by Jayne Blue
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Love you,
Jayne Blue
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http://www.jayneblue.com/
[email protected]
Other Series By Jayne Blue
Dark Saints MC Romance Click for a list of all the books in the series!
Great Wolves MC Romance
Tortured Hero Law Enforcement Romance
Uncaged MMA Romance
Hold Trilogy MMA Romance
Office Romance
Torrid Trilogy
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Love MMA Romance? Here’s a look at Hold, starring bad boy hunk, Craddock Flynn. Book One of the Hold Trilogy is free!
Hold Trilogy Book One Excerpt
Cassidy
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Thirty-eight percent of kids who aged out of foster care wound up homeless. Cassidy Parker was one rent check away. She spent the day filling in applications and knocking on doors. The restaurant had closed last week and she needed to find work right away, or she’d be living the statistic she knew all too well.
There weren’t a lot of openings in Irish Town, a section of Grand City that was home to pubs and the West Michigan’s best cabbage soup, but not a lot of job openings. It was also home to the only housing Cassidy could afford, well, almost afford.
Irish Town was west of Uptown. Uptown had the fancy offices. She didn’t think she was fancy office material and didn’t really want to be. She just needed rent and tuition for her online classes.
Cassidy had just about given up when she walked past the fogged-up windows of the Great Wolves Gym. She didn’t have any clue what the Great Wolves Gym was, but maybe they needed someone for something? At least it looked full. Half the storefronts she’d walked by were boarded up.
Cassidy put her hand on the metal door handle and tugged. It took her whole-body weight to get the door open, and when she did a wave of heat, sweat, antiseptic, and man smell rolled over her. It was overpowering and took a second to adjust to. She scanned the huge space.
The walls were made of red brick and on the longest wall, across from her the letters GWG formed some sort of logo or symbol. She counted two boxing rings, one cage type thing in a back corner, a section of weights, and more bags than she could count all over the place. There were ropes, tires, more mats, and each area was meticulously organized into its own section.
Huge banners hung from the ceiling along the length of one wall. They pictured muscled men, arms crossed, staring at the camera, with a list of titles. Did they all work out here? It was pretty amazing, even though she didn’t know what any of the names or titles meant.
At the various stations, there were men, muscled, tatted, hairy, shaved, and in between, men. At least thirty of them were working out in short, tight, dark colored, underwear, it was underwear in her estimation. Cassidy’s face was red. She could feel her own sweat pooling a bit in between her breasts. Maybe this was a bad idea. There wasn’t another woman in sight, maybe she wasn’t allowed?
Two men fighting in the closest ring caught her attention. So much was happening. She had no frame of reference. Every activity was new to her, but the two that were fighting, or was it sparring, in front of her were head to toe muscle and sinew. They were punching, kicking, and moving around the ring closest to her. She found herself walking closer, to get a better look.
She heard a gruff voice and followed the direction of the sound to find an older man at the corner outside of the ring yelling.
“Flynn, is that really the best you got? I told you stop leaving that left arm down.” As he said it the other man landed a punch on this Flynn’s left side, near his ear. Cassidy looked at the odd shaped ear and knew this wasn’t the first time it had taken a punch. The man had his hair pulled back into a man bun to reveal they were both puffed up and misshapen.
The fighter that the old man called Flynn lowered his left shoulder a bit and his opponent charged. Cassidy’s heart dropped for this Flynn person as the other man grabbed him by the waist and took him to the mat with a thud. He landed on his shoulder. Cassidy figured that was that. It looked and sounded painful.
But it was like the mat was made of acid all of sudden and Flynn twisted and pulled his way up. After a flurry of limbs and grunts, Flynn had turned things around. He now seemed to be in charge. The two fighters were inches from where Cassidy stood. The action enthralled her so much, she’d gotten closer than she’d meant to.
Flynn had his opponent’s head in his arms and was squeezing the man’s body with his hairy legs. He looked up from annihilating the guy and straight into Cassidy’s eyes. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen and better lashes than any woman.
But that’s where anything womanly ended. His nose was strong, even his jaw was a weapon, cloaked in dark stubble that would hurt if it rubbed against her sensitive skin. And where did that thought come from she wondered? He was a beast, and he was inches from where she stood, his eyes felt like they were burning her face.
“I’m going to squeeze the shit out of him just for you pretty.” It was almost a sneer, the words that came out of his full lips. For her? What? Cassidy was definitely not supposed to be here. Why the hell wasn’t there a restaurant that needed a waitress? She took a step back, and Flynn winked a blue eye at her. Her own sweat was getting more intense thanks to the raw look Flynn gave her. She swallowed and licked her lips, they were all of a sudden the only dry thing on her.
Flynn’s eyes traveled to her lips and all the way down to her shoes, sizing her up like another opponent. He barely noticed that the old man was screaming, and the guy who’d punched him in the ear was tapping him.
“I think you won.”
“When you walked in here I did,” was his bold-as-hell reply.
Every alarm bell that Cassidy had went off. As a girl who’d taken care of herself for the last six years, her brain screamed turn around and walk out of this strange place. But Cassidy’s brain was not in control. Every other part of her said stand your ground. Sometimes in foster care, you survived on instinct. Her instincts said to hold his stare, stay. So she did.
“Jesus, Craddock, he’s tapping out, you mook.” The old man walked from the corner across the mat to Cassidy. The fighter broke eye contact, finally, and looked at the old man, then down at his opponent.
“Oh, sorry, Whitey, I forgot he was here.” Flynn let the man go, and he stood up, ready for another round.
“Barton you’re done for the day, you too, Flynn. Neither one of you is listening for shit. Hit the showers and use that soap I got in there. We got a round of skin trouble from last week’s tournament. I don’t want you getting the dirt.”
Good lord, Cassidy thought. What was “the dirt?”
Whitey, the old man, barked the orders, and the younger men listened.
“That one’s too cocky by half. A little cocky you need, but Flynn? Just like his old man that way.” Whitey said. Cassidy wondered if the comments were to himself or to her. The old man had a belly, and a pocked marked face topped off with a wisp of white hair.
The nose was bulbous and looked not unlike the ear she’d seen on Flynn, mottled and abused. He turned his sparkling eyes in her direction. She might get out of this place alive if Whitey allowed it.
“What’s your business, girlie? If you’re signing up for a Zumba class head to the Y.”
The flurry of sweat and swagger fogged her purpose, which until a moment ago was clear. “I need a job.” It came out higher and quieter than she’d meant it to, so she cleared her throat and said it again. “I’m looking for a job and wondered if you had any openings.” This time, she straightened to her full five-two and put out a hand. Her social w
orker had taught her quite a few useful things, and a handshake was one.
Whitey put out a hand and looked at her with more than a little skepticism. She was used to that, she knew she didn’t look like much.
Whitey shook her hand with one arm and slung a white towel over his shoulder. “Whitey Hoolihan, used to be Hoolihan’s Gym, but well, the money’s here now, and we’re corporate. Only way to survive these days. We only have two sponsorships here and those are taken so I’m assuming you’re not a chick MMA fighter.”
“Right. I mean, no, I’m not a fighter.”
“Well you have a good grip for a ‘Lil bit, but you do look smaller than our bantam girl.”
“Uh, what?”
“Our little guys, eh forget it, can you answer phones?”
“Yes.”
“Can you file alphabetically?”
“Yes, numerically, too.” Cassidy tried not to let the sarcasm into her voice and reminded herself she was desperate for a job.
“How about the computer? Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes.” She had no idea what programs he was talking about, but she suspected he didn’t either, so she just kept saying yes to things he asked.
“Good, Great Wolf Gym corporate big wigs just finished buying this place, they also just sent me a computer and said we had to go paperless. What the hell is paperless?”
“I think it means all on the computer?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”
“I can help, I took a bookkeeping class in high school. I can do Microsoft Office for sure, or whatever they have. I’m a fast learner.”
“You’re not still in high school are you? Your eyes look older than high school, but I can’t tell anymore, you look young to me. I can’t have any jailbait around these animals.”
“I’m almost 21, so I am legal.”
“And you’re not dressed like the normal cheap pieces that hang all over my guys, so I’ll say that’s in your favor one-hundred percent. I realize that’s some sort of violation of federal law that I noticed, but there it is.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” A small kernel of hope blossomed that maybe there was a job here.
Whitey chuckled at her and broke into a smile. She noticed a tooth missing on the side.
“You do learn fast. A little sass is good, that’s in your favor. When can you start?”
“Whenever you need me.”
“Okay, I need you to answer phones, wash towels, spray the mat down if I can’t get one of these shitheads, pardon my French, to do it. Also scheduling stuff, uh, what else, oh yeah, keep track of the dues, and, most of all, do this damn computer stuff. Does it look like I can type for shit, pardon my French.” Whitey held up a gnarled hand whose five fingers pointed in the four directions of the compass, clearly arthritis or dislocation made the digits useless.
“No, it does not look like you can type for sh... at all.” Cassidy decided to stay with sass and not take it down a notch to crass. It was a job interview, such as it was.
“Okay, you’re hired. You start tomorrow, we open at 5 a.m. for some of the guys, but you get here at 8, okay?”
“Thank you, Mr. Hoolihan.” Cassidy had to restrain her desire to jump up and down with glee. A job! She’d been greeted with nothing but closed doors and “sorry, miss” everywhere she’d gone for two weeks and boom! A job! Plus, she didn’t have to bus tables, though she had no idea what spraying the mats entailed. Whatever. She was thrilled.
“Just Whitey, what’s your name bantam?”
“Cassidy Parker.”
“Welcome to Great Wolves Gym, Cassidy Parker.” They shook hands again.
“Oh, um, I hate to ask, but what’s the pay?”
“Of course, you need to ask. I got a small budget from GWG for a receptionist Gal Friday, you’re it. It’s ten bones an hour, full time, options for the GWG health plan after a probationary period. They don’t include dental, as you can see. GWG would go under if they had to pay for missing teeth around here.” Whitey pointed to his own gap tooth smile.
“Sounds perfect. Thank you!” Cassidy wanted to cry, she was so thrilled. This wasn’t her dream job, not by a long shot. Being a social worker was, but she had to get her online degree for that, and it would take years. That was the long game. The short game? Paying rent and tuition. And thanks to the GWG she’d be able to survive a while longer in her crappy apartment until she had that degree. So she had to wash a few sweaty towels? She’d been through worse in her years in foster care, way worse.
Whitey interrupted her mental celebration. “Here’s the computer boxes, under the reception desk. Take a look before ya go, would ya? If the GWG corporate guy shows up, he’ll have my ass if I haven’t at least started. And your paperwork’s all, uh, paperless so you won’t get paid until this stuff gets juiced up or hooked up or I don’t know, just look, please?” He indicated to all the computer boxes with extreme irritation.
“No problem.” Cassidy eyed the ancient metal desk covered in schedule books, and the unopened computer boxes that were strewn all over the place. Probably where the delivery guy had left them. Knowing her payroll program was under there somewhere was pretty good motivation to get going. Payroll, thank God, pay.
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Craddock
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Who the hell was that? That’s what Craddock Flynn was going to find out. The gorgeous girl at ringside appeared through the hazy sweat of the gym and as he choked out Barton, her eyes cut through everything else. Normally he was into the legs, the tits, the ass, but he had no idea what that looked like on her. She was all covered up in that coat.
Her. What he did know was the little shorty at ringside had the sexiest eyes he’d ever seen. Were they honey with flecks of green, or green with flecks of honey? He needed a better look. Her hair, what color was that? Cinnamon? It hung in heavy waves past her shoulders. He’d like to run a hand through it. It looked as soft as she did.
He kept the shower cold to calm down. Everything was rock hard from his skull on down. A bit of blood sluiced down the drain. He had no concern from where, probably his damn cauliflower ear, but blood didn’t bother him. It was part of the job.
His sparring partner today, Todd Barton, was no match for him and barely provided a good training session, as evidenced by how quickly he was able to beat him. Whitey was so wrong about dropping his left. It was how he lured Barton and the rest of ‘em in. They saw it as an opening, and he saw it as a trap. Yep, take the bait, fish.
His real competition wasn’t candyass Barton, it was Ezekiel Powell. The damn kid called himself The Preacher’s Son, which technically he was. But Craddock knew Ezekiel Powell was already effing branding himself, setting himself up as a product for the fight watching public.
That could be very bad for Craddock Flynn, who’d been resisting The Fighting Irish, moniker a few marketing assholes wanted to slap on him. He knew he was a walking stereotype, a hot-tempered, hard-drinking Irishman. Nothing he could do about the temper but keep it in the ring, and the booze, well, he hadn’t thrown down and partied like he used to since his dad left. When he caught his dad cheating on his mom with whiskey on his breath and bottles on the floor of his parents’ room, he kind of lost the taste for it. And he hadn’t seen his dad since.
His focus was on fighting, not marketing. Powell’s punch was more dangerous than the marketing machine that swirled around them both. It was because they were up and comers, they hadn’t made it yet. But Craddock was almost there. He was a few steps away.
Zeke Powell was in Craddock Flynn’s way. Craddock wanted one thing. That one thing that could get him everything else — a contract with the 21C League. The 21st Century Fight League was the place he could make his name, earn serious cash, and win the championship belt. It was all he thought about since his mom had brought him to Whitey over a decade ago. He’d make bank with his fists.
Craddock knew Zeke Powell had plans, too, and that was the immediate challenge
. Get ready for Zeke and make sure the 21C League picked him instead of Zeke for a pro-contract.
Both of the fighters were sponsored by GWG to train for one year, but only one would get the deal with 21C. Only one would turn blood into serious money. Craddock Flynn would make damn sure The Preacher’s Son went straight to hell.
Craddock toweled off and got dressed. He grabbed his hooded sweatshirt and pulled it over his t-shirt, mindful of Whitey’s warnings about going outside in the cold while he was still hot. As much as Whitey could be like his mom with the nagging, he was listening right now because he had three months left to prove he had the stuff to make it.
Being “coachable” was a thing the scouts looked for, and he had a reputation for having a temper and going his own way. He needed to show he could listen. Even if he thought Whitey was wrong, he needed to do what Whitey said. He needed to be more like the angel Zeke Powell. And he hated it.
As he walked out into the gym from the showers he knew she was still there, yes that pretty little thing was in the room for sure, the one good scent in the place. He shouldn’t pay attention to women right now, he should pay attention to training. Period. But that cold shower had zero half-life as his eyes found her.
He took a good, long look, this time without the distraction of having to murder Barton. Shit, she was something different. Dark cinnamon hair, he was right about that, and it wasn’t his usual. He normally went for blondes with a fake tan. Or did he? Generally, they jumped on him before he had to decide. Maybe he liked brunettes? Well, this one anyway. Her hair and peachy skin quickly become his new type.
It was hard to look anywhere but those eyes. She was tiny, really. He noticed the belt on her coat was cinched tight and knotted at her little waist. He could probably wrap his hands completely around it. His gaze kept going back up to her face, her full lips were bare, no makeup, he noticed. Time to find out the name of this little cinnamon spice girl.