Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series) (35 page)

I’d been convinced that it’s genetic, but if that were the case, it would’ve started earlier than a few weeks ago. I wrote it off to my protective side kicking in, since having Layla in my life has brought out a possessiveness that I didn’t know I had. But that doesn’t explain the paranoia and the rage that constantly lurks just beneath the surface.

It’s time to get some help.

I drag ass to Doc Z’s office as my last resort. Opening up and exposing a weakness is a rule one no-no in my book. But I’m out of options and looking for answers.

Knocking twice, I crack the door. “Hey, Doc. You have a minute?”

“Oh, sure.” In a quick move, he shoves paperwork into the top drawer of his desk. “What’s up?”

I step inside the small room, and the smell of antiseptic and Ace bandages fills my nose. Closing the door behind me to avoid being overheard, I sit where Doc motions for me to take a seat. “Is it your back? Do you need another round of cortisone?”

“Nah, it’s all right. But I may need another dose before the fight.”

“That’s two weeks away. You might want to get a jumpstart on the pain so you don’t compromise your training.”

“Sure, uh… yeah.” Whatever. That’s not why I’m here.
Spit it out, Daniels.
“I wanted to talk to you about the supplements I’m on.”

He sits up taller and then leans onto his desk. “Okay, what is it—” His forearm hits a stapler, sending it crashing to the ground. He leans over to grab it, and then puts it back on his desk. Is his hand shaking?

I narrow my eyes at him. He seems off. Fidgety. “You okay?”

“Of course.” He flashes a weak smile. “Go on.”

My fingers drum against my thigh. “It’s my temper. I don’t know how to explain it, other than it’s been more intense than usual.”

Doc Z nods empathetically like a good little therapist.

“I was thinking about it the other day, and… it seems like it might be the supplements.” Layla’s advice about being leery of what I put into my body rings in my ears. “I guess what I’m asking is, do any of the herbal supplements I’m on have side effects? Um… that would affect my temper?”

Damn, I feel like a pussy.

“Of course. Absolutely.” Doc Z leans back in his chair.

My eyes dart to his. “Really?”

“Sure. Many of them will increase your natural testosterone, which will make you a bit moody.”

Understatement of the fucking year.

“Anything that’s intended to heal muscle rapidly may also affect your natural hormones. Just like a woman with PMS, a fighter on supplements may have some mood swings. It’s all normal.”

I cringe at his words. “You’re saying I have PMS?”

He chuckles and wipes beads of sweat from his forehead. “Sort of. The good news is, like women, the mood will pass. When you stop taking the supplements, you should feel better. For now, I’d use that extra aggression to train.”

That makes sense. Why didn’t I think of that?

This whole time I’ve been worried that I’ve inherited the asshole gene from my dad. A short fuse with a temper that chases away the people I care about. The possibility alone was enough to make me crazy—crazi
er
.

Instead, I’ve got HMS. Hormonal Man Syndrome.

Well, shit. Now I really feel like a pussy.

I stand up from my chair and give Doc a nod. “I’ll do that.”

Moving out and through the locker room, I take a cleansing breath. The doc’s right. I’ll channel this aggression into my training. A small part of me warns that I can’t control it, but I push that aside. I’ll try harder.

I remember the promise I made myself the night I left the Marines and became a fighter.

Nothing and no one will control me.

This is no different.

Layla

I’m clicking around my computer, watching the clock and waiting impatiently for my lunch break. Blake’s been meeting me for lunch at the same time every day for the last week. It’s become the highlight of my day, next to seeing him walk through my front door on the nights he stays over.

But today, I’m even more anxious to see him. He left my bed early after I got a phone call from my parents. I couldn’t be sure, but he seemed mad when he left. I’ve replayed our conversation a million times but can’t figure out what triggered his sudden departure, or why he slammed the front door when he left.

Things like that have been happening a lot lately. I’ll be in the middle of talking to one of the other fighters at work, or I’ll mention something about our lives back in Seattle, and Blake goes solid, tensing his jaw and clenching his fists. Sometimes I could swear I’ve heard him grinding his teeth.

There’s a part of me that worries I’ve attracted someone with anger issues. A man who walks the thin line of his temper, always on the verge of blowing up. My stomach spirals and I pinch my eyes closed. But he’s also so sweet. Caring in a way I’ve never experienced before. The complete opposite of Stewart.

“Excuse me,” an irritated female voice sounds from behind me, dragging me from my thoughts.

I spin in my chair to see a beautiful blonde in revealing workout clothes standing in front of my desk. “What? Um… can I help you?”

Her cheeks puff with an exaggerated breath. She drops her gym bag on my desk, sending my pencil cup tumbling. “Uh, you better. Taylor said I’d have the same locker I had when I was here last. I tried the combination, and it didn’t work.”

“Oh.” Who is this woman? She’s not a Cage Girl. Those girls have killer bodies, but this girl’s body is trained to kill. Her muscles are cut like a man’s, but on a smaller scale. Her blond hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, the long locks trailing down just past her shoulders. With her bright blue eyes and full lips, she’d be considered gorgeous if it weren’t for the hideous scowl marring her perfect features.

“Who are you? Where’s Heidi?” She’s still scowling.

“She doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Layla.” I stand up and offer my hand. “And you are?”

I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes narrow even more. “Who am I?” A burst of humorless laughter flies from her lips. “You don’t know shit, girl.”

Girl? Who the fuck is she calling girl? I might not be old enough to be her mom, but I’m definitely older than this twit.

I lower my hand, straighten my shoulders, and throw on a confident smile. Even across the desk, it’s obvious this girl has a good six to ten inches on me. “I’ll tell you what I do know. I know you need a locker. I’m the person who assigns them. If you tell me who you are, I can help. If not, then you can wait for Mr. Gibbs.” I motion to the chair at her side.

She studies me in a way that would make a lesser woman squirm. But I hold her evil eye, eyebrows raised, waiting.

“Call him right now and—”

The door to Gibbs’s office swings open, and the sound of his angry voice breaks up our bitchy-girl stare-down.

“—how risky that was?” Gibbs growls into the phone before looking up to see he has company. “Z, hold on.” He looks at Robo-bitch. The bright red of his cheeks recedes, and his thin lips relax into something that resembles a smile. “Camille, you made it.”

“Yeah, I need a locker.” She scoops her gym back off my desk, narrowly missing my framed picture of Axelle. “You told me I’d—”

“Layla’ll take care of that.” He nods in my direction. “I’m on an important call.” Pushing past her, he calls over his shoulder, “Good to have you back. We’ll talk later.” He presses the phone back to his ear and snarls something I can’t make out.

I slide my gaze from Gibbs’s retreating form to the fuming mass of muscle and make-up in front of me.

“Locker.” She spits the word, making sure I know it’s not a request.

“Name.” I return the attitude in true teenage fashion.
Thank you, Axelle.

“Camille.”

“Yeah, I got that. Do you have a last name, or do you go by just the one? Like a dog?”

Her eyes flare and the muscle in her jaw jumps. “Did you really just say that?”

I tilt my head and give her my sweetest smile. “Damn right I did.”

“Aw, fuck.” Blake’s voice rumbles through the space between us, shattering my tough girl ’tude.

My fake smile morphs into a genuine one. “Hey, Snake—”

I stop, suddenly realizing that I’m no longer Camille’s target. She’s got laser vision, and it’s pointed directly at my boyfriend. “Well wha’daya know? My elevator hook-up returns.” The drawl of Robo-bitch’s words leaves zero questions as to her meaning.

My mouth falls open and my ribs seem to contract, making it hard to breathe. I swing my gaze between her and Blake, waiting for the denial from his lips. It never comes.

I know Blake has a past that involves many women. I’m pretty sure most of the Cage Girls have seen the inside of his bedroom. That’s part of who he was. I accept that. But those girls are like prey. Innocent victims lured in by his demi-god good looks and panty-melting charm.

This woman is different. She’s a predator. His equal. A protective instinct stirs within me and runs a close second to my jealousy.

Blinking, I clear my throat. “I guess introductions aren’t required.” Desperate to get rid of her, I pivot to my computer and pull up the locker assignment file.

“What are you doing here, Camille?” Blake asks in a low, grumbly voice.

Of course
he
knows her name. I wonder what he had to do to get it out of her?
Ugh! No, I don’t want to go there.

“I’m in Vegas for some promotional stuff,” she says with no hint of her earlier hostility.

Bitch.

I jot down the first number I see, along with the three-digit combination. My back is to them, but my ears are tuned in and turned up.

“Good to see you, Snake.” I hear the sound of her feet shuffling on the carpet as she moves. “I’ve been thinking about you. I’ll be in town for a while, we could—”

“Here ya go.” I rip the Post-it from the stack and spin around in my chair. Blake’s eyes are on me, radiating comfort.

Her eyes are on me too. And she’s furious.

I shove my finger toward her, sticky note first, and wiggle it. “Here. Your locker. Take it.”
And get the hell gone.

My eyes move to Blake. He’s biting his lip to fight a smile. When it looks like he’s about to lose his hold on his humor, he drops his chin.

Laughing? Really?

Camille finally plucks the paper from my hand. “If you don’t mind? I’m catching up with an old friend.”

Blake steps around her and walks behind my desk. His eyes are still dancing with humor as he cups the nape of my neck with one hand and circles my waist with the other. Before I can open my mouth, he covers it with his.

My legs wobble for an instant before he pulls me in tight so that I’m flush with him from hip to chest. I grip his biceps, holding on as he curls his towering frame over me. Possessing me. His taste, so distinctly Blake, with a hint of Gatorade, floods my mouth. A moan rumbles in my chest, and I tilt my head, allowing his dominance. Desire unfurls in my belly with every wet thrash of his tongue. All too soon he pulls back, nipping at my bottom lip.

“Move along now, Camille. You got what you came for, and I need some privacy with my woman.” His words are directed at her, but he never once takes his eyes from mine.

“Your
woman
?” She makes a disgusted noise. “You’re kidding, right? She’s like… old.”

Blake’s body gets hard, and his hands flex into my skin. Her comment hit me like a brick to the gut, and my body’s hot with humiliation.

I watch as he fights to control his temper. “Blake, it’s—”

“Watch your fucking mouth, Camille.” He grounds out the words through clenched teeth.

“I can’t believe this shit.” I don’t look, but I hear the sound of her retreating footsteps as she heads down the hallway in a huff.
That was close.

My hands glide from his arms and over his shoulders, where they hook around his neck. Rubbing circles into his tense muscles until he relaxes, I force my embarrassment away and focus on lightening the mood. “You did that on purpose.”

He takes a shaky breath, and the rage clears from his eyes. “Did what, Mouse?”

“I was formulating a strongly worded speech about the hazards of screwing crazy Amazon-looking bitches. But then you kissed me, and I forgot.”

“Never screwed that bitch—”

“Crazy Amazon-looking bitch.”

His lips tick with the hint of a smile, and he gathers me closer. “Right. Never screwed her. We hooked up about six months ago. One night. It wasn’t anything more than—”

I cover his mouth with my hand. “How is it that those lips can cause delirium with one kiss, and induce a gag seconds later?”

He kisses my palm, sending tingles up my arm. I move it away to find him grinning.

“Mouse, just keeping it real.”

“Yeah well, I’ve got enough information. My mind is all over the place with all the
real
that happened between you two.” I groan and drop my forehead to his chest. “She’s right though. I’m way older than you.”

“I dig that you’re older. Chicks my age act like toddlers hopped up on helium. They’re obnoxious. Or didn’t you notice with the production that skank just put on?”

I place my palms on his chest and look up at him. “Skank? That’s not nice.”

His eyebrows practically hit his hairline. “Oh, you can call her an amazon-looking bitch, but I can’t call her a skank?”

“Well, yeah. Being a bitch is one thing, but belittling her because you two hooked up? I mean technically if she’s a skank for hooking up with you, then you’re just as much of a skank for hooking up with her.”

He holds a stoic expression for a few seconds before he drops his head back and roars with laughter. His eyes sparkle with humor, the skin at the corners wrinkles from the force of his smile, gorgeous lips framing his perfectly straight teeth. My heart leaps in my chest.

“Sweetheart, that was some funny shit.” He kisses my forehead, still shaking with a silent chuckle.

“You know what sucks?”

“No, but I’m looking forward to hearing it.”

“She’s super pretty.” I’m not hideous looking. Some would say I’m attractive, for an older mom type, I guess. But she’s the full package. Well, except the bitchy part.