“Oh, um . . . actually . . .”
“It wasn’t a question. One of my bartenders sprained her wrist doing some sort of crazy acrobatic stunt—she’s an aspiring Cirque du Soleil performer.” She rolled her eyes, then narrowed them. “Please tell me you’re not in Vegas to pursue some performer role?”
“No ma’am, I’m an MMA fighter.” One who was supposed to be meeting with a potential fight manager that evening at Cage Masters. No fight matchmaker from any league would meet with an unrepresented fighter, and he needed to convince a manager to take him on based on his amateur fighting record of 6 and 0.
“Not in my bar. Here, you are simply the eye-candy bartender. I have bouncers to take care of problems. Understand?” She smacked her gum as she waited.
That suited him perfectly. He fought inside a cage only. Losing his fight license because he knocked out a guy who grabbed some dude’s girlfriend’s ass was not his plan. “Understood.”
She opened her office door and gestured for him to sit as she crossed the eight-by-eight space that was so crammed, the office door couldn’t even open fully.
He pulled the plastic chair as far as he could from the desk, but when he sat, his knees still bumped against the desktop.
Opening her file cabinet, she retrieved a new employee file and slid the paperwork toward him. “I pay eight fifty an hour and the drink tips are your own, but tips from food orders are split with the kitchen.”
Eight fifty an hour? Could anyone really live on a paycheck like that? He’d always worked for extra pocket cash . . . He frowned.
“Problem?”
“No.” He needed a job, and Gracie had called in a favor to get him one this quickly. Once he started fighting, he could get his finances back on track and pay his father back the money he owed him for the law degree he hadn’t finished. In the meantime, he needed money and fast. That morning’s bathroom episode had clearly made his imposition on Gracie that much worse. Though the shocked, embarrassed expression on her face had been mixed with a trace of something else . . . Appreciation? It certainly hadn’t been disgust.
He barely recognized the woman who had answered the door the night before. The Gracie he remembered was a little too skinny, flat-chested with no ass to speak of, and thick, colorful braces had been the focal point of her face. That look was far behind her. Now her curvy body complemented her five-foot-nine height, her cleavage straining against the buttons of a white blouse had been evidence that she’d hit puberty while he hadn’t been looking, and the perfectly shaped ass beneath her pencil skirt had made him lose his train of thought more than once . . . as the memory of it did right now.
He blinked as his gaze met Maria’s. Oh, right. The employment forms. As he started filling them out, he said, “I appreciate this.”
“I don’t usually hire based on favors, but Grace is a different story. She really helped me promote this place last year when it opened. Shadow dancers on a street full of clubs that leave nothing to the imagination are a tough sell. She organized a bunch of events, had some fighters endorse the place. Now we’re at full capacity every night . . . so you’re going to be busy.”
“That’s fine.” Busy meant more tips, and at eight fifty an hour, he was going to need tips to afford the membership fees at Cage Masters.
“I like the bar clean at all times. If you spill a drink, clean it up immediately. I don’t care how busy you are. Customers would rather wait two seconds for a drink than sit at a dirty bar.”
He wasn’t sure that was true, but he said, “Got it. No problem.”
“Waitresses get priority for drink orders before the line at the bar. Food orders need to be picked up from the kitchen every fifteen minutes, and we run a two-hundred-dollar pre-authorization on all credit cards before starting tabs.”
He nodded, hoping he was getting all of this. The last place he bartended was Longhorn Bar in Lovelock, where full capacity meant fifty people. The waitresses worried about food orders, and they never trusted anyone to run tabs—pre-authorization or not. But he had to adjust and learn quickly. Gracie had gone out on a limb for him, and he didn’t want to disappoint her. “Anything else?” he asked when she paused.
“Yeah, no girlfriends in here. Look available, but don’t be available. Got it?”
He nodded. That wouldn’t be an issue. His last girlfriend, Alison, a premed student, had ended things three months earlier when he’d started talking about dropping out of law school. Apparently, she’d envisioned a future with someone whose paycheck and long hours at the office would rival her own, and he no longer fit the description. He’d tried to explain that training to become a fighter took a lot of hard work and dedication and long hours at the gym, but she’d said exercising all day didn’t count as work.
“And my girls are off-limits too,” Maria was saying. “No dating the dancers; it gets messy and complicated fast.”
It was starting to sound like the same rules he’d received at Gracie’s. He was getting cock-blocked everywhere. He laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“Nothing. Déjà vu, that’s all. Don’t worry—I’m here to focus on my career. Women are not really on my priority list these days.”
“Are you gay?”
Pretty sure she wasn’t allowed to ask that in an interview, but still, he answered. “No.”
“Got a penis?”
“Last time I checked, I could pee standing up, yes.”
“Well, then women are always on the priority list.” She reached for a pack of nicotine gum and popped a piece in her mouth.
He wanted to argue and tell her he meant what he said. Women were a distraction he couldn’t afford at the moment, and he’d been almost relieved when Alison had ended things. Most fighters were in their early twenties. Thirty-five in this sport was old, and few fighters fought beyond that. At twenty-eight, now was his shot.
It wasn’t a decision he’d made lightly. Leaving law school a year before finishing his degree, pissing off his father, and cutting off his financial support—he needed this gamble to pay off.
“Law school will always be there,” he’d said to his father weeks before when he’d been back home visiting between semesters. At that point, he’d already decided he wouldn’t return for the following one.
“That may be true, but my support won’t be,” had been his father’s reply.
“Well, then I guess I’ll figure something out. I’m taking a break from school, Dad.”
“Then you’re not the smart, responsible kid I raised,” Malcolm Adams had said, more disappointed than angry.
Walker would have preferred anger. Disappointing his father hadn’t been his intention, but he’d tried his whole life to live up to his father’s expectations. He’d tried convincing himself law school was the right thing to do, completing two years, putting his fight career on hold, only accepting fights from small promoters during the summer breaks, but he couldn’t keep lying to himself. He was a damn good fighter, which his father would know if he ever came to a fight. “Maybe not, but either way, I’m going to pursue a fighting career, Dad.”
“Then you’re on your own.”
His father hadn’t been kidding. In less than forty-eight hours, he’d received notice from his landlord that he had a week to vacate, and his tuition trust fund that he’d relied on for living expenses had been frozen. He’d driven to Las Vegas, but finding a job when he was sleeping in his Jeep had proved challenging, and after a few weeks he’d become desperate enough to call his sister for advice. That’s when she’d placed the call to Gracie even though he’d threatened her life and limb not to. He hated having to ask for help from his sister’s best friend, especially when she wasn’t exactly hiding the fact that having him stay with her was an imposition. He would be out of her hair as soon as he could, and in the meantime, he wouldn’t get in her way or break any of her rules. He appreciated her help, and the last thing he wanted was to complicate her life in any way.
Signing the
employment form, he slid the papers back toward Maria.
“Great. Now, what was the excuse you were going to give for not being able to start tonight?” she asked, filing the papers away.
He hesitated for a brief second, then said, “It was nothing. What time do you need me behind the bar?”
***
“Look, he signed the contract knowing he may have to wait three months for a fight . . . I got no one fighting at that weight class on next month’s card . . . Bring it to a lawyer, if that’s what you need to do, Max,” Erik Johansen said as he sat as his desk, phone cradled against his shoulder, when Grace entered that afternoon.
Stacks of fighter profiles littered his desk, and his whiteboard was covered with possible fight matchups. “Want me to come back?” she whispered, hesitating at the door. The heated discussion he was having with one of the fighters’ managers was one she heard often. She’d been working for the MFL for over a year thanks to Erik, who had arranged an interview for her with one of the organization’s VPs, Joe Cattrall. She and Erik had met at the ShadowDancers Night Club opening, when she was working for a local publicity firm and he’d been impressed by the event and the high-roller turnout she’d miraculously been able to pull off. Two weeks later, they were working together. A month later they were sleeping together. And in three weeks, they would be living together.
Her stomach twisted as it did every time she thought about the commitment she was about to make. Living with someone . . . moving in with someone was a big deal. She’d never even considered the option before with any of her previous relationships. Not that there were many, and they’d never lasted as long as this one with Erik. They’d been together for a little over a year. It was just nerves. It was normal to feel anxious about a life-changing step . . . even if it was a good step. A step in the right direction. Any step toward a future with Erik was a good thing.
Still, she wished the stomach thing would quit it already.
Glancing up, he waved her in. “Next month maybe, but I’m not making any promises. You know I can’t bring in injured fighters . . . okay . . . bye.” He replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and resting his head against the plush leather. “Fucking shoot me now,” he mumbled.
Grace closed his office door and then went around the side of the desk to stand behind his chair. She massaged his shoulders as she said, “Max Sheldon again?”
“I swear that man will never understand how a contract works.” He reached up and stopped her hands. “As good as that feels, if you don’t stop, I’m going to fall asleep, and I still have to finish this card lineup.”
She sat on the edge of his desk and he moved a stack of papers aside. “I thought it was done.” She’d already started the following month’s fight night pay-per-view promo press release. It needed to go out early the following week.
“It was, but Sanchez’s manager called. Sanchez pulled a groin muscle two weeks ago and it doesn’t look like he’ll be ready to fight.”
“Two weeks ago—are you kidding me?” These managers were the worst at waiting until the last possible second to let Erik know their fighter was injured. Over and over again, she’d heard Erik tell managers that if their guy got hurt in training—no matter how small the injury—to keep him informed.
“They are all paranoid I’ll pull them from the fight if they tell me they’re injured, so instead they fuck me by waiting until three weeks before a fight. Who the hell am I going to replace him with on three weeks’ notice?” He sorted through the pile of paper on his desk, scanning the middleweight division rankings. “Any one of these fighters would be a moron to accept a fight this late.”
Erik was right. A last-minute change screwed everything, from the new fighter coming in on short notice to the promo for the event. Everyone was left scrambling to make it work. Her boyfriend, the MFL’s matchmaker, most of all. “So, I guess you called me here to tell me dinner’s off for tonight?” She wasn’t upset—it happened all the time, and she understood it came with the territory. Dating one of the MFL’s most influential executives came with a lot of canceled dates and untimely phone calls. But she was busy too, and for the last year, they’d made it work. They were great together.
They were.
He nodded, unapologetically. “Until this slot gets filled, I’m stuck here.” He glanced at her promo mock-ups in her hand. “Those the promo sheets?” Now, he did look sorry.
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it; just let me know when you have a replacement and we’ll make the change before sending out the press kits,” she said, waving a hand. In her mind, she was already making notes on what she needed to do to make that happen. The biggest part of her job was flexibility and being able to roll with all of the day-to-day unexpected, last-minute changes. She was up to the challenge, but for once it would be a nice break if things went according to plan.
Erik stood and taking her hands, he pulled her into him. Burying his face into her hair, he said, “Thank you for making that sound a lot less complicated than I know it actually is.”
She smiled as she glanced up at him. “It’s what I do best. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it . . .” Her phone rang and checking the caller ID she saw Walker’s cell number on her display. Immediately, she silenced the call, and her cheeks flushed at the memory of his bare chest and abs . . . and other things in her bathroom that morning.
“Who was that?” Erik asked, sitting at the desk once more.
“Oh . . . um . . .” Shit, she’d wanted to tell him about her unexpected houseguest over dinner and several glasses of wine. She wasn’t sure how he was going to react to the news that she had a man sleeping on her sofa for the next few weeks until she gave up her apartment and moved in with him—something they’d decided over dinner the last time they’d actually gone out . . . almost two months before. Now, he had more than enough on his mind already. Did she really need to add to his stress? “No one important.”
He didn’t seem to be listening anyway as he’d picked up the phone and started dialing another fighter’s manager. “Okay, well, if I get out of here before midnight, I’ll swing by.”
That was their cutoff point. Any time before midnight, he could stop by after leaving the office and spend the night at her place. After that, he let her sleep. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but it was better than never seeing him or never having sex. But showing up at her place that evening before she could tell him about Walker was probably not the best idea. She could only imagine the scene in her living room if Erik let himself in to discover Walker in her apartment. She shuddered. “Actually, I’ll go to your place and wait for you.” Safer. No one would die that way.
He nodded and turned in his chair as he left a voice mail. “Dylan, this is Erik Johansen . . . call me, I may have a fight for your guy . . .”
Grace let herself out as her phone chimed with a text message from Walker. A small wave of guilt washed over her as she read it.
Got the job. I start tonight. Thank you roomie.
Roomie? Oh God! Why hadn’t she told Erik about Walker when the phone rang? There was nothing to the situation—just an old friend needing a place to stay for a few weeks. Not even a friend, more like the brother of a friend . . . Yeah, no matter what way she tried to spin it, the fact was she had a hot, sexy, male roommate, and Erik was not going to like it.
Chapter 2
“What do you mean you can’t make it? You begged me to set up this meeting for you, man,” Dawson Miller said into the phone later that evening.
His trainer’s voice could barely be heard over the loud music playing and the crowd inside ShadowDancers Night Club. Maria hadn’t been kidding about how busy the club got. Every booth was occupied, the barstools were full, and there was a line at the door. He’d always thought those velvet rope lines were intentionally orchestrated to make a club look like the place to be. Apparently not the case at ShadowDancers. Walker balanced his cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he poured a
round of tequila shots and set them on a waitress’s tray.
She shot him a look. “Maria will fire you on the spot if you don’t hide that thing.” She gave a little glance toward her exposed cleavage where her phone was tucked between her breasts, before walking away.
“Yes, I know, man, and I’m sorry. I need this job . . . Can you send him over here?” Cage Masters was three blocks away. If Bill Connor, the MMA manager he was supposed to be meeting with that evening, could come to the club instead, he could try to talk to him as he worked. The man had already reviewed his fight tapes. Now he had to convince him to take him on as a client.
“Unreliable, cocky, asshole fighters,” Dawson mumbled.
“I heard that.”
“Good, then I won’t have to repeat it,” the man snapped. “Hang on a sec,” he grumbled, before actually covering the mouthpiece.
Walker waited. “What can I get you?” he asked the next customer at the bar.
“Rum and Coke,” the guy said, elbowing his way closer to the bar.
Walker mixed the drink, checking over his shoulder for Maria. Come on, Dawson . . . He handed the drink to the guy. “Fourteen fifty.”
The man handed him fifteen bucks and walked away. Fifty-cent tip—he wasn’t moving out of Gracie’s anytime soon on that kind of money, he thought, tossing the change into his tip jar.
“Dawson,” he said into the phone. “Come on, I have to get back to work . . .”
“Bill says no way—apparently he and the bar’s owner, Maria, have a history. He refuses to go near the place. Something about a restraining order . . .” Dawson said.
Shit, who the hell was this guy Dawson had arranged for him to meet? “The guy has a restraining order against him?”
“No. He has one against Maria. Says she keyed his car or something.”
That actually wasn’t hard to believe. “Damn it. Okay . . .” He disconnected the call and resisted the urge to throw the phone. The MFL only considered fighters who had representation. And Bill Connor was known for taking on new, up-and-coming fighters. He’d been the only manager interested in meeting with him so far. Now he was back to square one unless he could convince the busy man to meet with him another time. Seeing Maria watching him from the corner of his eye, he turned to the next customer waiting. “What are you drinking?” he asked as pleasantly as he could muster. He needed this job, but damn it, he’d also needed that meeting.
Breaking Her Rules Page 2