Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series)

by Salsbury, JB

  Don’t do it, dude. Do not fucking do it. “Mouse, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  I did it.

  “Oh, no. It’s fine. I’ll—”

  “Take the help, Layla.” I lock eyes with hers. “Seriously. This shit is not a big deal.”

  “Okay, Blake.”

  I turn around and continue to my car. I’m pissed and stoked as hell. Playing chauffeur to a chick with baggage, and a kid.

  Fuck me. I’m gonna regret this.

  Eight

  Layla

  I’m back at work after the trip to the garage, and I can’t stop grinning. Sure, I compromised and let Blake negotiate my rental. But really, it was Jonah who hooked that up. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. It feels less dependent. I mean, if anything, I’m helping him and Raven out by using a car that would be collecting dust. Yeah, that makes complete sense.

  What doesn’t make sense is that for a brief moment behind Blake’s car, I allowed myself to consider what it would be like to be kissed by him. At one point it seemed like he might try, but all I could think was that Raven might get jealous and do something crazy like poke holes in my gas tank. It wasn’t until later I realized what an idiot I was for assuming that Blake was having some sort of a sexual relationship with Raven, when she’s Jonah’s wife. My cheeks burn at the memory.

  The shame of accusing Blake of two love affairs with two different women made me acquiesce and accept the help. Those moments of weakness were totally worth the full-blown euphoria of driving that Camaro—windows down, music up, and the roar of the engine vibrating my vital organs. Invigorating would be an understatement. I’m watching the clock, eager for the chance to get back into that thing. Tonight I’m taking the long way home.

  I’m straightening up my desk, preparing to leave for the night, when the phone at my desk rings. “Taylor Gibbs’s office, this is—”

  “Layla, it’s Xavier.”

  “Hey, Z. What’s up?”

  “I need your signature on a few things. You want to come down to my office, or should I come to you?”

  I check the clock. Almost five. “I’m on my way out. I’ll come down.”

  “Great.”

  Grabbing my things, I head to his office. Luckily, the room is at the opposite end of the locker room from the showers, or coming down here would make my job very uncomfortable. Pushing the door open, I keep my eyes to the ground and make a beeline to the back room.

  His office door is open a crack. I knock lightly and push my way in.

  He’s sitting behind his desk. “Layla, that was fast.” Papers rustle as he slides them into his top drawer.

  “Oh, yeah. I’m in a rush to get home.” Not really, more like a rush to drive the kick-ass hot rod that’s waiting for me in the lot.

  He sorts through a short stack of papers, pulling out a few and handing them to me. “Just need a signature on these treatment forms.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Routine red tape.”

  I grab a pen off his desk then flip through the papers, giving each a brief scan. Pharmaceutical orders. I’ve seen similar order forms before, and even recognize the company logo belonging to of the big pharm companies that’s putting the smaller ones out of business. It was a topic I heard about often in my old life. The thought gives me the creepy crawlies. I sign quickly and drop the pen. “That it?”

  He looks them over. “Sure is. Thanks.”

  After a smile and a friendly good-bye, I leave the office. I keep my head low and make my way back through the locker room, using the tile on the floor and my peripheral vision to find my way. I’m halfway to the door when I slam into a solid wall of muscle.

  I throw my hands up against a knotted abdomen covered in a cotton T-shirt. Thank God, I didn’t run into one of the guys naked. “Sorry. Shoot, I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?”

  I swallow a breath at the familiar voice. Blake.

  “I stepped in front of you.” The rolling bass of Blake’s words draws my gaze up.

  His stare is severe, despite his blank expression.

  I take a step back and drop my hands. “Hey.”

  He lifts his chin in greeting.

  “Listen, I uh… didn’t get a chance to thank you properly at the garage. You’re right. I need to be better about accepting help. So…” So what? How do I thank him? A handshake seems too formal. A hug?

  He stands still, his eyebrows raised.

  I awkwardly open my arms. “Um…” I push up to my tiptoes and move in for a hug.

  He leans back fractionally, and, in a moment of terror, I wonder if a hug is too personal. Too late now.

  Even on my tiptoes, my arms don’t reach his thick, corded neck. I lock my hands at his nape and pull him in. He leans down, the raw strength of his powerful arms wrap around my waist and tug me close. I’m practically lifted off my feet as he holds me to his body. His firm chest presses against mine, the heat of his skin penetrates my thin sweater and coils deep in my belly.

  The safety of his strength and the warmth of his touch, combined with the clean, spicy scent of his skin, would be any girl’s happy place. With my cheek pressed to his shoulder, I bite my lip against a moan. How something can feel so good and be so, so bad, I’ll never know.

  I pull away, and he releases me easily. “Thanks.”

  His eyes do that thing where they travel from my lips to my hairline. Like he’s looking at a steak and doesn’t know which bite to take first.

  A slow shiver crawls down my spine.

  “Your place.” His strange statement has my cheeks burning.

  My place. As in… no, that’s not what he means. Is it? What would I do if it was? “What?”

  “Your address.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “For tomorrow.”

  Uncomfortable laughter shoots from my lips. “Yes. Of course.” I dig in my purse looking for a piece of paper and a—oh, found a pen. “One second here. If I could just find something to write on.”

  He puffs out what sounds like an impatient breath. With one yank, he has the pen in his hand, and one move later, my hand is in his. “Text it to me.”

  A little buzzed from the combination of his big hand consuming mine and the subtle forest smell I’m beginning to associate with only him, I bob my head affirmatively as he scribbles something on my palm.

  He drops my hand and pops the pen into my purse. “Eight AM.”

  “Um… eight, that… good. I’ll uh…” I struggle to get the words out, but he’s already turned and disappeared behind a row of steel lockers.

  What the hell was that? One minute the guy treats me like a friend and the next a burden. And the almost kiss behind his Jeep today is the whipped topping on this mind-fuck sundae.

  I shake off the awkward exchange. Whatever is or isn’t happening between us isn’t worth my overthinking. His actions prove he’s a friend. That’s enough for me.

  Blake

  It’s late, and I’m still up. I read the text that came in a few hours ago one more time.

  237 N. Tulum Dr. #290 See you in the a.m. Layla

  Shortly after I added her number to my contact list, right below Lanette and above Leah, I punched her address into MapQuest. She’s in one of the worst neighborhoods in Vegas.

  If I was a good guy, I’d drive over there right now, pack up all their shit, and take them to a hotel until they find somewhere safer. I groan and rub my forehead, my brain feeling like a party mix of compulsion and annoyance.

  Something ain’t right. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to tune this girl out. I’ve done it countless times in the past. All I have to do is decide not to care. But no matter how many times I make that decision, Layla Moorehead continues to grate against my determination.

  Fuck. I push up from the lounger on my patio and head back inside. My back is completely numb now from the good doc’s cortisone injections, but I don’t want to take any chances. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and throw back a handful of Doc’s prescription holisti
c crap.

  Standing in the kitchen, I look around my condo. The lights of the Las Vegas strip blaze in the distance. The floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows do nothing to ease the feeling of being shrink-wrapped in my own skin. I’m edgy, ticking, and on the verge of explosion.

  Just like my dad. Pissed off, irritable, ready to take on the world with my bare knuckles.

  Maybe it’s the fight coming up. That has to be it. I can’t stand to entertain the alternative. But the possibility lingers.

  And for whatever reason, Layla’s presence in my life seems to aggravate the situation. Holding her in my arms, her fragile little body pressed in close from chest to hip. Vanilla spice curling through my senses and practically dropping me to my knees. Fuck. I was a half a second away from pushing her back against a wall and tasting that sweet mouth.

  My words from the night before come flooding back. Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.

  She’s too fragile. Broken in a way that makes a guy like me Riddex to my emotionally fractured Mouse.

  Attacking Layla’s weak spot at the club, reeling her in just to kick her in the gut, was a typical Duke Daniels move. And as desperate as I am to avoid becoming even a shadow of a man like that, it’s out of my control. I’m furious at how easily I become what I hate the most.

  And I’m bitter as hell that there was someone in my life who should’ve protected us, but didn’t. If only my mom would’ve done her job as a parent and left his ass in order to protect us from the verbal abuse. But no, it was me who protected her. Always. She was so damn weak.

  My head pounds. This feeling-sorry-for-myself shit has got to stop. I move through my living room and down the hallway. Stopping at the only locked door in the house, I reach up and pull down the single key hidden on top of the doorframe.

  I unlock the door and push into the dark room. It’s windowless and soundproof. Without turning on a single light, I know where everything is. My mind has memorized it. I move deeper inside, allowing the scent of maple, rosewood, and mahogany to soothe my damning thoughts. Ready to purge the negative shit coursing through my veins, I take a seat and let the tension melt into the floor.

  There in the dark, hidden from even myself, I drown in the one indulgence that has never let me down.

  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 s
tory.” 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 motherfucking 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 asshole 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—”