Is she kidding? I look around, exaggerating with my hands out and eyes wide. “Are you listening to me at all? That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“Fine, if you’re gay, how many women have you slept with?” She leans a hip against the counter, waiting.
I muster up a nasty evil eye because she knows the answer to this question. She just wants to hear me say it. “How many has nothing to do with—”
“Nope, no backpedaling. Just answer the question.”
I clench my teeth and straighten my shoulders. “None. But that doesn’t mean—”
“Right. And how many women have you been on a date with?”
Ugh! I want to scream and throw a fit; she’s so frustrating.
“Exactly.”
“These questions are irrelevant.” I take a pretentious sip of my coffee, pinky in the air and everything. “I hate men, so there’s your answer.”
Her eyes go soft and she tilts her head. “Hating men doesn’t mean you’re attracted to women.”
True. Vaginas actually gross me out. I shudder and cringe. The thought alone makes me gag. I’m not even a big fan of my own as often as the little slut gets me into trouble. But there’s no way I’m telling Raven that.
“Eve, you’ve been hurt badly. But just because there’s a barrel of bad apples out there doesn’t mean that no good ones exist.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re married to a seriously rad guy. Jonah’s smokin’ hot, funny, and has good taste in music.” I tick the qualities off on my fingers. “He’s sweet, rich, and worships the ground you walk on.”
No one has ever shown me that kind of care, not unless they were getting something in return. Is it possible to find a man who doesn’t have an agenda?
A soft smile tugs at her lips, and her eyes go all fucking love-drunk and dreamy. “He is all that, but can you honestly say that Jonah was all those things before we started dating?”
Jonah was a playboy and a heartbreaker, still hot and rich though, but he became a new man when he met Raven. I’m not surprised. The woman is steps away from sainthood, always has been. She radiates goodness so much that it all oozed over a dude like Jonah Slade and turned him 180 degrees. I could never be so lucky. I’m not the kind of woman a man changes his stripes for.
“So who’s to say there’s not a man out there that would be willing to be all that for you? Not a perfect guy, but a perfect-for-you kind of guy.”
“I don’t know, Rave.” They all walk away. It must be physiologically impossible for a man to stay with me long term. It’s been this way since birth, starting with my dad. With no brothers or sisters and a selfish bitch for a mom, Raven’s the only one who’s never left.
“Come on. I miss hanging out with you.” Her aquamarine eyes go puppy dog. “Pleeease? It’ll be quick and painless. I’m not setting you up; it’s just an opportunity to hang out somewhere other than the gay bars.”
I nod a few times. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. I think the chicks there are sick of me anyway. Last week I dropped half my paycheck into the jukebox on Justin Timberlake songs. Not their usual Alanis man-hater Morissette.”
Raven’s back to the look she had earlier, threatening to burst. “You’re so not gay.”
“What?” I sip my coffee and shrug. “Timbo’s hot, ya know?”
“Not gay.” Her sing-song tone is soaked in a smile.
“Am too.” No, I’m not. “I can appreciate a good-looking man. And his voice is . . . damn, it’s like sex and maple syrup.”
Not that I remember sex, it’s been so long since I’ve had it I’m sure I’ve forgotten how. Warmth spreads throughout my body at the prospect, but it quickly cools at the thought of the last man I let go there. Vince. Con-artist, manipulator, controlling, possessive, and yet I was undeniably attracted to him. He made me feel irreplaceable. Until the day I wasn’t.
He used me to get to Raven and would’ve raped and possibly killed her. If I’d been smarter, paid closer attention, he may’ve never gotten to her. As if living with that guilt isn’t enough, I have the strangest feeling that if he weren’t incarcerated I’d open myself up to him again. A sharp pain twists in my gut.
“So you’re saying you’ll come tonight?” She shifts and leans back against the counter, her hand rubbing circles on her baby bump.
How can I say no? I nod.
“It’ll be fun. No pressure to choose guy or girl. Just be . . .” Her face pinches in concentration. “Gosh, what would you call it if you weren’t attracted to men or women?”
“Asexual.”
Her face glows with a genuine smile. “Perfect. You’re asexual. Until further investigation.”
I’m not gay. I’m stupid. I can’t trust myself around most men. Nice guys aren’t the problem. No. They’re safe. It’s the other ones: the bad-in-a-bad-way bad boys. Those are the ones I need to stay away from.
As much as I’d love to have what Raven has, the risk is too great. I can’t watch the back of another man as he walks out of my life. I wouldn’t survive it.
~*~
Cameron
Sitting in a conference room listening to a dozen grown men bitch and throw a fit is another example of how much work needs to be done. I curse Taylor Gibbs for the zillionth time today for fuckin’ up the UFL and turning its warriors into whining babies.
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. You’re dropping this bomb on fight night?” Blake Daniels glares at me as if he’s trying to burn holes through my skull. “Why now?”
The rest of the table of Vegas-based UFL fighters follows up with similar questions and complaints.
I lean forward, elbows on the table, and grind my teeth against the words that are bursting to be said, but I’ve worked to damn hard for this and need to prove my competence. “This is the fucking Universal Fighting League. It’s what we do. We train and move fighters through the program. In order to do that, we need new bodies in here. I’ve given you the list of fighters that will be joining us here in Vegas. If you don’t like it”—I jerk my head to the door—“get the fuck out.”
“He’s right.” Owen—the head trainer and, from what I can tell, the self-appointed leader of this crew—stands up. “We could use a revival. Some fresh meat and a little competition would do us some good.”
More groaning. What the hell? I rub my eyes and try to wipe what I’m sure is a look of absolute disappointment from my face. Whatever happened to fighters welcoming a challenge? Shit.
“I agree with Cam and Owen.” Jonah—the Heavyweight Champion and, from what I can tell, one of only two people these fighters listen to—speaks up. “Things have been lax since Gibbs left. The Fade and his camp joining us here will keep us on our game.”
“Fine.” Blake smiles like a guy who’s made a decision that’s going to be painful for someone else. “After the ass beating I give him tonight, he’ll stay out of my way.” Tonight’s fight has a lot more to do with him earning back his reputation than it does kicking Wade’s ass. And I curse Taylor, again.
“Blake.” Layla, my assistant and Blake’s better half, speaks up from my side at the conference table. “I think what Cam’s trying to say is that he wants you guys to work together so—”
“Fuck that, Mouse.” Blake shakes his head. “Ain’t happenin’.”
The room rumbles again with protest. I get it. Blake’s been burned, and now he doesn’t trust me or the organization. But getting it doesn’t mean I like it, and I’ve lost my patience. “You spoiled little jackoffs. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to be here?” No one answers. Pathetic.
“We’re done.” I push up from my seat and nod for Layla to grab her shit and follow me out of the room and back to my office.
A thought occurs to me when I’m just into the hallway. I freeze mid-step, and Layla must not be looking because she slams into my back with a squeak of surprise. I swivel around to face the room. “There are fighters out there that would kill to be in your place.”
L
ike me. I’d give anything to have this back, to step into that octagon, trained and ready to represent the sport with honor. These guys don’t have half the respect for this organization that we had. We were the pioneers of mainstream MMA, fought back when gloves weren’t required and there were no rules. Now they whine because they have to share, and some of them don’t even fucking show up for meetings.
“And where the fuck is Rex?” A growl bubbles up in my throat. He bailed me out by taking this fight with Reece, so I push back my rage. I’ll let his absence slide this once. “I expect you guys to fill him in on what we talked about.”
“You got it, Cam.” Owen’s standing, leaning against the wall, arms crossed at his chest, glaring at the team. “I’ll take care of it.”
I nod and turn from the room. Halfway to my office I can hear Owen giving the guys a lecture about manning up and good sportsmanship.
In my office, I throw a stack of papers on my desk harder than I need to. They scatter and mix with all the other shit that needs dealing with. My head pounds and spins in a fuzzy loop of what’s next: nothing I’m not used to. I reach in my empty pocket for the small spiral notebook. Shit, it’s not there. Where did I leave it?
I don’t remember taking it to the conference room, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t. Dropping down into my desk chair with a grunt, I shove my hands through my hair. Retracing my steps, I’m pretty sure I had it this morning when Layla and I met about today’s agenda. But after that . . . Fuck!
Stress always makes it worse.
I’ve only been CEO for a couple months, and I don’t see the kind of progress I was hoping I would by this time. There’s still so much to do, which is why I need to find my damn notebook.
“Layla!”
“Yeah?” Her voice is closer than I expect, and I look up to find her across my office, shoving papers into files.
“Have you seen my notebook?” My hands move over the desktop as if I’m reading braille. “I could’ve sworn I had it—”
“There.” She’s points over my shoulder to the other side of my L-shaped desk. “By the phone.”
I swivel around and there it is. Right where I left it, I guess. I wouldn’t really remember. “Thanks.”
She makes a noncommittal mm-hmm sound and resumes what she was doing. Only good thing Taylor Gibbs did as CEO was hire Layla. She’s saved my ass on multiple occasions, and although I’m sure she’s starting to notice that I’m often forgetful, she never mentions it but instead swoops in and saves me time and time again.
Meeting with the whiners. Check. Weigh-ins. Check. I’m flipping through the pages and checking off things I’ve completed when I feel her eyes on me.
I don’t look up from my lists, but hear her feet on the carpet and finally the sound of creaking wood as she takes a seat across from me. “You got something to say?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“As long as you make it fast.” Her silence brings my eyes to her contemplative expression.
“I noticed you’re not married.” She tilts her head to my left hand that is very much without a wedding ring.
Not anymore. “And?”
“Nothing really. Just surprised.”
I lean back in my chair as irritation pinches my brows. “Surprised.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I mean you seem like a decent guy.”
I’m not. “You seem like a decent woman and you aren’t married.” I nod to her empty left ring finger.
She grins. “That’s because I just got divorced. Marriage jumping isn’t my thing.”
This feels like one of those you-share-I-share conversations that I do not participate in. I find if I can bite back my impulsive outbursts and stay zipped people eventually give up.
She twirls a strand of her long blond hair. “Ever been married?”
I lock my jaw and wait, but she doesn’t fucking budge and stares with expectant eyes. Something tells me we’ll be here all day if I don’t give her something. I’d lie, tell her I’ve never been married, but if I plan on digging in here for the long haul, I’m going to have to give her enough to keep her satisfied.
“Once.”
Her eyes light up as if she just realized we belong to the same super-secret club. “Really.”
What is it about sharing that creates this weird expectation from people? As if simply telling another person about your past allows them some special access into friendship. I don’t do friendship.
I flip through my notebook and hope like hell this conversation is headed toward The End.
“Any kids?”
My hand freezes mid page-turn, and a whisper of pain echoes through my gut that would usually be followed by a cringe, but not anymore. I clear my throat and refocus on my notebook. “I have a son.”
“Oh, that’s cool.” She’s silent for a few beats that are probably uncomfortable for her but don’t bother me at all. “I have a daughter.”
The rumble of an old hurt reverberates against my shield. Ten years ago those words would’ve bled me alive, but not anymore. “Mm.”
“How old—”
“Look, I really have a lot to do.” I’m still studying the pages of my notebook like a complete asshole, but honest to God it’s as if we’re about to bust out some knitting needles and tiny sandwiches.
“Sure thing.” She hops up and moves toward the door when she turns suddenly. “Oh, I forgot. We’re having a party after the fight tonight. The Blackout. You should come.”
“Thanks, but”—I flip a page and another—“I think I’ll go home after the fight. Long day.”
“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, we’ll be there.” She’s gone with the soft click of my office door.
After party. Haven’t been to one of those in a while, at least not many I remember. The little flashes I’ve managed to retain carry good feelings of camaraderie with the team. I groan and lean back in my desk chair. My goal is to get back into the octagon, but until then I need to run this organization and put it back on its feet. The fighters got screwed by Gibbs and are having trust issues. I get that. Maybe showing up at this party is a smart move after all. Just for one drink. Should be painless enough.
I scribble at the bottom of the notebook page: After party tonight @ The Blackout.
My phone vibrates, and I shift to pull it from the pocket of my jeans. “Cameron Kyle.”
Dead air followed by a feminine giggle. “Hellooooo?”
“’Li, now’s not a good time.” Shit. She’s hammered.
“We need to talk.” There’s a too-happy smile in the sound of her whine. “It’s important.”
I’d bet my balls it’s not. It never is. “D’lilah.” I lower my voice. “You’re drunk. My guess is whatever you have to say isn’t all that important, but if it is, then you call me when you’re in a state to remember this conversation. Not gonna waste my time saying shit I’ll have to repeat tomorrow.”
The tinkling of ice in a glass and the slurp and smack of her lips sound in my ear. “The twins’ birthday is coming up.”
Typical. She always goes for the direct hit. “Point?”
“My point, dear husband—”
“Ex.”
“Right. We need to throw Ryder some kind of party.” More tinkling of ice.
“He’s a little old for a party. He wants to hang with his friends and buy cigarettes on his eighteenth birthday like all the other eighteen-year-olds.”
“He smokes?”
I’m too damn tired of her mother-of-the-year-act to even roll my eyes at her attempt. “It’s fight night, ’Li. Gotta run.”
“Wait, but . . .”
I wait. Nothing.
My thumb hovers over the end button. “We done?”
“For now.” The call disconnects.
Ryder’s birthday coming up must be triggering her drinking. The weeks she’s not boozing I barely hear from her at all, but this last week alone she’s called nearly every day. I can’t be mad at her for the woman she
’s become; after all, it was me who did this to her. After promising her the world, my brain blew up and took all my promises with it. Her addiction dulls the pain of all she’d lost. And then after Rosie . . . I tried to fix things between us, but some things aren’t fixable. Or forgivable.
I push aside the past and focus on the now. I’ve got my first fight as CEO of the UFL. Biggest ticket the organization has seen in years and one step closer to getting back into the octagon.
The final step to finding my way back to the man I was: a man who never gives up and never falls.
Two
Eve
I’m in my element. The air around me vibrates with music, raising goose bumps on my skin, while the steady buzz of liquor in my veins moves me to the beat. The musky scent of bodies, booze, and sweet perfume dances in the air. I keep my eyes closed and drown in the presence of bodies and the occasional wandering hands, but my mind is focused on the beat. There could be six hundred people on the dance floor, and it wouldn’t matter. Right now it’s just the music and me.
I remind myself to thank Raven for inviting me to this party. Although there’s no live band, the DJ seems to have a direct link to my brain because he’s spinning all my favorite songs. Since Blake and Rex won their fights, the guys are all smiles and shoulder punches, quite the opposite of what I’m used to seeing at the lesbian bars where everyone is pissed about something. Come to think of it, they do a fair amount of shoulder punching as well.
With a swirl of my hips, I toss my hair and grin at the freedom of dance. Yeah, I definitely needed this tonight. Two strong hands lock my hips in place. I roll my eyes at the familiar feeling of some douchebag as he grinds his tiny hard-on against my ass. Poor guy. If that’s his calling card, he’s in for a long line of rejections.
I swerve and turn to move out of his hands, but he doesn’t release his grip. Asshole. Just as I’m about to grab his fingers and bend them backwards, he lets me go and steps back with such force that I stumble forward and right into a brick wall of muscle.
“What the fu—oh hey, Jonah.”
His only response is a glare directed over my head. I turn around and see who I assume is Mr. Short-Distance-calling-card frozen wide-eyed, staring at my bodyguard. A slow shake of Jonah’s head sends the message, and the guy slinks back into the swarm of dancing bodies.
Fighting the Fall Page 2