Layla
“Ouch, shit.” I shove my finger in my mouth, cooling the burn from the toaster that I just stuck my finger in to fish out my breakfast. That’s what I get for being in a hurry.
Blake will be here to pick me up at eight, and I want to make sure I’m ready. He’s going out of his way to help me out, and the least I can do is be waiting when he gets here.
After the way he acted in the locker room yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes up with an excuse to get out of taking me to work. Flat tire. Out of gas. Sleepover guest he’s not ready to kick from his bed. Lucky girl.
The thought brings me back to our talk at his Jeep, his big body hovered over mine. How the smell of his skin seemed to heighten my senses. I was acutely aware of the heat rolling off his body and the muscles balled up tight beneath his tan skin. And so close… so, so close to—I shake free the images of what being with him would be like.
It’ll never happen, not even for one night. Why would a young, handsome guy like Blake go for a woman like me when he has his pick from all the available girls in Vegas? What I’d assumed was flirting was probably nothing more than a bad boy with a hero complex. Maybe doing a good deed for a person down on their luck helps him justify his less-than-respectable lifestyle.
“Hey everyone, it’s take the poor single mom to work day,” I say in an affected voice while slathering peanut butter on my half-burnt toast.
Why he’s helping me out is irrelevant. He’s doing me a huge favor, and rather than dissect his motives, I’ll focus on being grateful.
I shuffle back to my room, dragging my sock-clad feet against the linoleum. Damn nightmares kept me up most the night, and the lack of sleep is doing nothing for my hustle. If Elle hadn’t popped in to say goodbye before she left for school, I’d probably still be asleep.
Back in my room, my phone is lit up with a new text.
Leaving now. Be there in ten. BD ;)
“B.D. and a winkie face. Look who’s back to being Mr. Funny.” I place my phone on the bathroom counter. I’m still smiling at his silly text when the first part of it sinks in. Crap. Ten minutes?
I race around my room, throwing work clothes on the bed and doing my best to keep a steady hand while doing my face. Running a brush through my semi-dry hair, I snag a bra and pair of panties from my drawer and toss them on the bed to join my work outfit. “Shoes.” I whirl around to my closet and—the doorbell rings.
Shit! Has it been ten minutes?
Even though I’m no longer in a hurry, I fly down the hall and fling the door open like there’s a Publisher’s Clearing House check the size of a small car waiting on the other side.
Nope. Not that. What’s waiting on the other side of my door is way better.
Blake. He’s wearing a black, zip-up hoodie and a pair of worn-out denim jeans that hug his muscular thighs just right.
“Mornin’, Mouse.” He holds up one of two insulated cups. “Thought you could use a coffee.”
I blink at his words. Then, remembering my manners, I step back to hold the door open. “Thank you. Come on in.”
He stares at my feet, and I realize I’ve been so concerned with what he’s wearing, I didn’t think about what I’m wearing. Shit.
Suddenly my threadbare T-shirt and fleece shorts feel indecent. But that’s not where he’s looking. He’s studying my feet, or rather my oversized, very pink, scrunched-up socks.
“What the hell you got on your feet, Mouse?” A crooked smile plays at his lips.
“Socks.” I tuck one foot behind my calf.
“Yeah, I got that. But you’re in Vegas. Those things were made for a snowstorm.”
“My feet get cold.” I step back, trying to hide my feet behind the open door.
His eyes swing up to mine, his near-smile wiped clean. “Huh.”
“Come in.”
He steps past me, his scent dragging by in a brutal tease.
I take a deep breath of the cool air from outside before I shut the door, locking myself inside with him and his mouthwatering smell. “I’ll be out in a minute. Let me finish getting dress—”
“Mouse, sit.”
I turn to see Blake in my kitchen, motioning for me to sit at the table. “We should probably get—”
“We have time.”
“O-Kay.” I sit down at the tiny two-seat table, across from him. The room seems to shrink to half its size with a man like Blake in the room. I pick up the coffee in front of me and take a sip. Mmm, so good. It’s been so long since I’ve indulged in the expensive coffee shop stuff.
Blake leans back in his seat, his head tilted to the side, observing. I sip my drink, the uncomfortable silence tingling my skin.
“So this is where you live.” His casual statement matches his body language.
I look around, ashamed of our meager home. “Yeah. For now. I’m hoping to get some money saved to move to a better place.”
He looks around the space, then back at me, his expression blank. “How long?”
“Until we move?”
He nods.
“Six months? Nine? Depends.”
He drums his fingers against the tabletop. “On what?”
“My paychecks.”
The beat of his fingers gets louder. “What about Axelle’s dad? You’ve got to be getting some child support or—”
I shake my head, silencing him. “No. I’m getting nothing from him. That was the deal.” My shoulders are tight, my lower back pushed off the seat back, as my false self-confidence works to hide my unease.
No longer relaxed, he leans forward, his forearm resting on the table. “What was the deal?”
“Blake, you don’t want to sit here and listen to my sob story.” Clearing my throat, I try to imitate the confident tone Blake uses when he talks. “I’m sure you can figure it out. Let’s just say Elle and I are on our own. Completely.”
“What about your parents? Axelle’s grandparents? Don’t they—”
“No. They don’t.” I stab my fingers into my hair and flex.
“I’m trying to understand why in the motherf**king hell you and your girl are out here alone and not one person gives a shit. Can you explain that to me? I wish you would. ’Cause then I wouldn’t be sittin’ up all night trying to figure out what the hell makes you, you.”
I lean back and slouch down in my seat. As much of a cocky a**hole Blake can be, he sounds genuinely concerned. And thanks to him, my car is in the shop and my daughter’s driving the most amazing piece of American Hot Rod around. I suppose I could let him in.
I trace the logo on my coffee cup with my thumb. “My parents were in their forties when they had me. Their only child got pregnant at sixteen, didn’t do much for their stress levels. Dad had a heart attack about five years ago, and they moved to a retirement home in Florida. I told myself I’d never burden them with my problems again. They deserve better.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. He crosses his arms, sandwiching his hands between his ribs and his biceps.
“They think Stewart and I parted on good terms and I moved to Las Vegas with his consent. I called to let them know we got here okay, haven’t heard from them since.” I count back. That was three weeks ago. “Growing old is doing a number on their memory. Probably forgot they have a daughter and a grandkid.” I laugh, but it’s not funny.
Blake drops his chin to his chest, a low rumble rolling from his throat.
“It’s okay. I’m happy to live here, work hard, and start over. I just want to give Elle the kind of life she deserves.”
Emotion swirls behind his bright, moss-colored eyes as they stare deeply into mine. He tilts his head. “You left… for her?”
My breath catches at the shift in his questions, from curious to super personal. But the desperate look in his eyes, the way his brows are pulled in, like he needs my answer more than air, tugs at my heart. “We had a horrible, loveless marriage. Those are painful for everyone involved, but it’s the kids who suffer the—”
“You left to protect her. He hurt you?” he whispers.
Without permission to do so, my head bobs slowly. “Yeah, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Fuck me.” The fierce curse shoots from his lips in a hiss. He drops his head into his hands, kneading his eyes with the heel of his palms.
Strong reaction from a guy I hardly know. He probably thinks Stewart slapped us around. “It’s not like he hit us or anything.” The abuse I suffered at the hands of my husband wasn’t the kind that left physical scars.
His hands move from his forehead to the back of his neck and lock there. “Go get dressed, Mouse.”
“Blake, don’t think—”
“Go. Now.” He orders me away, and something tells me it’s more for my protection than needing to get to work.
His eyes blaze with a hatred that I’ve only ever seen in my husband. But this isn’t scary. It’s comforting. God, I’m sick.
I hurry from the table and head for my room.
“Layla.”
I stop and look over my shoulder.
“Wear your hair down.”
That sounded like an order. I feel my eyes narrow. I don’t take orders from men. Not anymore. And never again.
I don’t respond, but walk straight to my bathroom and grab the tightest ponytail holder I can find.
Blake
I’ve survived a lot of bullshit in my life. A raging a**hole father. One of the toughest military schools in the country. The Marines. But none of that compares to the fight I’m engaged in now. My body is humming with homicidal thoughts.
Not only does Layla’s little f**king confession have me envisioning her and her kid at the hands of some prick, but she’s flipped my damn world on its axis with her reasons for leaving. Protecting her daughter. Pulling up stakes, living in a shit hole with no money, starting over… all for her kid.
Her story laughs in the face of my preconceived ideas of women. She didn’t show weakness, but immense strength. She wasn’t selfish, but gave up her comforts for another. Granted, her husband was a dick, but staying is taking the easy way out. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Layla chose the fight, the struggle, and the sacrifice.
All the times I prayed my mom would take us out of there, to live free from the control of my fuckface dad. She never stuck up for us, demanded a better life for her boys, fought to right the wrongs—damn. I need to pull it together.
Pacing the small living room does diddly-shit for my anger. It’s only a reminder of how these girls live in a shabby and inadequate apartment, alone to fend for themselves. There’s one ratty-looking couch, a small tube TV with rabbit ears, and cheesy plastic blinds on the windows with—I run my hand along the window frame. No locks. It’s unlikely anyone can crawl up to the second-story window, but if for some reason they had a ladder or—
“I’m ready.”
The sound of her voice spins me around. Facing her, I catch myself to avoid stumbling back as I take in her appearance. A skin-tight, pale-pink sweater clings to her body, the soft fabric enticing my fingers to touch. Her chocolate skirt is shorter than the knee-length ones I’ve seen her in before. This one skims her slender thighs, which are wrapped in patterned stockings that make me curious to know how far up they go. Do they stop at her thighs, held on by a sexy garter? Fuck me, this woman is a knockout. The T-shirt and pink socks had me hard as steel, but this is sex-on-a-desk hot.