by Josie Kerr
“God, I need caffeine,” Dig groaned and grabbed a mug and the coffee carafe.
“You need a shower, too. Oof.” Tig made a face.
“Man, I never, ever remember how crazy those psychobilly chicks are.”
Tig laughed as he snapped the lids on his meals. “That good, huh?”
“Man, that chick was scary. It really wasn’t even fun.”
“Maybe you’re outgrowing easy pickups. Did you ever consider that?”
Dig squinted like he was thinking hard but then shook his head. “Nah. I gotta few years left, just not with that psychobilly chick.”
Tig laughed as he loaded his lunches in a bag. He was just getting ready to give Dig more shit when an ear-splitting whistle rang through the kitchen, and Ryan popped his head in the door.
“C wants all the fighters in the conference room in ten, guys. Before you ask, I have no idea, but he’s been pulling at his hair and beard all morning, so he looks like a deranged Sasquatch. This is your warning.” The cutman popped back out of the doorway to go search for more fighters.
The two wandered down to the main floor of the fight club where they heard Colin’s angry voice barking orders for all the fighters to “get their asses into the conference room, stat.”
“Wonder what’s got C’s shorts bunched up?” Tig murmured.
“Hell if I know, but damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this pissed,” Dig whispered back.
The fighters milled around the large conference room until Colin came in and slammed the door with such a force that the windows rattled. Junior murmured a soft, “C, chill.”
Colin did seem to calm himself by taking a deep breath and cracking his neck, which in itself was an indicator that the huge former champion was supremely agitated.
Tig’s stomach knotted at the first two words out of Colin’s mouth: “unlicensed fights.”
Colin looked around the room, his eyes resting on each fighter’s face, not accusing, but warning. He talked about the risks of participating in underground fights: the risks to the fighter, the risks to professional careers, and finally, the risk to DS Fight Club itself.
Tig kept his eyes glued to the ground as Colin continued to lecture the fighters, not risking meeting Ryan’s eyes.
“At the end of the day, guys, know this: if you’re having issues, or if you know anything at all about who is organizing these things, come to me. All you gotta do is reach out, and there will be no judging. But if I find out that any of my fighters are involved in this, after the fact? They’re gone. Period.”
With a final look around the room, Colin dismissed the fighters.
Tig was halfway down the hallway when he heard Colin call his name.
“Hey, Tiggyman, when you get a chance, drop by the office, okay?”
Tig nodded his head in acknowledgment.
Colin grinned at Tig’s worried look. “This has nothing to do with this illegal fighting mess, okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there in just a sec, C.”
Still, Tig worried about Colin calling him into his office. As he walked down the hall, he ran over the post-fight actions, and all he could think of was he was in trouble for doing a backflip off the top of the cage, though he made sure that his opponent was up and out of the way before he did it.
“C, you wanted to see me?”
Colin looked up from the computer where he was hunting and pecking something out. Tig suppressed a snicker at the big fighter.
“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh. They don’t make Big and Tall keyboards, I don’t think,” Colin said good-naturedly. “Have a seat, Tig.”
Tig did, and then he waited a few more, long, painful minutes until Colin finished what he was typing and turned to Tig with a manila envelope in his hands.
Tig’s breath caught in his throat.
Oh God, not again. No, no, no.
Seeing the distress on Tig’s face, Colin started shaking his head. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tig. What is going on? Why are you freaking out?”
Tig sucked air in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Sorry, I guess I’m still wound up from the fight.”
Colin grinned, his silvery-blue eyes twinkling and his teeth white in his dark beard. “Well, you did an excellent job, Tig. Congratulations.” Colin slid the envelope across the desk.
“What . . . is this?”
“It’s your check, buddy: the purse, along with your bonuses. I wanted to give it to you first thing.”
Tig inched the envelope closer to him and licked his lips. “Oh, okay. Yeah.”
Colin looked at the smaller fighter, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
“Well, good job, man. If you see Dig roaming around out there, send him my way, okay? But I bet he’s still sleeping off whatever he got up to after the fight.”
“Nah, I saw him in the kitchen earlier, before the meeting. He way needed to shower, though.”
Colin snorted. “I heard you two went out and even convinced Junior to come with. What the hell were you thinking, taking Junior to a rockabilly bar?” He shook his head. “You and Dig made me proud, Tig. Don’t ever think that you cannot talk to me about anything, all right? Family bullshit, finances, whatever. I’ll be a sounding board. But there’s something else I wanted to ask you about. . . .”
“Yeah?”
“I know it’s a quick turnaround, but I’ve been hearing rumbles about a Round Robin tournament and—”
“I’m in.”
“We don’t even know when—”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m in. I’ll do catch weight, bantamweight, hell, I’ll pull a McGregor and go up to middleweight. I. Am. Fucking. In.”
Colin looked hard at Tig, who met his steely gaze with intensity and surprising fury. He nodded. “Okay, you’re in. I’ll let you know when and if this firms up. Otherwise, we’ll do some matchmaking and get you on some more cards.”
“Thanks, C.”
Tig looked around the office, suddenly uncomfortable, until Colin barked a laugh.
“Get out of here and look in that envelope, buddy.”
Tig grinned, and unable to wait long enough to go to his apartment upstairs, ran into the locker room and locked himself in a stall.
Tig squeezed his eyes closed, took a deep breath, and peeked inside the envelope.
“Holy shit.”
He pulled the check out a bit more, confirming the number, and shook his head in disbelief. He ran out of the locker room and burst into Colin’s office without knocking.
“Colin, man, this cannot be right,” he said, breathless. “No way can this be right.” He clutched the check in his hand.
“Will you let go of the paper so I can look at it?”
“Wha? Oh. Yeah.” Tig relinquished his hold on the check, and Colin gingerly took it from the other fighter’s hand and looked down.
And frowned.
“No, that’s definitely not right.”
Tig sighed, both disappointed and relieved.
“There should be at least a couple grand more. . . .”
“What?” Tig’s voice shot up in surprise. Great. Now I sound like a seventh grader.
“No, seriously, Tig. This is not right.” Colin opened up the ledger side of the check. “Oh, yeah. They forgot to put in your Fight of the Night bonus. I’ll call ’em right now.”
Colin grabbed the phone, punched in a number, and motioned for Tig to stay.
“Hey, man . . . okay, yeah. Yeah. Okay, good. Lemme ask him.”
Colin covered the receiver with his hand. “Do you want a whole new check with everything included, or will a separate check with the fight bonus be okay?”
Tig’s eyes bulged, and he held up two fingers.
Colin chuckled. “Send the fight bonus check separately. Yeah. Thanks, man.”
Colin hung up the phone. “Good catch. Most fighters would
have just taken that check and run it to the bank and not looked at it. You pay attention. That’s one of the things I like about you.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
“Get outta here. Go get a steak dinner or something.”
“I need new tires. . . .”
“Then go get you some tires, Tig.”
“Okay.”
Colin shook his head. “Man, you sure you’re okay?”
Tig sucked in a ragged breath. “Yeah, man. I’m good.”
Tig pushed himself out of the chair and with a nod of his head, got ready to leave the room. He hesitated by the door.
“Thanks, Colin. You know, for everything. For giving me a chance.”
Colin nodded.
“Hey, we’re, uh, having a . . . party-type thing because Bailey and I . . . you know . . .”
Tig grinned. “Yeah, I know.”
“Yeah, well, we’re having a party at the new house next weekend. Come by, okay? There’ll be food.”
“Don’t you think I can feed myself?”
“Well, it’s even better when it’s free and you don’t have to cook it, right? And the girls will be in party mode, so you know it’ll be good.”
“Oh, man. There will be enough food to feed an army,” Tig laughed. “Yeah, I’ll stop by. Just text me the address, okay?”
“Sure. Go get your tires, buddy.”
“Will do, C.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Charlotte, can you come into the conference room, please?”
“Em, I’m right in the middle of . . .”
“It wasn’t really a request, Charlotte.”
“Oh, okay. Sure.”
Charlotte had broken out into a cold sweat. Why was she needed in the conference room? Today wasn’t a client day, and they had ordered lunch in and all eaten it in the break room.
Oh God, I’m going to lose my job.
Charlotte sucked in a few ragged breaths, checked her makeup, put on some lipstick and powdered her nose, and set off down the hall. She stopped in front of the closed conference room door for a beat, knocked once, and went in.
And then stood there, mouth open, speechless.
A small, glittery banner that proclaimed “Happy Birthday” was strung up in front of the beverage service cart, and on top, there was the most beautiful, the most perfect, the absolute epitome of a pink Swedish princess cake covered in beautiful pink flowers and sitting atop a sparkling Carnival glass cake pedestal.
“What is this?” Charlotte whispered.
Bailey cocked her head at Charlotte. “Well, come in, silly. What are you waiting for?”
“I thought I was going to get fired. You don’t get called into the conference room at three thirty on a Friday afternoon unless you’re going to get canned.”
Em gasped. “Oh my God, I did not think about that. That’s exactly how it was done at the Holbrook Firm. My Lord, Charlotte, I am so sorry. I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“So I’m not losing my job?”
Rory snorted. “Girlie, I’d lose my left nut before losing you.”
Charlotte continued to stand in the doorway.
“And that cake?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of Em’s mouth. “It’s yours, Charlotte. No one else has a birthday this month. Sweetie, it’s all yours.”
“Oh.”
Bailey took matters into her own hands and went to Charlotte, practically pushed her inside the room, and gently pressed her into a chair at the conference table.
Rory lit the candles, they sang “Happy Birthday,” and Charlotte blew out the candles before sinking back into her chair.
“It’s too pretty to cut,” she proclaimed. “Oh.”
“Well, it is beautiful, but Em’s cakes taste as good as they look.”
Charlotte turned to her coworker, whose complexion had turned almost the same shade of pink as the cake. “You made this? This?”
Em mumbled something as she took out a cake server.
“She’s being shy, but she did, in fact, make this cake; she makes everyone’s cakes. She just makes cakes, period.”
“Everyone can use a little cake. . . .” Em mumbled some more.
“The problem is you don’t make a little cake; you make giant cake-y monstrosities,” Bailey scolded, but her eyes danced with merriment. “And we love you for it.”
Em scoffed as she sank the cake knife in the mound of pink flowers in front of her. She deftly switched to the cake server and plopped a huge piece of perfectly cut cake on another sparkly plate and turned to Charlotte.
“The Birthday Girl gets the first. . . ,” Em began, but stopped, horrified, when she realized that Charlotte was sobbing big silent tears. Rory, Bailey, and Em stood frozen, looking first at Charlotte, who was still crying, and then at each other.
“I . . . I . . . haven’t had a cake since. . . ,” Charlotte finally ground out. The memory of that cake, the beautiful, pink Barbie cake that the housekeeper snuck in for the lonely little girl, the cake that cost that same housekeeper her job, was too vivid even all these years later for her to describe.
“What? Everyone needs cake on their birthday,” Em whispered. “Charlotte, I am so sorry, sugar.”
Charlotte wiped her eyes and blew out a breath. “I’m sorry. I just got overwhelmed a bit.” Charlotte sucked in another breath and accepted the handkerchief that Rory offered. Figures Rory would have a real handkerchief in his pocket.
“Thank you, Em. That’s a perfect slice,” Charlotte said, managing a weak smile.
“Honey, you don’t have to eat it,” Em began, but Charlotte stopped her when she put a large forkful of the cake in her mouth.
“Oh my God, Em, this is fantastic,” she said through a mouthful of cake. She swallowed and accepted a glass of water from Bailey, who patted her on the shoulder and gave her a sympathetic look. “Well, go on; get your own slices before I eat the rest of it.”
Em served the others, and Rory excused himself, with his cake, fibbing about a meeting and leaving the three women alone to talk.
They ate their servings of cake, the sounds of forks scraping the plates the only sound in the room.
“You want to talk about it?” Em ventured when they had finished.
Charlotte shrugged. “It’s not really anything. There was a housekeeper that was really nice to me, and she bought me a Barbie cake for my sixth birthday even though sweets were expressly forbidden.”
“What the actual fucking fuck,” Em blurted. “You were six. It was your fucking birthday.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I’ve always been heavy, you know? I cannot remember when I wasn’t on a diet.”
Em harrumphed, and Bailey patted Charlotte’s hand.
“Well, I’m not on a diet now,” Charlotte grinned. “I eat what I want.” She ran her finger around the rim of the plate. “These plates are beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Em said before flopping backward into her chair. “Man, you’d think I’d learn not to surprise someone with a cake, huh?”
Bailey giggled, and at Charlotte’s look of confusion, she mouthed, later.
“So, you’re going over to your family’s house for cake-free festivities tonight?” Em asked. “Ow.”
Bailey glared at Em, who rubbed her leg where the toe of Bailey’s shoe had made contact.
“Oh Lordy, no. Sunday is family day, period. I’m on my own tonight, thank goodness. I thought I’d go to my favorite restaurant, have a nice meal, and then watch a movie or something.”
Charlotte looked between her coworkers, who were looking at each other and apparently having some sort of telepathic conversation.
“What?” Charlotte said, full of suspicion.
“Nope. You are doing no such thing,” Bailey declared. “You are coming to the Carmichael housewarming party.”
Chapter Fourteen
“What you lookin’ at, Tiggy?” a voice piped behind
Tig. He turned and grinned at Bailey.
“Hey there, Mrs. C., pretty lady.”
Bailey grinned and blushed. “I’m still not used to that. They called my name three times at the doctor’s office before I remembered that I was Mrs. Carmichael.”
“Everything okay?” Tig’s brow furrowed.
“Yeah, just a follow-up for some things.” Tig squinted at her, and she grinned. “We’re both good, Tig. Now what’re you looking at?”
Tig laughed. “Come here and I’ll show you.” He pointed at the car that sat idling on the street. “Do you know who that is?”
“Charlotte! She came.”
Hot damn. Ponytail came to the party.
“Charlotte? She work with you at Tara?”
“Yep. She started working with us not terribly long ago. Oh, you might have seen her after the last fight. She came into the party room for a bit.”
Oh, yeah, I saw her all right. But he played dumb, saying “Oh, yeah. Dark hair, little suit, right?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yep, that’s Charlotte. She hasn’t quite bought into the fact that we’re a little more casual here than where she’s used to working.”
Tig did not say anything but raised his eyebrows in interest.
“Yeah, she’s used to a big accounting firm and being in front of clients. She’s our forensic accountant, so she doesn’t see anyone really. It’s just her and about a million spreadsheets.”
“Forensic accountant? Sounds fancy.” Tig looked at the big imported sedan. Yep. Fancy.
Bailey dismissed that thought with a wave of her hand. “Eh, deep down, other than suits and her high heels, Charlotte’s fancy like Em’s fancy.”
“Huh.” Tig did not think Em was especially fancy if you did not count the fact that she usually had glitter somewhere on her. Em, as far as he knew, lived in jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers.
“Bailey and Tig, what are you two up to?” Speak of the devil.
Tig turned around to face Bailey’s sister-in-law and coworker. “Nothin’ much. We were just spying on the car that’s parked in front of the house.
