Fighting to Forgive (Fighting Series)

by J. B. Salsbury

  I round the corner to her desk. It’s empty. I flip through a stack of messages on her desk and see some from yesterday and some today.

  With a quick knock, I walk into Taylor’s office. He’s kicked back, with his feet on his desk top, ankles crossed, phone to his ear. He smiles, drops his feet, and holds up one finger. “Yeah, Z. I got it. Gotta go.” He replaces the phone to its cradle. “What’s up, Blake?”

  I walk in a few steps then turn and point over my shoulder. “You see Layla around?”

  “No. She called in this morning.” He shuffles through a stack of papers on his desk. “She sounded like she’d been drinking razor blades.”

  My gut churns. “She sick?”

  He nods but doesn’t look up from his desk of disorganized crap. “Yeah. She said she needed a couple days.”

  I thank Taylor and turn to head out.

  “Wait, have a seat.”

  Layla calling in sick has me panicked. I wonder if she really is sick or if she had a rough night with Axelle that turned into an even rougher morning. I want to get out to call her or go by and check. The last thing I want to do is sit.

  “Saturday. We’re throwing a UFL party at Flesh. I need you to show your face.”

  “Sure. Let me know what time.”

  “From noon to five. There’ll be some semi-celebrities there. I’m working on getting a few Playboy Playmates to drop by.” He wags his eyebrows and licks his lips like a hungry lion ready to gorge on fresh meat. “Lots of publicity.”

  This guy would sell his dick if it meant getting the UFL some airtime on national television or headlines in the tabloids.

  I roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Playmates? You really think that’s necessary?”

  “Celebrities equal media attention, Blake. We need all we can get.”

  “Not really.”

  His eyes narrow on me. “Yes. Really.” He tilts his head. “You suddenly some kind of expert on running a professional MMA organization?”

  “No. But you’re more about the attention than you are the sport.” My adrenaline is sky-high. I’m worried about Layla and clearly transferring my frustration to my boss, which isn’t a smart thing to do.

  “Attention is great for the sport. Any attention.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “Look at what Dominick Morretti’s death did for the UFL. We sold out season tickets—”

  “Jonah’s wife was forced to kill her own father, and you’re happy about filling your pockets?” My arms tense and I sit up, ready to launch myself across the desk and rip Taylor’s throat out.

  “I capitalized on a tragedy for the sake of the sport.”

  I step up to his desk, and he stands. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like this has a damn thing to do with the sport.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Look, Blake, you work for me, you agree to my terms and how I run this organization. You don’t like it, we can terminate your contract after the fight.”

  I considered his suggestion before he mentioned my fight. He knew he’d hit a nerve by bringing up my chance at the title. I’ll play this shit his way, but it doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it. “Flesh, Saturday, noon.”

  He flashes a satisfied smile. “Yes, and if you can find it within yourself to show some of those celebrity women some attention, that wouldn’t hurt.”

  Fuck me. I’m not having this conversation. I’ve got to get out of here. “Sure thing, boss.”

  “Great.” He dips his head back to his desk, letting me know I’m dismissed.

  Without saying goodbye, I head straight to my truck, with one destination in mind. I tell myself that I’m going to check on her because she’s sick, not because I’m worried about her and her daughter. It has nothing to do with simply wanting to look at her. And it has fuck-all to do with the fact that I almost knocked out my boss and lost my job, but breathing her air makes me calm.

  Nope. Not at all.

  Layla

  I crack my eyes open. It’s dark. Grabbing a pillow, I pull it to my chest and ball up tight. My throat’s on fire, and my head is pounding. The comforter that covers me does little to quell the chill of my fevered body. I crave some fever medication but lack the energy to get up and get it.

  My eyelids fall closed when I catch the faint sound of murmured voices. Staring at my closed bedroom door, I convince myself I must be hallucinating.

  I haven’t been out of bed all day except once to use the bathroom. I don’t even know if Elle made it to school today. Mother of the Year award should be on its way. I rub my eyes then freeze as a deep male voice filters through the wall. Surely, after everything that happened last night, she wouldn’t have the nerve to invite a friend over. She’s grounded for the rest of her life.

  The Advil container on my bedside is empty, along with my water glass. I lay there for a minute, gathering up the strength to roll out of bed and walk the three yards down the hall to the kitchen. After what seems like an hour, I’m up. I wrap my terry cloth robe around my hunched-over, aching body. My feet are cold, but I’m too weak to hunt for socks.

  As I move toward the kitchen, the voices and laughter become more distinguishable. I’m more than ready to kick out the high school intruder, but when I see who’s in the kitchen, I stop and stare.

  “Hey, Mom. How’re you feeling?” Elle’s concerned voice does nothing to shatter my frozen frame. “Blake and I were just making dinner. You hungry?” She spins back to the stove and stirs whatever’s on the flame.

  Blake’s eyes settle on me. I can’t imagine what he sees. I’ve been tossing in bed all night and apparently all day, with horrible fever sweats. I’m sure my hair is a ratted mess, my face probably pale, and my eyes bloodshot. I must look disgusting.

  I reach up to smooth my hair. “I didn’t—” Ouch. My palm presses against my throat.

  “Ah hell, Mouse.” He moves toward me. “Back to bed. I’ll bring you some shi—er… stuff for your throat.” He turns me around by my shoulders with his big hands and directs me back to my room.

  “Blake, I’m…” I shake my head. Damn, it hurts to talk.

  “Yeah, I know. You’re fine, you can take care of yourself, blah-bullshitty-blah-blah. Save it.” He pulls back my comforter, and I crawl in bed. “Robe.” He holds out his hand. “You’ve got a fever. You’ll overheat in that shit.”

  I untie the belt and roll to get it off, lifting my hips and sliding it toward him. He doesn’t take it. I look up and realize why.

  His eyes are locked hard on my hips. In my haste to remove my robe, I’d forgotten that I’m wearing nothing more than a white tank top and white cotton panties.

  I shove the robe at him again, but his eyes stay firm on me.

  “Hey.” At the sound of my scratchy voice, he looks up at my eyes. I point at his face and shake my finger back and forth.

  A sly smile pulls at his lips, and something about it makes me smile too. He’s never been the type to hide his gawking, or even be embarrassed about it. On some level, I know I should be offended, but no one’s ever looked at me the way Blake does, and I like it. More than I should.

  “Sorry, Mouse.” His gaze makes one slow pass of my body. “Can’t help what happens when you put it out there like that.”

  I drop my head to the pillow, suddenly drained. He snags the robe and covers me to my neck with the thin sheet, tucking it in so I’m swaddled.

  He runs his palm over my forehead, clearing the ratted hair from my face, then feels my temperature. “Fever. Be right back.” He leans down and drops a quick kiss to the top of my head.

  My eyes drift closed as I soak in the comfort that radiates from his tender show of affection. Since seventeen, I’ve been the caretaker. It’s been so long since someone’s taken care of me. As badly as I want to prove that I’m strong and can stand on my own, I’m not strong enough to fight off his attention.

  Maybe I’m not as crazy as I thought. A tiny grin pulls at my lips. I mean, who in their right mind would turn down Blake Da
niels as a nurse?

  Blake

  I’m moving fast on a singular thought—get the hell out of that bedroom before I do something stupid.

  How the hell a woman can be so sick and look as hot as she does is unnatural. Her hair wild and loose, just how I’d imagine it looks after marathon sex. Her cheeks pink with fever, lips swollen, watery eyes shining. Fuck.

  And when did white cotton panties become sexy? The way they hung low on her narrow hips, pulled taught between her hipbones, screaming for my lips to run along the seam. Her white tank top rode up above her belly button when she wiggled free from her robe. Chilled from fever, her nipples raked across the thin and very see-through fabric. Pink and perfect.

  My dick throbs behind my zipper. Only a sick bastard would consider having sex with a woman in Layla’s condition. Come on, man. Rise above it.

  “I think it’s ready,” Axelle says from the stove. “Mmm, smells really good.”

  “It is.” I grab a couple bowls. “Family recipe.” I ladle some homemade noodle soup into the bowls, handing one to her. “Here. It’s great for hangovers.”

  Her eyes go wide on me. “I’m not—”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Eat.”

  She looks down at her soup, stirs it a couple times, and then moves to the kitchen table to eat.

  I grab the new carton of orange juice from the fridge and fill a small glass. Advil and NyQuil in hand, I start for the hallway.

  “Is she pissed?”

  Axelle’s soft-spoken question has me turning back.

  “You know, at me?”

  “No. She’s worried.”

  She nods, her eyes still glued to her soup. “She doesn’t get it.”

  If anyone understands the rebellious nature of a sixteen-year-old, it’s Layla. Her story about how Axelle got here proves that. “So? Explain it. Make her get it.”

  She nods again, and I move down the hall to Layla’s room. I don’t know how much Layla’s shared with Axelle about the night she became pregnant, but something tells me her daughter may find herself in the same situation if these two don’t tackle their shit soon. It’s not my business, but if I were the man in their lives, I’d lock their asses in a room, sit guard at the door, and make sure they settled the crap between them.

  Stepping up to the bed, I watch her sleep. She’s curled up in a tight ball, the thin sheet doing little to mask the gentle curve of her hip. Her hair’s tossed around her face, eyelids closed, and lips parted.

  Beautiful.

  I set the soup and juice on her bedside table and sit on the edge of the bed. “Mouse?”

  Her eyes flutter open.

  “Can you sit up for me?”

  She nods and scoots up. I put some pillows against the headboard and she leans against them.

  Placing the bowl in her lap, she holds it with two hands.

  “Noodle soup. Eat.”

  I watch her bring a bite to her lips and blow on it before sliding the spoon between her lips. Stop being a perv, asshole.

  “Mmm, really good.” A weak smile pulls at her lips.

  “Yeah. It works, too. My mom swears by it.”

  Her eyes move from the soup to my face. She raises her eyebrows.

  “She made it for us when we were kids. My brother and I would pretend to be sick just so she’d make it.”

  Tender eyes fix on mine, listening. I nod for her to keep eating, and she spoons another bite into her mouth.

  “It would piss my dad off to no end to see his sons moaning like we were on death’s doorstep for our mom’s attention. She knew we were faking, but she always gave us what we wanted. Setting us up in front of the TV with pillows and blankets, serving us soup like we were invalids.” Warmth spreads throughout my chest.

  “She sounds cool.”

  My smile falls, and my pleasant thoughts turn sour. “I guess.” I pop pills from their foiled cases, avoiding her eyes. “She tried, but when my dad finally had enough of her making pussies out of his sons, he put her in her place.” I bite down hard and feel my jaw tick. All those years I watched helplessly while my mom was belittled and berated for being a mother to her boys. I’d fuck up just to get him to turn his anger from her to me. I thought that we were on the same team, that we’d have each other’s backs against my dad. But when it came down to it, she crumbled beneath his iron fist and gave away my biggest secret.

  “Blake? You okay?”

  Her weak voice drags me back from my thoughts. I nod and drop some pills next to her juice. “Fine.”

  She stares at me through narrowed eyes as if there’s a question she’s contemplating, but instead, she takes another bite. “So, you made this for me?”

  “Sure. It’s good and… you know, you’re sick.” I shrug one shoulder, a little worried that my cooking might come off as seriously desperate and pathetic. “I take it you and Axelle haven’t spoken since last night.”

  Dropping her spoon into her bowl, she shakes her head.

  I tell her about my brief convo with Axelle in the kitchen. “She’s a good kid. Don’t be too hard on her.”

  I move the empty bowl to her bedside table and hand her the juice.

  “She’s a great kid.” Her eyes sparkle more than they did earlier. She swipes at her cheek. “I just want her to be okay.”

  “I know. And she will be.” The vulnerability in her eyes is almost unbearable. I run my thumb along her cheek. “But first, you need to get better.” Snagging the pills off the table, I hold them up. “Open.”

  She licks her lips and they part slightly. Her tongue rests against her lower lip, and I fight the urge to lean in and suck it into my mouth. Blinking away my inappropriate thoughts, I drop the pills onto her tongue and watch her throat work as she gulps them down. The simple movement reminds me of what it felt like to run my lips against her neck. So soft and sweet.

  “I hope you don’t get it,” she says, yanking me from my memory.

  “Huh?” Damn, I sound like a dumbass.

  “My cold. We um… you know, kissed yesterday. Remember?”

  Do I remember? Fuck yeah, I remember.

  I rub my hand over my face with a groan. That kiss.

  “Don’t worry, Blake. I’m a big girl. You don’t have to worry about me getting, you know, clingy, or having expectations.” She slumps down onto her pillow and pulls her comforter up to her chin. “It was a mistake.”

  What the hell?That’s not what I’m worried about. I don’t think I’d mind her having expectations. Nope, wouldn’t mind at all. But a mistake? She regrets it.

  My chest cramps, pain blooming behind my ribs. “Doc Z has me on every herbal concoction there is. I think I’ll be cool.”

  That’s all I have to say? How about, fuck no, it wasn’t a mistake. And expect it to happen again. Soon.

  I don’t know what this feeling is. It’s so new, foreign. Is it… rejection?

  Fuck this. Why the hell do I care if she regrets our kiss? This was never supposed to be anything more than attraction and a little harmless flirting. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I need to get the fuck out of here. I busy myself with gathering up her dishes.

  She sinks deeper into the bed. “Blake?”

  “Hmm?” Snap out of it, pussy.

  “I owe you. A lot.”

  “Sure, Mouse. I’ll let you know when it’s time to pay up.”

  She flashes a tiny smile. “Thanks.” Her eyes drift shut, and she snuggles under her comforter.

  I click off the light and rush out of the room like I’m being chased. Axelle’s in the living room watching TV. I clean up quickly, throwing the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and the leftover soup in the fridge. I decide against a last peek in on Layla and grab my keys. “I’m out, kiddo. You gonna be okay?”

  She nods a few times and waves goodbye. Not hung-over, my ass.

  “Lock up behind me.”

  She nods again. Shit, what is it with teenagers and eye contact?

  “Axelle.”
>
  Her eyes dart to mine.

  “Lock up.”

  “I will.” She doesn’t move.

  “Now. Up.”

  She groans and pushes off the couch.

  Fuckin’ teenagers. How does Layla do it? “Good girl.”

  After leaving the apartment, I stand outside the door until I hear all the locks click. Shaking my head, I walk to my car, wondering for the dozenth time in as many days what in the motherfucking hell is wrong with me.

  Fourteen

  Layla

  “Mom?” Elle’s voice pulls me from sleep.

  I sit up and swallow, relieved that the burning ache in my throat has died down. “Hey, what time is it?”

  “Seven-fifteen.” She’s dressed for school with her backpack on. “I was just leaving and wanted to say bye.”

  “Do you have a minute?” I pat the spot next to me and smooth the knotted bed sheets.

  She sits, and from the way she’s hanging her head, my guess is she knows what’s coming.

  “Elle, I’m sorry.”

  Her wide eyes flash to mine.

  “Things have been difficult for you. I know that. I just wish I knew how to fix it.”

  She drops her gaze to her lap.

  “You know, when I was your age, I got drunk at parties.”

  “You did?”

  I hate telling her what a fuck-up I was, but pretending to be someone I wasn’t is what got us here in the first place. “Yeah. I wanted to stand out, be different, make my own rules.” I shrug. “Thing is, drinking never gave me any of those things. It only led me to make horrible choices that hurt my parents, and myself.”

  She nods behind the thick veil of her hair, but doesn’t offer anything else.

  “You remember Raven from the garage?”

  Her head tilts back, and she looks at me. “Yeah.”

  “She has a place, I guess, where we can go. Talk to some people that might be able to help.”

  “That’s my punishment?” A grimace tightens her pretty face. “You’re sending me to therapy?”

  “No, not you. Us. Together. And it’s not punishment.” I know from experience that when parents pull in the reins, it only makes the child fight harder to get free. “I think it might help.” I want her to be on board, so I throw out a last ditch effort to win her over on the idea. “Blake said it might help.”