You ready to get serious about training? Your fight against Wade isn’t far away.”

I glare at my friend and then lean in. A pinch twists in my lower back. I put my forearms on the table to hold my weight, hoping he won’t notice. “Real funny, ass. You know I’m serious about training.”

Stretching his arms over his head, he locks his hands behind his neck. “You’re going to have to hit it harder than usual. Rumor has it Wade’s been watching your tapes. Plays that shit in his bedroom when he hits the sack, wakes up to it every morning. He’s eating, sleeping, and living your game.”

I shrug and lean back in my chair. The stabbing pain in my back flares again. “Waste of time.” I fight to take a deep breath. Fuck.

“You all right, dude?”

“Fucked up my back today deadlifting.” I dig fingers into my aching spine.

“You gonna get that shit checked out?”

The sharp spasm mellows, and I take in a full breath. “Yeah. I’ll take some anti-inflammatory pills. If it’s not better in a few days, I’ll go see the Doc.”

“Why not go in tomorrow? Get a jumpstart on that shit. Hate to see you go down over something stupid, like pride.”

“Pride? You know as well as I do that I will pound Wade’s ass, jacked-up back and all. His game’s fuckin’ pre-school compared to—” My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Jonah laughs to himself. “Yeah, no pride there.”

I scowl at my dickhead friend then check the caller ID. “Shit, it’s Brae. I better take this.”

I stand and walk across the room to the back door, thankful that being on my feet eases the pressure on my back. “Brae. What up, man? Happy New Year.”

“Same to you, bro. How’s the desert?” My little brother’s voice is a welcome sound. I don’t get to talk to him often, and when I do, I’m reminded of how much I dig the guy.

“Nice and dry.” I walk out back and sit on a lounger, poolside. “What’s up with you? How’s things on base?”

He laughs low. “Same. Southern Cali never changes. Camp Pendleton’s quiet. Dad’s keeping me close.”

Yeah, I bet he is. Asshole wants us to man up, be members of the few and proud. But when combat time rolls around, he can’t let his boy go overseas. At first, I assumed it was because he didn’t want to see us get hurt, but he’d have to give a shit for that to be the case. No, everything with my dad is about control. And I’m sure his keeping my brother stateside is no different.

“You gonna make it to my fight?”

“I’ll try. I really want to. But Dad knows about it. Heard him pissin’ and moanin’ about shit. He’ll probably come up with some bullshit booter-duty for me that weekend.”

I’ll never understand why my brother tolerates our piece of shit dad. I got out of there as soon as I could. The second I got discharged from the Corps, I ran like hell to Vegas.

No use in arguing with Brae. He’s set on pleasing the General.

“Right. Well, you’re twenty-one now. Vegas is your playground. If you ever make it out, I’ll show you how the other half lives.”

“I’d like that, man.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Getting a little sick of this place.”

I’m thankful we’re not face-to-face so he can’t see my grimace. Chances are, Braeden only sticks around to play shield to my mom. Just like I did until I was dragged out in the middle of the night and dropped off at military school.

“How’s Mom?” I want to know but cringe waiting for his answer.

He blows out a long breath. “Same.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“She misses you. Maybe you could give her a call sometime.”

My stomach drops at the mere mention of talking to my mom. I went from being a protective kid to a resentful adult. The conflicting feelings I have toward her make me irritable and… fuck! “Yeah, I’ll do that.” No, I won’t. “But, uh… until I do, tell her I’m good, okay? Tell her I… that I’m happy.” It’s so messed up that I can’t say I love my mom. It’s just so fucking complicated and easier left alone, locked away with the rest of my secrets.

Safe from the prying, judgmental eyes of others.

“Will do.” He clears his throat. “I better run.”

I rub my forehead and try to push back the wave of shitty thoughts that are taking over. “Alright, bro. If you ever feel like getting out of there, you can come live with me in Vegas. You’ll always have a home with me, ya hear?”

“Yeah, I know.” He’s quiet.

The silence hangs between us. I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am—what our lives would be like if I’d just obeyed our dad back then. Does Braeden blame me for where he is today? Locked on some military base, taking orders?

“Catch ya later, Brae.”

The phone call ends. I stare into the black night, contemplating my ugly childhood. Giving up on dreams, throwing away the things that I enjoyed, things I was good at, all so that I could keep peace in my house. Protect my mom and brother.

A lot of good that shit did them.

I’ve heard men end up just like their fathers. Whether they like it or not, the DNA demands it. I hate that I see him in me, in the rage that draws me to the octagon, the need to have control over my life, my refusal to let anyone influence what I do. But unlike my dad, I’d never subject a kid, or a woman, to that kind of life. Lord knows I’ve seen how that turns out.

No attachments. No risk. No pain.

I jam my fists into my eye sockets. Talking to my brother always brings back the things that keep me awake at night.

My dad thought he could exorcise me of those demons by shipping me off. He was wrong. First thing I did when I got my own place was take back that part of my life he robbed me of. And now it’s the only thing that brings me peace when my head goes down these fucked up paths.

Party’s over. I need to get the hell out of here and to the only place that can bring those evils to heel.

The room.

Layla

“Breakfast for dinner. Yum.” Elle pushes her eggs and bacon around her plate, avoiding my eyes.

“I get my first paycheck in two weeks. Until then, we have to live on a budget.” I fork a bite into my mouth.

It’s funny how these eggs taste better than any others I’ve had. I know now what it means to appreciate the simple things. Like food. And health and work.

In my old life, I had a walk-in pantry full of food, but it all tasted the same. A clean bill of health but always felt sick. And work—well, my job was to stay home and keep house. And it was a gorgeous house. But it felt like a prison cell.

“Have you talked to him?” Elle is staring at me, her head tilted, eyebrows low.

“Who?”

She slides her eyes to the ceiling then back to mine. “Dad. You were just thinking about him, weren’t you?”

How’d she know?

“You always get that look.” She motions to me with her fork. “Lost or empty when you think about him.”

I study my plate, hoping she doesn’t notice how uneasy I am about her ability to read my expression. I wonder what else she’s figured out.

“I wasn’t thinking about him. But I was thinking about our old life.”

“Do you… miss it?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Do you?”

She stabs at her eggs then drops her fork. “I don’t miss listening to you and Dad fight.”

I drop my head and close my eyes. Shit. There’ll be a day when I can talk about this with her, but now is not it. Every day is a battle to maintain the illusion that I’m strong and can handle taking care of us on my own. This conversation will expose how weak I really am.

“I bet you miss your friends.” Changing the subject is my way to skirt the difficult subject. “Leaving school halfway through the year was hard on you, I know.”

She glares at me. “What are you talking about? I only had a couple friends, and neither of them has even called me since before Christmas break.” She holds her head in her hands and grips her hair.

Even with the past behind us, I’m constantly reliving my mistakes. The biggest being that Elle had to endure a life with parents who weren’t in love, who barely spoke to each other. When they did, it was through verbal insults or an attitude of indifference. The guilt presses into my sternum.

I take a deep breath, hoping to relieve regret’s suffocating pressure. I remind myself that there’s one thing I always made sure to protect her from. The one thing that finally sent me running scared. If only I would have left sooner. I may have saved myself from years of—

“Mom?” Her voice trembles.

She studies my face, searching, when a cool, wet drop slides down my cheek. Dammit. “I’m okay.” I wipe it away and force a shaky smile.

“Why are you crying?” There’s a pleading in her voice, but I can’t tell her how bad things really were. I have to keep that a secret.

I dab my cheek with my napkin. “I’m just tired. I haven’t had a real job since I was fifteen.” A weak laugh falls from my lips. “It’s exhausting.”

Elle glares at me then slams her palms on the table. “I’m going to bed.” The metallic scrape of her chair against the linoleum grates in my ears. She stomps off to her room and slams the door.

I’ve lost her. And I want her back. But I don’t have a clue how to do that.

You’re a horrible mother.

For once, the voice in my head makes sense. So I answer, first internally, and then aloud. “I know.”

It’s the end of my first week working at the UFL Training Center, and I’ve been catching on quickly. I’ve impressed Mr. Gibbs by implementing a new filing system that is easy to use and puts all the paperwork in actual drawers. Something that, from what I can tell, Taylor hasn’t done in the last ten years.

He’s off site all day for various meetings. A list of things to do sits on my desk. I pick it up, ready to end the week strong, and start at number one.

New promotional t-shirts need to be handed out to the fighters. A big box sits next to my desk—that must be them. I rummage through and see that they’re bundled in plastic. Each bundle contains three shirts and has a fighter’s initials scribbled on it in Sharpie.

“Easy enough,” I say and check off number one with a gratifying swipe of my pen.

Dropping my list on the desk, I stare at the box, grateful it’s on a dolly. That’ll make moving the box in heels much easier and a little more graceful. The instructions say that the shirts need to go into their drop-boxes, but I don’t know where those are.

I pick up the phone and make a quick call to Vanessa at the reception desk. She’s warmed up to me in the last few days, in that she no longer scowls at me when I walk past her every morning. She just flat-out ignores me.

With the phone pinched between my ear and my shoulder, I read my to-do list one more time to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Nope. Nothing about the location of the drop-boxes.

“What is it?” Vanessa says, her attitude proving the multi-line phone system gave me away.

“Good morning, Vanessa. How’s your day going?”

The silence on the phone grows thick. Okaaay.

“I have to put some things into the drop-boxes? Can you tell me where those are?”

She exhales hard, making sure to communicate her irritation. “Locker room.”

No. They can’t be there. That would mean I’d have to go inside where all the guys are showering and changing and… wait a second.

“Yeah, right. Look, I know you’re busy, so am I. If you could just tell me where the boxes are—”

“Locker. Room.” Click.

Did she hang up on me? “Hello?” No reply. I hang up the phone. “What a bitch.”

I study the shirt bundles, chewing my nails, contemplating. What’s the worst that can happen? Sticking my head into the guy’s locker room for a quick peek won’t hurt anyone. If she’s lying, I’ll find help elsewhere. If not, I guess I’ll owe Miss Crabby Pants a thank you.

“I have to do my job.” Groaning, I wrestle the dolly around and drag it down the hallway. It’s still early, and I’m hoping I can get in and out of the locker room before the guys break from training to shower.

It’s quiet in the main training room. Huh, maybe they’re taking the morning off. I take a chance and scurry to the locker room door. With my back to the two-way door, I start to push through when a thought stops me. I don’t know the proper etiquette for a woman in a men’s locker room. Even if there’s only one guy inside, I should let him know I’m there. Is there a code? Something I can yell as I walk in that announces a woman’s presence? What would that be? Beaver in the wood shop? Eww, no. There’s got to be something. Estrogen intruder?

Oh, whatever.

I shove the rest of the way through the door and shimmy my box in with me. The smell of spice and dirty socks mixes to numb my good sense. “Fire in the hole!” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. Stupid.

A short hallway opens up to a huge room lined with lockers. And my worst fear comes to life. Three fighters. Two shirtless, one in nothing but a small, white towel.

I try to avert my eyes, to blink, to do anything, but I fail. Miserably.

“Layla, what’s up, girl?” Owen smiles in my direction.

I concentrate on his face, hoping to direct my thoughts away from his enormous chest. My weak eyes are no match for the glory of his naked torso, and my mouth goes dry as I openly gawk. So this is what it feels like to be a guy.

“Owen, hi. I’m here… with my box.”

A short laugh from Caleb and I’m stuck on his naked torso. Freakin’ hell. What do they feed these guys? Look away, Layla. My gaze slides to my feet.

Someone clears his throat. “Your box, huh?”

Annnd, I’m back to Caleb’s chest. I nod, trying to force my eyes to his face. I succeed for the most part.

“Well, come on in.” Owen gives me his back while he fishes around in his locker for something. Probably a shirt. It’s then that I decide to petition Mr. Gibbs to have a strict no-shirt policy in the training center.

“You coming to the show tonight, Layla?” Rex, the one in the towel, has his head down, and I take a moment to appreciate his artwork. Not his body. Nope. Not at all.

His arms are covered in tattoos from his wrist to his neck. His chest and ribs also have ink, but I don’t take time to study them. I’m distracted by the silvery glint coming from each one of his well-formed pecs. Nipple piercings.

A gasp escapes from my throat. His eyes meet mine, and heat rises in my cheeks. I look away and walk to the opposite end of the room with my dolly.

Rex laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

I run my hand along my head, smoothing loose hairs back into my ponytail. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Sweet.” I hear the metal clank of a locker door opening.

Is he putting clothes on? Eyes forward. Don’t peek.

Staring at a wall of cubby-like boxes, I try hard to ignore the conversations behind me and focus on my task. I will not turn around.

Each box has a gold nameplate with a fighter’s name on it. The t-shirts only have initials. This will take my higher functioning brain. Focus.

One by one, I read a fighter’s name and match it with the appropriate packaged shirts. Eventually, the three guys filter out of the room, giving their versions of goodbye until I’m finally alone without distraction.

I hear the door behind me open occasionally, but I keep my back turned to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about my being in a man-only zone.

“T.B.” I search the cubbies until I find Trent Barker.

Shirts in. Next.

J.S. for Jonah Slade. Easy. Next.

The shirts get distributed quickly, and I relax knowing I’ll be out of there soon. Halfway through my task, I grab the next bundle.

“B.D.” I suppress a growl.

Thank goodness my interaction with Blake Daniels has been minimal my first week here. I stick to my desk, and he sticks to the training room. The few times I’ve seen him, we both do a great job ignoring each other.

“B.D., B.D., B.D….” Where is his name? I squat down, making sure to squeeze my knees together and turn to the side to avoid splitting my pencil skirt. His name isn’t down here either. “B.D.” I stand back up, my thighs quivering with the effort. Monday I’m wearing pants.

“That’s me, Mouse.”

I squeal and jump. The deep voice is so close to my ear, his hot breath tickles my skin.

Whirling around, I scowl. “You scared the shit out of me.”

The side of his mouth lifts. “Oh, now you’re back to street talkin’, huh?”

“Street talk… what?”

He puts his hands on his hips. “When I found you in the lobby you were street talkin’, then in front of Taylor you were all business. Surprised I got you back, Mouse. Thought I’d lost you to uptight corporate ass-kissing.”

I gasp, loud. “I do not ass-kiss.”

“The fuck you don’t.”

“You’re…”

“What?” He steps in close, his deep green eyes locked on mine.

I shake away the foggy feeling his proximity brings. “Crude.”

His lips twitch. “Crude?” Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head. “You kiss your husband with that mouth?”

Recoiling from his question, I regain my composure as best I can and scowl. “I don’t have a husband. Not that that’s any of your business.”

His expression softens. “No husband?”

I’m not going to repeat myself.

I shove his t-shirt bundle into his chest, not at all noticing how incredibly hard it is. “Here. These are yours, B.D.”

He holds my hand to his chest, the folded tees being the only thing keeping me from flattening my palm against the heat of his body. My stomach flutters, the vibrations stirring my blood. What is it with me? It’s like I’m bait for cocky assholes.

“You want to know what B.D. stands for?” His eyes travel from my lips to my cheeks and back. My skin warms. “Do I make you nervous, Mouse?” His eyes look deep into mine, and I’m helpless to pull them away.

I want to scream that he makes me furious, but he holds even my speech captive.

“No husband.” He takes a step back, releasing his hold.

I blink, the connection severed by the distance between our bodies and the cold indifference in his eyes.

He tilts his head, and that panty-dropping crooked smile that radiates bad-boy like nothing I’ve ever seen lights his face. “Big Dick.”

“Excuse me?” My voice screeches and echoes throughout the room. I throw back an arm to steady my weight against the wall. Why am I so wobbly?

“B.D.” He chuckles to himself, turns, and walks to the back of the locker room and out of sight.

I stand and stare. What in the fuck just happened here? My mouth is dry, and my arms are tingling, my belly still tumbling.

He caught me off guard. I didn’t have a chance to put up my barrier, to put on the full armor of my confidence and my snark. Then he got close. Those eyes, full lips, and high cheekbones. No, I’m not attracted to that jerk.

I haul what’s left in my box onto the dolly and decide that finishing the job later sounds better than throwing myself at a guy I can’t stand.

This is wrong. I’m sick. I’ve been in a horrible relationship for so long I don’t even know what healthy attraction is.

I need to make new friends, meet new people. Tonight, I’m going to the bar for Rex’s show. Anything to get my mind off Big Dick.