by Jayne Blue
“Oh, sorry, Whitey, I forgot he was here.” Flynn let the man go and he stood up, ready for another round.
“Barton you’re done for the day, you too, Flynn. Neither one of you is listening for shit. Hit the showers and use that soap I got in there. We got a round of skin trouble from last week’s tournament. I don’t want you getting the dirt.”
Good lord, Cassidy thought. What was “the dirt?”
Whitey, the old man, barked the orders and the younger men listened.
“That one’s too cocky by half. A little cocky you need, but Flynn? Just like his old man that way.” Whitey said. Cassidy wondered if the comments were to himself or to her. The old man had a belly and a pocked marked face topped off with a wisp of white hair.
The nose was bulbous and looked not unlike the ear she’d seen on Flynn, mottled and abused. He turned his sparkling eyes in her direction. She might get out of this place alive if Whitey allowed it.
“What’s your business, girlie? If you’re signing up for a Zumba class head to the Y.”
The flurry of sweat and swagger fogged her purpose, which until a moment ago was clear. “I need a job.” It came out higher and quieter than she’d meant it to, so she cleared her throat and said it again. “I’m looking for a job and wondered if you had any openings.” This time, she straightened to her full five-two and put out a hand. Her social worker had taught her quite a few useful things and a handshake was one.
Whitey put out a hand and looked at her with more than a little skepticism. She was used to that, she knew she didn’t look like much.
Whitey shook her hand with one arm and slung a white towel over his shoulder. “Whitey Hoolihan, used to be Hoolihan’s Gym, but well, the money’s here now and we’re corporate. The only way to survive these days. We only have two sponsorships here and those are taken so I’m assuming you’re not a chick MMA fighter.”
“Right. I mean, no, I’m not a fighter.”
“Well you have a good grip for a ‘Lil bit, but you do look smaller than our bantam girl.”
“Uh, what?”
“Our little guys, eh forget it, can you answer phones?”
“Yes.”
“Can you file alphabetically?”
“Yes, numerically, too.” Cassidy tried not to let the sarcasm into her voice and reminded herself she was desperate for a job.
“How about the computer? Do you know how to use it?”
“Yes.” She had no idea what programs he was talking about, but she suspected he didn’t either, so she just kept saying yes to things he asked.
“Good, Great Wolf Gym corporate big wigs just finished buying this place, they also just sent me a computer and said we had to go paperless. What the hell is paperless?”
“I think it means all on the computer?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.”
“I can help, I took a bookkeeping class in high school. I can do Microsoft Office for sure, or whatever they have. I’m a fast learner.”
“You’re not still in high school are you? Your eyes look older than high school, but I can’t tell anymore, you look young to me. I can’t have any jailbait around these animals.”
“I’m almost 21, so I am legal.”
“And you’re not dressed like the normal cheap pieces that hang all over my guys, so I’ll say that’s in your favor one-hundred percent. I realize that’s some sort of violation of federal law that I noticed, but there it is.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t.” A small kernel of hope blossomed that maybe there was a job here.
Whitey chuckled at her and broke into a smile. She noticed a tooth missing on the side.
“You do learn fast. A little sass is good, that’s in your favor. When can you start?”
“Whenever you need me.”
“Okay, I need you to answer phones, wash towels, spray the mat down if I can’t get one of these shitheads, pardon my French, to do it. Also scheduling stuff, uh, what else, oh yeah, keep track of the dues, and, most of all, do this damn computer stuff. Does it look like I can type for shit, pardon my French.” Whitey held up a gnarled hand whose five fingers pointed in the four directions of the compass, clearly arthritis or dislocation made the digits useless.
“No, it does not look like you can type for sh... at all.” Cassidy decided to stay with sass and not take it down a notch to crass. It was a job interview, such as it was.
“Okay, you’re hired. You start tomorrow, we open at 5 a.m. for some of the guys, but you get here at 8, okay?”
“Thank you, Mr. Hoolihan.” Cassidy had to restrain her desire to jump up and down with glee. A job! She’d been greeted with nothing but closed doors and “sorry, miss” everywhere she’d gone for two weeks and boom! A job! Plus, she didn’t have to bus tables, though she had no idea what spraying the mats entailed. Whatever. She was thrilled.
“Just Whitey, what’s your name bantam?”
“Cassidy Parker.”
“Welcome to Great Wolves Gym, Cassidy Parker.” They shook hands again.
“Oh, um, I hate to ask, but what’s the pay?”
“Of course you need to ask. I got a small budget from GWG for a receptionist Gal Friday, you’re it. It’s ten bones an hour, full time, options for the GWG health plan after a probationary period. They don’t include dental, as you can see. GWG would go under if they had to pay for missing teeth around here.” Whitey pointed to his own gap tooth smile.
“Sounds perfect. Thank you!” Cassidy wanted to cry, she was so thrilled. This wasn’t her dream job, not by a long shot. Being a social worker was, but she had to get her online degree for that and it would take years. That was the long game. The short game? Paying rent and tuition. And thanks to the GWG she’d be able to survive a while longer in her crappy apartment until she had that degree. So she had to wash a few sweaty towels? She’d been through worse in her years in foster care, way worse.
Whitey interrupted her mental celebration. “Here’s the computer boxes, under the reception desk. Take a look before ya go, would ya? If the GWG corporate guy shows up, he’ll have my ass if I haven’t at least started. And your paperwork’s all, uh, paperless so you won’t get paid until this stuff gets juiced up or hooked up or I don’t know, just look, please?” He indicated to all the computer boxes with extreme irritation.
“No problem.” Cassidy eyed the ancient metal desk covered in schedule books and the unopened computer boxes strewn all over the place. Probably where the delivery guy had left them. Knowing her payroll program was under there somewhere was pretty good motivation to get going. Payroll, thank God, pay.
Craddock
Who the hell was that? That’s what Craddock Flynn was going to find out. The gorgeous girl at ringside appeared through the hazy sweat of the gym and as he choked out Barton, her eyes cut through everything else. Normally he was into the legs, the tits, the ass, but he had no idea what that looked like on her. She was all covered up in that coat.
Her. What he did know was the little shorty at ringside had the sexiest eyes he’d ever seen. Were they honey with flecks of green, or green with flecks of honey? He needed a better look. Her hair, what color was that? Cinnamon? It hung in heavy waves past her shoulders. He’d like to run a hand through it. It looked as soft as she did.
He kept the shower cold to calm down. Everything was rock hard from his skull on down. A bit of blood sluiced down the drain. He had no concern from where, probably his damn cauliflower ear, but blood didn’t bother him. It was part of the job.
His sparring partner today, Todd Barton, was no match for him and barely provided a good training session, as evidenced by how quickly he was able to beat him. Whitey was so wrong about dropping his left. It was how he lured Barton and the rest of ‘em in. They saw it as an opening and he saw it as a trap. Yep, take the bait, fish.
His real competition wasn’t candyass Barton, it was Ezekiel Powell. The damn kid called himself The Preacher’s Son, which technically he was. But Craddock
knew Ezekiel Powell was already effing branding himself, setting himself up as a product for the fight watching public.
That could be very bad for Craddock Flynn, who’d been resisting The Fighting Irish, moniker a few marketing assholes wanted to slap on him. He knew he was a walking stereotype, a hot-tempered, hard-drinking Irishman. Nothing he could do about the temper but keep it in the ring, and the booze, well, he hadn’t thrown down and partied like he used to since his dad left. When he caught his dad cheating on his mom with whiskey on his breath and bottles on the floor of his parents’ room, he kind of lost the taste for it. And he hadn’t seen his dad since.
His focus was on fighting, not marketing. Powell’s punch was more dangerous than the marketing machine that swirled around them both. It was because they were up and comers, they hadn’t made it yet. But Craddock was almost there. He was a few steps away.
Zeke Powell was in Craddock Flynn’s way. Craddock wanted one thing. That one thing that could get him everything else — a contract with the 21C League. The 21st Century Fight League was the place he could make his name, earn serious cash, and win the championship belt. It was all he thought about since his mom had brought him to Whitey over a decade ago. He’d make bank with his fists.
Craddock knew Zeke Powell had plans, too, and that was the immediate challenge. Get ready for Zeke and make sure the 21C League picked him instead of Zeke for a pro-contract.
Both of the fighters were sponsored by GWG to train for one year, but only one would get the deal with 21C. Only one would turn blood into serious money. Craddock Flynn would make damn sure The Preacher’s Son went straight to hell.
Craddock toweled off and got dressed. He grabbed his hooded sweatshirt and pulled it over his t-shirt, mindful of Whitey’s warnings about going outside in the cold while he was still hot. As much as Whitey could be like his mom with the nagging, he was listening right now because he had three months left to prove he had the stuff to make it.
Being “coachable” was a thing the scouts looked for and he had a reputation for having a temper and going his own way. He needed to show he could listen. Even if he thought Whitey was wrong, he needed to do what Whitey said. He needed to be more like the angel Zeke Powell. And he hated it.
As he walked out into the gym from the showers he knew she was still there, yes that pretty little thing was in the room for sure, the one good scent in the place. He shouldn’t pay attention to women right now, he should pay attention to training. Period. But that cold shower had zero half-life as his eyes found her.
He took a good, long look, this time without the distraction of having to murder Barton. Shit, she was something different. Dark cinnamon hair, he was right about that, and it wasn’t his usual. He normally went for blondes with a fake tan. Or did he? Generally, they jumped on him before he had to decide. Maybe he liked brunettes? Well, this one anyway. Her hair and peachy skin quickly become his new type.
It was hard to look anywhere but those eyes. She was tiny, really. He noticed the belt on her coat was cinched tight and knotted at her little waist. He could probably wrap his hands completely around it. His gaze kept going back up to her face, her full lips were bare, no makeup, he noticed. Time to find out the name of this little cinnamon spice girl.
Craddock walked the length of the gym with his eyes focused on the girl that had stolen his full attention. She was smiling, goddamn, she smiled this shy sort of way. And then — what the hell? A set of shoulders partially blocked his view, pissing him off.
There he was. The Preachers Son had zoned right in and was lifting something up for her, a box or some shit, then he started crawling around. What the hell was he doing? The saint of all the Bible was probably trying to look up her skirt. Craddock quickened his pace that asshole better get clear of her.
“You trying to get a free peek there, Powell?” Craddock stepped in front of the brunette just in case Powell was copping a look.
“What? Of course I wouldn’t ever…” The big man was under the desk struggling with something and sputtering an answer.
“Excuse me, Zeke’s helping me find the outlet.” And Craddock felt a hand on his arm. It was the brunette. The cells in his arms jumped where she touched him and he turned to look at her. She moved her hand off him too fast, like she felt it too.
She moved her hand from his arm to her hip and fixed a tough glare at him. He wanted to kiss that look right off her face. Shit, this girl was under his skin fast.
“Zeke is it? First names already? Well, what’s your name?”
“Cassidy.”
“Be careful Cassidy, he may wear a gold cross, but he’s no more trustworthy than any of the guys in here.”
“Except you I’m guessing.” She gave him attitude right away. He was used to fawning and eyelash batting, but not this one. No, she was not immediately susceptible to his muscles.
“Most of all me.” Craddock detected the slightest upturn on the corner of her lip, she wasn’t totally immune to his charms. Good.
“Well are those muscle decorative or can you get that box and bring it over here so I can hook up this printer?” And her sass turned to a bit of shyness as she added. “I can’t reach it.” She was so fucking cute.
Hold Trilogy
Bonus Excerpt from WLUV Book One – The Consultant
There it was on the front page of the USA Today Lifestyle section, the headline more tabloid than news: “Sports Anchor Phil Strong Marries America’s Sweetheart, Kirstie Pippin!” A picture of the lovely couple splashed across the paper and included an inset shot of their infant daughter in a stroller festooned with flowers. With this all over the papers today, Macy was glad to be in the air traveling instead of in a hotel hate-reading all of it. And she wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or enraged that she didn’t even rate a footnote in the coverage.
Thanks to the network’s efficient corporate damage control, Macy had been out of the way of the happy couple’s fairy tale for months now. They had obliterated her career as the network’s lead investigative journalist to make way for the better storyline and bigger stars.
For the most part, her broken heart had mended and then set like a bone; it was tougher and knit together. She liked it that way. Her heart matched her head and her head matched her new career path.
Macy checked the directions on her phone. WLUV was a third-place television news station. The new owner and GM wanted some changes, and so he hired an outside firm to come in and fix the place. There were only a few big news consulting firms in the country, and after being bounced hard out of her network reporting career, Macy needed a job. Luckily she had some friends at the firm and that’s how her second, decidedly less glamorous career was born.
It was now her job to read the research on a floundering station, offer her advice, and implement plans for fixing things. She traveled the country nurturing progress at her roster of stations. She used to travel the country chasing the big stories…but that was before the “Phil Situation.”
She’d been doing so well, not letting it get to her. But the wedding was this weekend and so she was mentally picking at the scab that had formed over her old life. Macy struggled to put it out of her mind and concentrate on her assignment.
WLUV, her newest client, was a mess.
She’d perused their website on the flight from New York. It was an old station, expanded from radio, like most of the country’s first local television stations. Based in Grand City, it served the upper portion of Western Michigan. Television markets were ranked in terms of size; the number one market in the country was New York, of course. Out of 210 television markets, total, WLUV ranked 117th. In other words, it was small.
And it was a cash-hemorrhaging joke. Its deep-pocketed owner, Rush Thompson, kept it afloat likely out of nostalgia—or more likely a tax write-off. His focus was on the growth of the Thompson-Hardaway portfolio, and so the station managers at WLUV did the bare minimum to keep its network affiliation and FCC license. It was the first business h
e’d owned and he couldn’t bear to just put it out its misery. Instead, he placed his son Wes in charge to see what could be done with it. After decades of neglect, Wes Thompson was at least making an attempt to fix things at the station.
Still, Macy suspected it was a case of a silver spoon type of guy playing with one of his toys. She’d never met him, but she figured that Wes Thompson was bringing her in so he could flip the station as if it were a dilapidated house. He’d slap on a new coat of paint, mow the yard, and then try to convince someone to buy it. Turn a little profit and get out. She didn’t have a lot of hope that this was a place for real news or talent development.
Her bosses at American News Consulting and Research gave her a secondary mission with the stations she consulted: she was to scout out good talent. ANCR could then place the talent with jobs at the other stations in its client list. That’s actually how the consulting firm had found her, fifteen years ago, doing local news in a little town just like Grand City.
She’d loved her days as a television news reporter, ferreting out a story, meeting deadlines, and going live to share it with the viewers. Maybe one or two of the faces she saw on the station website biography page had that same passion.
If WLUV was too far gone she’d salvage the situation and find a few of the meat puppets – lovely name for on-air talent – to pillage. But before that happened she was committed to doing her best. Though she was no longer a hard-driving network reporter, she’d found surprising satisfaction in her ability to mentor journalists and add zip to a station. She was going to try like hell at WLUV just as she did at her other stations, and it was going to be a challenge—her biggest yet as a consultant.
Macy had low expectations when she pulled into the station’s parking lot just outside of downtown Grand City, Michigan on that January day. She was a perfectionist, though and fixing newsrooms was what she did best these days. She certainly wouldn’t make any friends at WLUV, but maybe she could make a dent in their ratings.
