Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (9 page)

He’s probably right. I’m a little crazy, broken, and a mess. But who wouldn’t be after what I’ve been through.

Don’t act like you didn’t want it.

My stomach pitches as the voice fights to bust into my thoughts. I bite the inside of my mouth and try to push the voice of the past back.

You’ll never get rid of me.

That may be true. But I’ll sure as hell try.

With a toss of my cocktail straw, I throw back the rest of my double vodka and soda. Drinking until I pass out should shut the fucker up. Or at the very least, make me forget. Even if only for one night.

Six

Blake

“Doc Z?” I stick my head into the small office located inside the locker room. He’s only here a few days a week, and I want to catch him before my back gets worse.

He looks up and slicks a wave of thick, gray hair off his forehead. “Blake, come on in.”

I weave around a few random boxes on the floor. The walls are bare where the last doctor’s framed medical degrees and sports medicine certifications once hung. I guess he hasn’t unpacked yet. His desk is empty except for a computer and a few short stacks of paperwork.

“Sorry to bother you.” I take a seat on the other side of his desk. “My back still hurts like a motherfucker.”

“Yeah, lumbar strains can be a bitch.” He types some shit into a computer. “The supplement shakes aren’t helping? Or the pills?”

“Yeah, they are. I think. But I’m training hard. I need something stronger than that natural shit you’ve got me on.”

He scratches his chin. “Of course.”

“Can you fix me?”

He laughs. “Fixing will take time. Time you don’t have. But I can keep you pain free until the fight. I’ll give you some cortisone shots. That, along with the shakes—”

“Don’t care. Whatever it takes to train.”

“You sure? The cortisone will make it so you can’t feel the pain, but it won’t prevent further injury.”

I shrug. “What choice do I have?”

He studies me through narrowed eyes. “Good point.”

“Have you got time to do the shots now? Sooner the better.”

After a quick flip through some pages of what I assume to be his planner, he nods. “Yeah. Meet me in the treatment room in thirty.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

~*~

“Come on! Hit it!” Owen yells from behind the heavy bag. He’s been talking shit since we started. “What in the fuck is wrong with you? My nanna hits harder than this.”

I drop my gloved hands to my side. “I’m hittin’ it hard. Put your face there and tell me if it hurts, dickhead.”

My back cramps, but it’s bearable after my session with the doc. He said it takes about two days for the cortisone to hit its highest potency, but that I should feel some immediate relief. The pinch is still there, but my mobility has improved.

“Man, Wade’s been—”

“Fuck Wade. I’ll destroy him on fight night.” I hear the confidence in my voice, but a trickling doubt sets in. I kick it back. As soon as the shots deaden the pain completely, I’ll train harder and make everyone who gave me shit send me a formal apology.

“Show me you’ll destroy him.” Owen throws his shoulder into the bag to brace it. “Let’s go!”

Opening my stance, I throw my weight into my punches, over and over again, until Owen is satisfied and backs off the bag. We move through a few different drills. Kicks, sweeps, and combinations. The aching in my back dissolves, and I’m itching to push myself harder.

“I want… to spar,” I say, catching my breath.

“Rex is waiting for you in the octagon.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “Shit, it’s Nikki. I’ve got to take this. I’ll meet you guys there.”

Owen walks toward the locker room, and I jog to the octagon, trying to keep my body loose and my blood thrumming.

Rex is there, leaning up against the chain link of the cage. “Where the hell did you run off to last night?”

Last night.
Shit. I haven’t thought about Layla all morning. Or the shattered look on her face when I turned my back and walked out of the club.
Thanks a lot, asshole.
“Had to be here early. Didn’t want to drink too much.” I sniff and drag a towel across my sweaty forehead.

Rex tilts his head and studies my face. “What’s her name?”

“Fuck you talkin’ about?”

He laughs. “The girl who scared you off last night. Talon said he saw you getting into it with a smokin’ hot chick.”

I shake my head. He’s right about the smokin’ hot part. What he’s missing is the crazy-as-a-celibate-on-Viagra part.

“She didn’t scare me off.”
Shit.
I scared myself.

Even pissed—hell, especially pissed—that woman is addicting. I stayed up half the night wondering what happened to her. I imagined breaking every single bone of the fucker that broke her. I drafted my apology to her over and over in my head. What I said was a low blow. I exposed her past, something she’s clearly wounded by, and shanked her with it. I attacked her weakness. Just like my dad.
Fuck.

“Whatever you say.” He rolls his head around on his neck. “You ready to—”

“Hell-oooo? Does anyone in this place know where I can find my mom?”

Our heads swivel in unison to the direction of the girl’s voice.
Mom?

She must’ve taken our moment of distraction as an invitation because she smiles and walks toward us. “Hi. I’m looking for my mom. Can either of you tell me where she is? That lady at the front desk didn’t know her tits from her toes.”

I choke on a swell of laughter. “Sorry, kiddo. You must have the wrong place.”

I can’t think of a single girl who works here who’s old enough to have a kid. Especially one in her teens.

She rolls her eyes and throws out a hip. “Nope. This is the place. I drop her off every morning and pick her up every night. I should know.”

Drops her off and picks her up every night?
It’s not one of the Cage Girls. They’re only here a couple days a week. Vanessa is single. No kids. That only leaves—
no fucking way.

I grab onto the chain link, speaking through the cage. “Who’s your mom, kiddo?”

“Lay—”

“Elle?” Layla’s voice sounds panicked as she hurries across the room to the teenager.

“Mom!” Elle spins around, her long, straight, and very dark hair flying with the force of her movement. “That piece of shit car broke down. Do you know how embarrassing it is to try and start your car in a parking lot full of assholes laughing at you?”

Layla’s face ignites in a bright red blush. “Watch your mouth.”

She motions to Rex and me in the octagon. “Mom, I’m pretty sure these guys have heard it all before. Jeez.”

“That’s not the point. You’re sixteen years old.” She’s trying to keep her voice down, but I’m hanging on every word.

Did she say sixteen?
That’s impossible. Layla doesn’t look old enough to have a teenage daughter.

“Did you not hear what I said? I’m telling you our
only
car is toast, and you’re worried about me saying shit in front of a couple of rough-neck fighters?”

“Axelle Rose. That’s enough.”

No. She. Fucking. Didn’t.
She named her daughter after the lead singer of Guns N’ Roses. I feel the weight of my jaw as my mouth hangs wide open.

“I had to bum a ride off a guy from school just to get here. Luckily he’s super sweet, or I’d probably be dead right now.”

Layla’s face pinches in disapproval. “Dammit. You should have called me from school. I could’ve sent a cab.”

Nothing about this is okay. I piece together the things I’m learning. Young mom, broken by a man, living alone with a teenage daughter. I flex my fists and grind my teeth.

Before I’m even aware of what I’m doing, I’m moving toward them. “Who brought you here?”

Axelle tilts her head, motioning to the lobby. “A guy from school. Said he wouldn’t leave until I found my mom.”

“And your car?”

“School parking lot.”

I direct my next question to Layla. “You have any roadside assistance, triple A?”

She studies her feet and shakes her head.

“Right. Give me a second to get cleaned up.”

“Blake, this isn’t your problem to—”

I glare hard at Layla, silencing her immediately. “Don’t.” I look up at Rex. “I need a couple hours.”

Rex gives me a chin lift and a wicked smile.
Dick.

I walk toward the locker room to get changed but stop when a hand grabs my elbow. I growl in irritation as I turn around. “What?”

Layla pulls her hand off at my reaction. “Blake, I need to apologize. Last night…” She rolls her fingers into the hem of her shirt. “I was wrong. I accused you and attacked you, and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

I watch her dark eyelashes flutter behind her librarian-style glasses. Her eyes are puffy, like she needs a good night’s sleep, and her hair is raked in to a messy ball at the back of her head. She doesn’t look any less gorgeous, but she’s not as put together as usual. Guilt washes over me. I was brutal to her last night. No doubt my words brought up shit she’s been trying to forget. They probably kept her up most the night. And she has a kid she needs to take care of.
Damn, I’m such an ass.

She clears her throat and her eyes move back to mine, searching. “You’re still mad. I understand.” Her voice is despondent, lacking the confidence of its usual sass.

“Mouse, last night was my fault. That bullshit, me being a dick, that wasn’t about you. It’s me who’s sorry.”

“It’s cool. I accused you of sleeping with Mac. I was out of line.”

We could play apology pong all day, but I need to get her car taken care of so that I can get back to training. Despite the responsibilities demanding my attention, I can’t drag myself away from her.
Man, that sounds weak.

“So we both fucked up,” she says. “That makes us even.”

I’d take everything she said last night a thousand times over if it meant I got to keep those few moments with her talking about music, our easy conversation and her unguarded smile. During those moments there wasn’t a hint of the tough-girl façade she usually wears. Even now, the mask is gone. Her eyes are soft, blinking and apologetic, revealing the weak woman that lives behind the armor.

“Let’s take care of your car.” It’s the least I can do after the verbal daggers I tossed last night.

Her eyebrows pinch together. She rolls her lips between her teeth and nods.

“I’ll meet you girls in the lobby.”

She turns back to her daughter. Her arms are tucked in tight to her body, making her seem small and vulnerable. I flash back to my childhood—my dad picking away at my mom until she was no more than a vapor of the woman she used to be. Tiny. Weak. Victimized. Remorse and a sense of responsibility flood my brain, both familiar and unwelcome.

I change as quickly as I can. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can mentally bitch-slap myself back to indifference.

In the lobby, Layla and Axelle are standing with a teenage boy and… Jonah?

“…you come by Monday through Friday after school, we’ll find something to keep you busy.” The tail end of Jonah’s sentence catches my attention.

“Great! Thanks, Assassin.” The lanky kid shakes Jonah’s hand.

“What’s up?” I’m talking to Jonah, but my eyes are fixed on the messy-headed boy.

“Blake, this is Killian. He’s a fan and a friend of Layla’s daughter. I met him last year at the airport. He’s a fuck—er—friggin’ walking Wikipedia of MMA knowledge.”

Axelle bounces on her toes and claps her hands. “The Assassin said he’d let Killian come train here if he helps out with shit.”

“Axelle,” Layla hisses to her daughter, who responds to the reprimand by rolling her eyes.

“Sounds good to me.” I step into Killian’s space. “Thanks for taking care of things. I think we’ve got it from here.”

“Sure thing, Snake.” He shuffles on his feet. “Oh, and you’re going to crush Wade ‘The Fade’ Fuller. His ground game is hopeless. Remember when he fought The Reaper back in ‘09 and couldn’t get side control, as messed up as The Reaper was? Pathetic, man.”

Jonah raises his eyebrows and tilts his head toward Killian.

I nod. “Damn, kid. I remember that fight. The Fade showed his ass big time.”

Killian shrugs and fidgets with his car keys. “Yeah, he doesn’t stand a chance against your submissions. Especially that triangle hold. It’s the best I’ve seen in MMA.”

Jonah mumbles something about his being better.

“Thanks. You really know your shit.”

Layla groans and throws her palm to her forehead. Axelle giggles.

“Killian, with your height, you’d be in the same weight class as Blake. You’d learn a lot from watching him.”

“That’s awesome. Well, I better go.” Killian turns to Axelle with a grin. “See you tomorrow, Elle.”

They say their goodbyes, and Jonah excuses himself to take a phone call.

“First things first. Let’s get your car to the shop.” I pull out my phone, dial, and push send.

The phone rings twice, and then she answers. “Hey, Blake. What’s up?”

“Baby girl, I’ve got a job for you.”

Seven

Layla

Baby girl?
Oh, great. He’s enlisting the help of one of his many. I groan deeply and curse my shitty luck.

After a quick conversation that mostly involves him giving the location, make, and model of our car, he hangs up the phone.

Elle squeals like a groupie when she sees Blake’s black Rubicon in the lot. “We get to ride in
that
?”

“How the heck do we get in it?” I say, making sure I keep my voice low so Blake can’t hear.

The thing is lifted high on tires that are almost as tall as I am. Its dark-tinted windows blend in with the coal-colored paint. He opens the passenger side doors and waits for us to load up.

Climbing in is easier than I thought, but once inside, I’m surrounded by the woodsy scent of his aftershave. After last night, I decided that I’d accept a friendship with Blake, but I’d never allow my head to go where my body leads when Blake’s close. Engulfed in the aroma of pine trees and bark after a good rain, I’m squirming in my seat.