He lifts his chin, then bites and releases his lip. “I could be a gentleman. I like role play.”
Adding sexy banter to the list of things this guy is good at, next to tampon retrieval, I make a mental note to stay the hell away from him. With an exaggerated roll of my eyes that I hope he’s smart enough to notice, I turn my back on the giant.
Clutching my broken bag, I wait on the girl to buzz me in, or whatever she has to do to get me away from this arrogant ass.
“Hmm, yeah. You’re not on the visitors list.” She shrugs like I should just grab my scraps of purse and leave.
On the inside, I’d be happy to slink away with what little is left of my pride. But my life doesn’t afford those luxuries. Not anymore. This is my only chance to move on.
“If you’ll get Mr. Gibbs on the phone, I’m sure he’ll vouch for me. My name is Lay—”
“Don’t worry, Vanessa. I got this.”
I drop my head and groan. He’s still here?
Whirling around to face him, I plan on telling him that he can go about his business and that I can take care of my damn self. But he’s standing no more than a foot away, and his eyes, which are the color of spring grass, penetrate mine. They’re intense, and… amused? He’s smiling, but only slightly. I narrow my gaze. His grin expands.
“Is there something you find particularly funny?”
He doesn’t answer, but continues to study my face. His eyes roam from my mouth to my neck and then back. What’s this guy’s problem?
I wave my hand in front of him. “Hello? Yo habla English?”
The side of his mouth lifts, and his eyes sparkle.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“Not a cat.” He takes a step closer. “But I’d give it to a mouse.”
He called me “Mouse” earlier. “What the hell does that mean?” I shift my loose belongings in my arms and dig for my phone. Anything to take my attention from the man towering above me. “Look, if you two won’t call Mr. Gibbs…” Shoveling junk to the side, I search every crevice of my purse. Where is it? Ah, there it is. I yank out my phone and scroll through my contacts. “I’ll call him myself.”
My phone is snagged from my hand. “Wha—”
“He’s not who you want.”
“You just… I can’t believe you just…” I thrust my hand forward and stomp my foot. “Give me my phone.” This guy has some nerve. I wish I could smack that smile from his face.
He plops my phone into my hand. “Come with me. I’ll take you to tryouts.” His voice no longer drags with a teasing tone, but is laced with sincerity, as if he’s really trying to help.
I don’t know if I should trust him. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even… who are you?”
“Whoever you want me to be, Mouse.” And he’s back to teasing.
“Look, Mr…?” Why is he smiling? I follow his eyes to my—oh my gosh.
He’s staring at my boobs.
I cross my arms at my chest and c*ck my hip. “I’m here for a job.”
His eyes flare as he stares at my br**sts that I’ve now propped up on my forearms for his viewing pleasure.
I drop my arms and scowl. Ugh, why do I feel nak*d right now?
“Oh, I know why you’re here,” he says with a deep chuckle.
“No you don’t.” I’ve barely managed to get a word in.
“Mm-hm.”
“Fine, Mr. Mindreader. Why am I here?”
“Follow me.”
I don’t like him ordering me around, but I’ve got less than ten minutes before I’ll be considered late. Maybe if I follow him in I’ll be able to find someone to help me locate Mr. Gibbs.
I slide my pile of broken purse pieces from the reception desk. “Well, aren’t you…” Impossible. Annoying. Conceited. A groan rumbles up my throat. “Fine.”
“Some women call me fine, I prefer handsome.” He walks down a hallway, motioning for me to follow. “Sexy works too, or you can call me Blake.”
What is he, a friggin’ comedian? This guy’s so full of himself. It’s not like he’s some big shot fighter… oh no. Realization dawns in a face-flaming instant, and my one stroke of good luck is that I’m behind him so he can’t see me. He’s one of the UFL’s top fighters.
Blake Daniels, nicknamed “The Snake” for his submissions. Jiu-Jitsu black belt, fighting for the UFL since 2006, middleweight title contender. I read all about him in the prep email Mr. Gibbs sent me.
Blake has a big fight coming up. It’s the reason Mr. Gibbs wanted me to start right after the New Year so I could learn the ropes as the fight night approaches.
No more mouthing off to one of the UFL’s golden boys. I follow him into a warehouse-like gym, my mouth tightly shut. He greets a few other guys by name. I recognize some of them, and run through their stats in my head.
He pushes through a door and into a smaller room. The wall is lined with mirrors, and there’s a group of girls sitting at a table. One is sitting on top of it.
“Hey, Blake,” the girls sing in unison.
I shake my head at the seductive tone in their voices.
Guys like Blake Daniels are bad news. Breaking hearts with a look, no doubt.
“Ladies. I found this one lost in the lobby. Thought I’d escort her in.” He looks around the room, his eyebrows low. “Where’s everyone else?”
“No tryouts today.” The blonde who was sitting on the table hops off and struts toward us.
What tryouts?
“Hm. Well, you guys should get, uh…” He looks down at me. “What’s your name, Mouse?”
What is up with that nickname?
I glare up at him. “Stop calling me that.” I face the blonde and her two sidekicks. “I’m not here for tryouts for, um, whatever you—”
“Cage Girls,” a redhead girl says.
I point at her, glad somebody finally let me in on what’s going on. “Cage Girls. Right, I’m not here for that. Mr. Gibbs hired—”
“You’re not here for tryouts? With that hot little body?” Blake’s compliment has me shifting on my feet.
“No, or thank you, I guess, but no. I’m Mr. Gibbs’s new assistant.” I shove my hand toward Blake, acting firm and professional. Confident. “Layla Moorehead.”
His expression is blank, giving nothing away but a slight twitch of his lips. “What did you say?” He ignores my proffered hand.
I pull it back and clutch my bag to my body. “Mr. Gibbs hired me to—”
“No, I heard that.” His lips curve up on one side. “What’s your name?”
“Layla. Moorehead.”
He throws his head back with a laugh so loud and deep it resonates off the walls. “Fuckin’ A, Mouse. That’s the best name for a chick I’ve ever heard.”
Oh, here we go. I should have known a man like this would have the sense of humor of an eighth grader. I rub my temples, pushing back the oncoming headache. “Are you finished,” I say as dryly as I possibly can, but most likely not loud enough to be heard through his howling.
“That’s some funny shit.” He catches his breath after his fit of laughter. “Wait, let me guess.” He scratches his cheek, which is covered by the perfect amount of stubble. “You’re a stripper, right?”
What. An. Asshole.
Three
Blake
No shit. Layla Moorehead?
This babe’s hot as hell, and she’s named after sex and blowjobs. That’s a combination impossible to ignore. And that’s not where the dick-swell stops. The chick has attitude. Most girls do the blush-and-duck when I tease them. Miss Sex and More Head gave it right back. I like that.
“So you’re the new executive assistant Taylor’s been blabbing about?” Damn, guess I won’t be seeing that gorgeous body in a Cage Girl uniform after all. Not that the tight sweater dress she’s wearing leaves much to the imagination. And f**k me if she doesn’t smell downright edible.
She wiggles her nose and then pushes her glasses up with her middle finger. I squint toward her and grin. She just flipped me off like grade school kids do. Yep, seriously diggin’ the attitude.
“I guess I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She checks her fancy wristwatch. “I’m late.”
She walks past me, and the scent of vanilla from her sunshine-blond hair penetrates my senses. I resist the urge to lick my lips and sample the air. She smells like she looks. Delicate and irresistible.
I enjoy the show, watching the tight curves of her body roll beneath the fabric of her dress as she heads toward the wrong door. She reaches for the handle that opens into a large storage room and yanks hard. It’s locked. Instead of walking away when it doesn’t budge, she yanks again. She squeaks in frustration, just like she did in the lobby when I found her on her knees with that fine ass in the air.
Hands on my hips, I watch and wait. And grin like a fool. This girl is f**king hilarious. She tugs again, like maybe the sheer will of wanting to escape will magically open the door. The Cage Girls giggle.
“Mouse. Wrong door, sweetheart.”
She spins around, fast and angry, a long piece of her shining hair falling from its ballet girl bun and dancing down her face. She pushes it back only to have it fall right back down. Fuck, this girl is cute.
I point to the door she needs, and she straightens her shoulders. Cradling her broken bag in her arms, she marches toward the door, throws it open, and disappears behind it.
“Too bad,” Melinda, the captain of the Cage Girls, says. “She would have made a great CG. A little short, but perfect body.”
“Hmm.” I’m smiling at the door that Mouse just left through. “Yeah, too bad.”
What’s a shame is that Layla’s too locked up in her head. She’s fun as hell to play with, and her body alone promises a different kind of excitement. But there’s one thing I know about girls like Miss Moorehead—they’re more chore than whore. But I’ll enjoy the eye-gasm I get every time I pass by that sweet piece.
After tossing the Cage Girls a quick later, I make my way to the weight room, the place I was headed before I got sidetracked by Taylor’s new hire. The place is practically empty except for Rex and the boys, who’re already lifting.
“Late, bitch.” Owen’s spotting the new kid, Mason, on the bench press.
“Had to show Taylor’s new assistant around.” I pull my thermal over my head and toss it aside, leaving me in my sleeveless undershirt.
“Finally. That guy needed to get rid of Helga years ago.” Rex curls his weights, talking to my reflection in the mirror.
“Her name was Heidi, dumbass.” I stop at the bench and glare at Mason.
He hops up, and I take my place under the bar.
“She acted like a Helga. Fuckin’ girl was as slow as a ninety-year-old woman on muscle relaxers.”
Owen throws on a couple more weights and locks them on the bar. I brace my shoulders against the bench and then push up and out, steadying the bar that’s loaded to 300 pounds. I drop the weight to my chest and thrust it back up.