You lay with dogs, you’re going to come out smelling like dog shit. Or something like that. If she was an innocent party here, she wouldn’t be working for a mobster. If she actually “worked” for him at all. Maybe this was some bone he’d thrown her after some other bone he’d been throwing her.
The thought of that slimy fucker touching that beautiful girl made my gut clench and I shut it down quick.
That was enough thinking about Kayla James. After Tuesday, she’d be in my rear view mirror. Then I could concentrate on the next act in the shit show.
Figuring out a way to tell my brother Bash what I’d done.
Chapter Two
Kayla
Sixteen hundred Market Street.
I glanced back down at my cell phone and read the address out loud one more time before looking back at the building in front of me. It sure as hell didn't look like any office to me. What it looked like was a bar.
I shoved open my car door and stepped onto the curb, stumbling a little as the heel of my shoe caught in a crack on the sidewalk. Son of a bitch. I'd put on a frigging business suit and high heels for this meeting. If Matthias was leading me on some wild goose chase and wasting my time, Mickey was going to be the least of his problems.
I slammed the door closed and clip-clopped toward the entrance of what a neon sign in bubble letters announced was called 1984. Judging by that and the smattering of patrons standing outside smoking electronic cigarettes, it was a retro bar that catered to hipsters who were fans of the eighties.
Scooting past the quarum of bearded guys with a wave, I stepped inside the bar and then let the door close behind me. As I scanned the room for Matthias, I still wasn’t sure whether to be pissed at him for sending me on a wild goose chase, or pissed at him for thinking we should have a meeting about our collective futures in the middle of some dive bar.
One way or another, though, I was pissed.
But the worst thing I could do was give him the upper hand and let him call the shots this early in the game. Whoever got control first was going to come out on top, and I was determined that would be me. Whether he showed up tonight didn't matter one way or the other, because I wasn’t about to play this game with him. Satisfied, I turned to walk out, only to find him standing right behind me.
I jerked back in surprise but managed to ignore the thundering of my heart to give him the dead eye.
"You're late," he said, leaning on the doorjamb, brows raised in challenge.
It had been one minute after six when I’d put my car into park.
In front of the bar.
That was supposed to be his office.
“You can't even be serious right now."
His lips quirked into a crooked half smile and he shrugged. "Why not? I was punctual. Doesn't seem so much to ask that you do the same. We’re both professionals here."
He took a long slug from his glass, peering over the rim with slightly unfocused eyes and I wondered if maybe he’d gotten there a little early. Drinking alone at six PM on a Tuesday was almost as concerning as him tricking me into coming here.
Even after all his nonsense, though, I had to admit, he was easy on the eyes. His dirty blonde hair was short and messy in a way that took some guys half an hour in front of the mirror, but probably took him no more than a rake of his fingers. And his face was meant for billboards. Like a young Brad Pitt with an attitude.
And that train of thought needs to be derailed, fast.
I stepped back, realizing we were a little too close for my liking, and hauled my purse higher onto my shoulder.
"Fuck you, McDaniels." How was that for professional? "You agreed to meet with me to talk business and make like we're meeting in an office and then you send me to this shithole."
"Ouch, easy!" The plump guy behind the bar rocking a waxed handlebar mustache and horn-rimmed glasses winced at me. "That's a little harsh, no?"
"Sorry," I muttered and faced Matty again, lowering my voice to a whisper. "Seriously, though. This isn't the way things are going to be. I'm managing you, and you need to let me do it. That doesn't mean either of us has to like it, but you're not going to screw this up for me. Now step out of the way so I can go. When you're ready to meet somewhere and talk about your career let me know. Until then, I'll assume I have carte blanche and I'll schedule the fights I think will work best."
I tipped my head back so I could stare him straight in the eyes and he could see exactly how serious I was.
"This is happening. Take a few days and get your head right, and then give me a call." I tried to shove past him but he was like a wall of muscle that didn’t want to be moved. I stepped back and glared at him. “Step aside.”
"You talk a big game, but I promise you this. I'm not taking fights I don't agree with," he said, his voice low and harsh as his suddenly clear green eyes flashed with anger. "Your boss can go fuck himself if he wants to saddle me with a bad matchup."
"My boss doesn't have anything to do with it. He told me to get you ready and that's what I'm doing. He's still learning about MMA and trusts me to take care of this. It can be me and you, working together to forge a path for a bang up career, or I can take point and you can come in and do the grunt work. I'd prefer a partner, but not if he's too stupid to get out of his own way."
I elbowed him in the side as I tried to squeeze past him again, but he still wasn’t budging and I wanted to scream.
"Fine," he snapped.
"What?" I stopped to peer up at him, wondering if I’d heard him right.
"Fine," he shrugged. "If you really plan on giving me a say, let's talk. But we're here now, so why don't you calm down, have a drink with me and we can talk until my wings are done. You can order too, we'll eat and then we can head back to my gym and have a fancier meeting if you want, okay?"
I let the idea roll around in my head for a few seconds, looking for loopholes. No matter how I turned it, it felt like a “W” in my corner, so I nodded. “Sure, okay.”
He straightened and then led the way to the bar, jerking his head toward a row of empty stools. “Take your pick.”
I sat and he sat next to me and waved the bartender in our direction before taking another long pull from his glass filled with a clear liquid that had a chunk of lime perched on the rim.
The bartender looked at me expectantly, and despite the sudden craving for an icy cold beer, I decided to set a good example. "I'll take a Diet Coke.”
While he went off to get my drink, I turned to Matty and tapped his glass with my fingernail. “Maybe you should think about the same if we're looking to line up fights in the next month or two. Just so you know, during pre-fight training, I'm not a big proponent of alcohol."
"Good for you. But just so you know? I might be stuck with you as a manager, but I already have a trainer. Thanks for the tip though."
He drained his glass and then set it on the bar with a clack.
One step forward, one step back. It was like the world’s most frustrating line dance.
I plucked a worn menu from its metal holder with a sigh of resignation. Clearly, it was going to take a while for the two of us to work through the animosity, so I might as well keep my strength up. No point in me doing exactly what I'd accused him of and cutting off my nose to spite my face. After glancing at the list of eighties-themed selections, I called to the bartender.
"I'll take the Tide Is High Fish and Chips basket."
“Excellent choice.” Matty grinned and jerked his head toward the menu. "And here I thought you were some sort of health nut."
I wrinkled my brows at him and snorted. "What would make you think that? I'm not the one training for a fight. If I was, it would be another story."
“You don’t have to worry about me. You worry about booking the bouts, I’ll worry about making sure I’m ready, okay?"
Although the words were pointed, the tone wasn’t. In fact, he seemed to be trying to reassure me. I took it as a good sign. We seemed to have come to an uneasy truce
for the time being, so I went with it.
“So this is your hangout, huh?" I asked, taking a second, now that I was feeling less ragey, to check out the kitschy decor.
A jukebox lit with jewel-toned, multi-colored lights stood in the corner with the last notes of what I was pretty sure was a Pat Benatar song pouring through the speaker. The entire back wall was lined with old time arcade games. Everything from Frogger and Pac-Man to Asteroids and Space Invaders. I wasn't about to admit it to him, but the place was already growing on me a little. If I'd found it on my own when I was wearing a pair of jeans and my threadbare Ramones T-shirt, I'd have felt pretty at home here. “Doesn’t seem like your type of bar.”
“What would be my type of bar?” he asked, tilting his head to skewer me with that laser pointer gaze again.
I cleared my throat and took a sip of the icy beverage our bartender had dropped off. “Hooters?”
His laugh was loud and unexpected and I found myself grinning in response.
“Hooters is overrated,” he said. “The wings here are a thousand times better. I come for the food and the video games. Helps me unwind.” He motioned to the bank of arcade games. “Want to play?”
"Play what?"
"Any one you want. I have high score on those three." He gestured toward a row around the corner of what looked like fighting games. “So maybe pick something else.”
"High score, huh?" I hadn’t grown up around a lot of video games, but I was technically inclined and a fast learner.
Might be fun.
Not that this was about fun. But still, taking a few minutes to try to connect with him a little couldn't hurt, could it?
"Sure, let's play that one."
He glanced in the direction I was pointing and grinned. “Street Brawler 2? Bad choice. It’s my best game.”
I stood and slipped off my neat little blazer, tossing it over the back of my chair. "Oh, I’m so scared."
He paused for a second, hot gaze dropping from my face down to my camisole and back up again. A bolt of electricity arced between us and I almost snatched the jacket up again to cover myself.
Why did that keep happening? He’d warned me that being in close proximity a lot would distract him, but I was sure that would fade with time. I was also sure that, if there was any true attraction going forward, it would be one-sided. After all, how long could a girl be attracted to a cocky, argumentative, surly pain in the ass?
Apparently, at least four days, because my nipples went stiff under the weight of his stare and my pulse was skittering wildly.
He shook his head, seeming to collect himself and then, without a word, he stood. "Hey Bob, give us a yell when our food's ready," he called to the bartender as he crossed over to the arcade area.
I followed behind as he led me to the row of games.
“You sure about this one?”
His grin was lethal and sent a shiver through me. Nerves, because he looked so damned confident, probably.
"So sure. In fact, loser buys dinner," I said on a whim. “One practice game so I can learn the controls.”
"You're on."
He rooted around in his pocket for some singles and inserted two into the change machine, which spit quarters back at him. He dropped them into the slot and the game beeped and rang as it came to life. He thumbed through and selected his character like it was second nature. I was already mentally kissing my money goodbye by the time we started playing.
It took two practice games before I really got the hang of it, but after that, it was on.
"Damn, nice shot,” he murmured after my ice princess Helga knocked his sorcerer on his ass. “You know if you hit the R2 button she has a special attack."
I promptly did so and his character went flying backward as Helga launched an ice-whip attack in his direction.
"Nice!” He nodded his approval, and a warm rush of happiness flowed through me. This hadn’t been my choice of venue, but I couldn’t deny I was having a good time.
When bartender Bob called Matty's name three games later, I’d won the last two consecutively and had forgotten all about our food.
Matty met my gaze. "Cool game, right?"
I nodded, realizing I was grinning like a fool. "Yeah, pretty fun." I pursed my lips and waved toward the bar, coming back to earth. "We should eat before it gets cold."
And then, we could leave this place that seemed to be seducing me the same way Matthias McDaniels was. It surely wasn't intentional on his part. As irritating as he was, there was this pull...a force field around him that drew me closer. My emotions around him seemed to run so high, they were almost manic. I was either rip-roaring mad, or stupid-giddy, and both states made me majorly uncomfortable. I liked to be on an even keel and in control at all times. There was no question that being around him took me right out of my comfort zone.
I settled into my bar stool and peered down at the plate in front of me. The pieces of fish were golden brown pillows and smelled like heaven, and the fries looked like crispy spears of perfection. Pity this was Matty's place, because I was definitely starting to think I could get comfortable here.
I hunkered down and jammed a fry into my mouth, groaning as the flavor exploded on my tongue. Salty, greasy and sooo good.
"Right?" Matty said with a short laugh before plucking up one of his wings and tearing into it.
"I apologize for calling this place a dump, Bob,” I said to the bartender who was milling nearby. “I was so wrong. This place is utopia."
I bit into a filet and groaned. I'd regret it later when I had to work it off on the treadmill, but for right now, I was on cloud nine. Maybe it was a remnant of growing up poor and hungry for a lot of years, but I was a sucker for tasty food.
We ate in silence, and I managed to bite my tongue when Matty held up a finger for another drink. We’d made some serious headway and I wasn’t about to screw it up. He said it wouldn’t be a problem going forward, and for now, I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. I’d been around enough junkies to know that, if it was an issue, it wasn’t a secret he could hide for long.
When Matty finished his wings and went to the bathroom to wash up, I motioned to bartender Bob for the check. I’d won our Street Brawler 2 match, but only because Matty had taken it easy on me. Paying felt like the right thing to do. Plus, it was another leaf on the olive branch.
Bob printed it out and handed it to me in a leather billfold. I looked it over and waved him over again.
"Sorry, but I think this check's wrong,” I said with a smile. “Matty's drinks aren't on here." I wasn't flush with cash or anything, but I was a firm believer in karma and I wasn't about to rip this nice guy off because he'd added up the bill wrong.
"Nope, that's right. Matty drinks seltzer water with lime. No charge for that."
I let that sink in for a second and frowned. How strange. Why wouldn’t he just have told me that? "Tonight he drank seltzer water, or you mean he never drinks at all?"
Bob looked away and made himself busy by moving some glasses around in a rack. "I’m not...probably shouldn't have said anything. It's really none of my business. The bill's right though." He snatched up a towel and smiled apologetically before making his way to the other end of the bar, that he’d apparently just realized was filthy.
"You ready?" Matty asked, rolling up next to me, wallet in hand.
I nodded and forced a smile as I tossed a twenty on the bar and then added another ten for Bob. "Sure thing."
"You don't have to buy. I lost," Matty protested, and made to grab for the check, which I pushed out of his reach.
"You went easy on me and then told me how to do all the advanced moves. I can't take the win like that. Next time, though, watch your ass, cuz I'm coming for you."
He looked like he wanted to argue more, but I'd already started for the door.
"Thanks, everything was delicious," I said to Bob on the way out.
Matty caught up in a few long strides. "Thanks for the wings. Next time, th
ough, I buy.”
I didn’t respond, too preoccupied with the thought of a next time.
“My gym is just a few blocks from here,” he said. “You can follow me."
He was parked a few spaces down from me and climbed into his car. He pulled out and I pulled out behind him, still processing what the bartender had told me, and what Matty hadn't.
Bob had said “Matty drinks seltzer water”, not “He only had seltzer water tonight.” A fine distinction, maybe, but one that made me think this was more than just a one off.
So was he a recovering alcoholic? He was young, but that didn't mean anything. There were plenty of people in my old neighborhood that had substance abuse issues as early as thirteen. It was great that he'd identified it and was treating it early, if that was the case. Or maybe I was reading into it too much. Maybe he just didn't like the taste of booze. Although, if that was the reason, it seemed strange that Bob would have clammed up and ran off the way he did.
It was none of my business, really, except that, as his manager, if this sobriety was a new thing it could very much affect his fights. It was a delicate matter and so often, people with addiction issues slid back into old habits under stressful conditions. I didn't want to add to that, but we were expected to get some bouts scheduled. If this was a new development I’d let him get his legs under him some before we really dug in with some big matches. On the other hand, if he'd been sober for a while, we could go balls to the wall right off.
Those were the thoughts that occupied my mind on the ride over to Matty's gym, and when we pulled up, I’d decided on a wait and see approach.
Better to take advantage of the next couple minutes fine-tuning my pitch. I’d spent the last two days going over video footage of Matty’s recent fights and had some very definite opinions on where we needed to go from here.
And it was a pretty good bet he wasn’t going to like any of them.
Trust Me: Matty and Kayla, Book 1 of 3 (The McDaniels Brothers) Page 2