“Mmmm hmmm,” I mumble, attempting to buy myself time to get my tongue under control. It’s futile. There’s just something about her that brings out the worst in me. “Your sister does a shitload for you. I don’t think you understand exactly how much she’s given up, so she can keep you and your brother together.”
Digging my fingernails into my palm, I let the sharp pain stop me from expanding my critique. Zali is as different to Gabbi as night is to day—a fact that never ceases to boggle my mind—and I doubt that wasting my time trying to get her to see how awesome her sister is will ever pay off. If past experience is any indicator, it’ll only piss her off and send my plans for tonight up in smoke. So far, everything else is going to plan. Steve let me finish work early and Má agreed to stay and watch Max so I could have a night out.
All that’s left is to get Zali on board.
“Yeah,” Zali drawls. “I’ve heard it all before. Gabbi’s a legend. I should be grateful that she’s stuck around. Yada, yada, yada.”
Her tone is dismissive. Her words are plain nasty. Hot sparks of fury flash behind my eyes. If she was in the same room as me, I swear I’d vaporize her with one glare. Gabbi went out of her way to get this little cow a job today and this is how she behaves...
Zali Mitchell is a living and breathing stereotype.
Selfish. Blonde. Cheerleader. Bitch.
Yeah, I said it again.
I’m pretty sure she believes that the earth only started revolving the day she was born—before which it was simply preparing itself to accommodate her magnificence.
My son dances into my bedroom and saves me from verbalising my nasty assessment of Zali Mitchell. Max wraps his arms around my waist and lays his head on my lap.
“Mama, okay?” he asks.
Apparently, my three-year-old has more empathy than Zali.
I tousle his smooth hair, then give him a thumbs up. The beaming smile he gives me in return soothes my annoyance enough to attempt to tackle Zali again.
“It’s hard on you all. It’s a terrible situation for you, especially,” I placate her. My skin itches—my blatant lie makes me feel icky. Now to wrap up this phone call without her setting off. “I need you to tell Gabbi that you’ve got Coop for the night. She can meet me at Nitro’s at ten.”
Time drags, and I age ten years while she takes her sweet time replying. I’m about to give up hope and move onto plan B—plead with Má to watch Cooper while she watches Max for me—when Zali finally answers.
“All right.”
My breath catches in my throat. It’s not time to celebrate yet. There’s always a string attached with this girl.
“But you need to talk to her about the way she treats Devon,” Zali drops her bait. Truthfully, it’s one I should’ve seen coming. “She’s so rude to him for no reason. It’s not my fault that he loves me and she’s jealous that he’s so hot and he has his own car and his parents let him live over their garage for free and his band is going to be the next big thing. I mean, really, she should be happy for me.”
My eyes roll back in my head as she praises her piece of shit boyfriend like he’s the second coming of Jesus. It’s an immature reaction, but it does help me keep my mouth shut. Small blessings. I mean, I know I could behave better, but it’s hard. I’m not a saint—and Zali would probably test the patience of even the saintliest.
“Hmmm, yeah.” I add when she momentarily pauses to draw breath.
What I don’t elaborate with is the reason why Gabbi hates Devon—Patron Saint to the G Chord, that he is. She hates him because he tries to get in her pants every time he traps her by herself. Considering that Gabbi is too loyal for her own good, she’s pissed on her sister’s behalf. If I was her, I’d probably fuck the slimy douche just to get one up on Zali because I’d bet my future grandchildren that Zali wouldn’t even blink before she did it to Gabbi.
But that’s just me.
Yep. Definitely, not a saint.
“She’s ordering pizza,” Zali informs me during a break from her whining. “I’ll get her arse out the door for you once she’s done.”
Something in her voice sets off my spidey senses. She sounds like Max when he’s desperately trying to hide our puppy under his quilt at bedtime.
“You’re not going to have Devon over while Gabbi’s out?”
“Of course not!”
Even Mother Teresa would be lucky to buy the shit she’s shovelling.
“Seriously, Zali. She’ll kill you.”
“Oh, all right,” she groans. I can hear her pout through the phone. “But you have to speak to her about Devon.”
Max has been very patient while I’ve listened to Zali. Now, he starts tugging at the hem of my skirt.
“Bà,” he says, trying to tug me out of my bedroom. “Bà, wash TV. Out me.”
I nod and smile.
Max has a point. It’s time to tackle the other uncomfortable situation I’ve been avoiding tonight.
My unrepentantly disappointed mother.
“Amy. Are you still there?”
Pulling the phone away from my ear when Zali’s squeaky voice blasts through my head, I nod like an idiot before I remember that she can’t see me.
“Yep, still here,” I reply. “I’ve got to get ready. Make sure you get Gabbi to Nitro’s at around ten.”
“You’re being awfully specific,” she asks. “Are you meeting someone?”
I laugh. It’s an empty sound. Fake at its core. “Not me. Gabbi is.”
Zali joins my mirth, although I doubt her motivations are as pure as mine. I simply want to see my best friend get laid good and proper before she ends up on manslaughter charges.
That enabling this scenario puts Nate firmly off-limits for me is simply a bonus.
“I hope it works. She might get off my back if she gets a boyfriend of her own.” And there you have it. Zali’s self-absorption in a nutshell. “Not that she’d get anyone as good as Devon. I mean, she’s not ugly, but she’s not, ya know, exactly pretty.”
Maybe I am more of a saint than I realise? For the second time tonight, I let Zali get in a swipe at my best friend and I let it go without tearing strips off her for the greater good.
Namely, hooking said best friend up with our new Night Manager.
He’s the answer to Gabbi’s prayers. On the drive home, I decided that Nate Harvie is man-sized trouble with an ego the size of Jupiter and the swagger to match—the typical early-twenties male who’s had his life micromanaged by him mummy. It would be good for Gabbi to hang around with someone normal for once, although I know I’m deliberately downplaying the other side to him that I saw when he opened up about his aunt.
Nate possesses more layers than an onion. A fact that scares me to death. A circumstance I’m determined to ignore. A detail I will disregard until I have Gabbi wholeheartedly invested in him.
Changing the subject—for my benefit or Zali’s, I’m not certain—I give her my final set of directions, “Text me when she leaves so, I can meet her out the front.”
“Will do,” Zali mutters in response.
When I hear her drag in a deep breath, apparently ready to launch into another whine-fest, I disconnect the call. I’ve reached my limit with her tonight, and it would be foolish to continue the call now I’ve got her cooperation. The only thing prolonging my communication with her will achieve is me shooting off at the mouth and shooting my plans for tonight in the foot at the same time.
Max tugs on my skirt again. I scoop him into the air and prop him on my hip. It’s my turn to drag in a steadying breath as I prepare to face my mother for the second time tonight. She was bad enough this morning, but I know this evening will be much harder.
I promised I’d think about moving home.
We both know I was just buying myself time, but that won’t stop her guilt-tripping ways between now and when I leave to meet Gabbi.
As daughter’s go, I’m a disappointment.
At least, I’m killing it as a top-notch
best friend.
I hope.
ELEVEN
Nate
When I wipe my hands down the front of my jeans for the sixth time in ten minutes, Jep shoots me a funny look. I ignore him, concentrating instead on the entrance to Nitro’s nightclub so I don’t miss Amy and Gabbi when they arrive.
My uncle is headlining the fighting here tonight, and while I’d planned on attending his fight in the underground basement, I hadn’t been keen on partying upstairs with the plebs.
My idea of a good night is a few beers up here while I wait for my group of mates to arrive then we could head downstairs to get into the good stuff. Hot bikini-clad ring girls, top shelf liquor, and rabid fight fans with money to burn. After which we head back to the house I share with Jep to party the night away as part of the winning team—Hooligan’s team.
That had been the plan.
Hell, that was a normal Friday night for me.
Then it had all changed after Amy’s offer to smooth over my disagreement with Gabbi.
An encounter of the carnal kind with my brand-new, heavily tattooed, militantly aggressive Assistant Manager is the distraction I need. I’m already on the verge of jumping out of my skin after skipping my first dose of my meds an hour ago. I know my mind is playing tricks with me because I’m pretty certain I wouldn’t be feeling actual withdrawal just yet. Although, ending the night balls-deep in the angry ninja girl who flipped me on my back earlier this afternoon seems like the perfect remedy anyway I look at it.
“They’re here,” I say, leaning closer to Jep so he can hear me over the noisy club when I see Gabbi and Amy enter through the side entrance. “See the little Asian and the one with all the tatts?”
“Fuck,” he drawls. “You’re working with both of them?”
“Yeah.”
“Which one you gonna nail first?”
“Tatts,” I reply without thinking. “She’s a hardcore challenge.”
“So you don’t mind if I take a crack at the little Asian one?”
The question hasn’t left his mouth properly before I’m speaking. “No fucking way. She’s off the cards, completely. Stay the fuck away from her.”
Jep steps away from me. He hits me with a narrowed eyed glare and arches an eyebrow. “What the fuck? Since when is it your place to tell me who I can chase? My question was rhetorical mother fucker—I don’t actually need your permission.”
I’ve played this all wrong. I know it. Every single dude in our group knows it. Telling Jep he can’t have something is like holding a red flag to a bull. He’s going to charge the target. He’s going to capture in award-winning time. He’s going to fuck it twice as hard and dispose of it with extra ruthlessness just to prove a point.
“No, she’s not your type,” I venture slowly. My voice refuses to cooperate. I can’t manage the appropriate level of nonchalance to throw him off the scent. His nostrils flare so I swallow and try again. “What I mean is... she’s got a kid... and Steve’s kinda with her. Plus she’s not all there...”
Trailing off, I make a circle with my finger next to my temple. “She’s crazy, ya know? A bunny boiler. Single white girl, stalker shit.”
Relief floods Jep’s dark eyes and he grins. Punching me in the shoulder, he quips, “Steve’s an idiot. Everyone knows, if you’re gonna fuck around on your wife, you pick the easy-going ones. They mightn’t be as big of a freak in the sheets, but they’re not gonna dob you in when you dump them.”
Shit. In my haste to come up with an excuse for my reaction, I forgot that Steve’s happily married. If Jep opens his big mouth, Steve’s going to be baying for my blood.
“Yeah, well,” I say quietly, gesturing for Jep and our other two friends to crowd closer. “It’s not common knowledge so you need to keep it to yourself. Don’t wanna fuck up Steve’s life for him, ya know?”
A chorus of agreement echoes through our huddle. When I pull back, I shoot a quick glance at Jep and my worries die down a little when I see that he’s not focused on Amy any longer.
He only has eyes for Gabbi.
That should piss me off, but it doesn’t.
Running my gaze over Amy, awareness catches fire in my brain when I finally acknowledge her elegant beauty and that unique something else that she possesses. As much as I’m interested in Gabbi, Amy does more than increase the blood flow to my little head.
She intrigues me as much as she scares me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I left The Fitness Hub this afternoon. She’s wormed her way into my brain.
Whether it’s her glowing skin, dark oval shaped eyes, or the supermodel worthy body, Amy is on a whole other level to every other woman in this club. Gabbi has a more alternative style which sets her apart in her own way. Amy exudes a dark grace mixed with a deep vulnerability that calls to the empty space in the middle of my chest and sends all thoughts of running scattering from my head.
She’s exquisite. I couldn’t bear to see her sullied by Jep and his hit it and quit it ways.
“What’s the game plan? The usual?” Taz asks. He looks me up and down then frowns. “You’re a bit jumpy tonight. Someone givin’ you shit at your new job?”
These three are my usual posse. We’re known around Hooligan’s gym as the Four Freaks. There’s me—the unofficial leader. Jep, who’s a couple of years older than me. He’s my best friend and housemate. An ex-street kid, like me. Then, Drew, who I’ve known since kindergarten. Our families go back decades, yet he’s the only one who stuck by me when my parents disowned me. And finally, there’s Taz. We met through Black Hearts MMA when he started training there five or six years ago.
All three have their own issues with fitting into the neat little boxes that this world likes to shove people into, and their own struggles mean they’re empathetic to my eccentricities. They don’t judge me. They have my back when anyone else comes for me.
They’re my partners-in-crime.
My fellow fuck ups.
It also means they’re usually the first to notice when something is up with me.
“Geez, Louise,” I scoff. Clamping a hand on his shoulder, I squeeze, then say with a laugh, “Is it your time of the month? Are we supposed to gather around and hold hands while we sing Kumbaya? Of course, I’m jumpy... I’m waiting for you to share some of your pills so we can get this party started.”
Jep and Drew join me in circling Taz. We hold out our hands and quietly chant, “Pay up, bitch.”
It’s Taz’s turn to provide the chemical kickstart to this evening. He chickened out last weekend when his girlfriend busted him with a baggie and flushed our pills down the toilet at his apartment. As the only attached member of our group, he cops the hardest time from us for being pussy-whipped.
Once he’s dropped two pills into each of our palms, we double-drop the E, then separate so we can observe the growing crowd in Nitro’s. Amy and Gabbi are waiting at the bar, waving a twenty-dollar bill at the bartenders in the hopes of getting a drink sometime this millennium.
“Such a pity she’s nuts,” Jep muses next to me.
I look at him, following his gaze in the direction of the bar until I discover that he’s back to watching Amy again. With a half-assed shrug, I say, “I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you occupied.”
“When don’t I?” he replies without a hint of smugness. None’s needed since he speaks the truth. It’s a rare night that Jep sleeps alone—a fact I can attest to as his long-suffering housemate.
Jep wanders off and I settle back against the wall to watch my new workmates navigate the club. The girls finally have a drink. They throw them back—something pink and bubbly for Amy and what looks like soda for Gabbi—then pounce on the same bartender for a refill before he can move on. Repeating the same process, they then move to the middle of the crowded dance floor and start throwing themselves around to the beat.
Gabbi is dressed in a barely-there black skirt the size of a handkerchief and a black leather-looking top that criss-cro
sses her upper body. Her colourful skin is on display, her tattoos appearing brighter in contrast to the paleness of her skin and the dark colour of her clothing. She dances with her eyes shut, ignoring the many hands that are run over her body by interested men—and a few women.
It’s a stark change from the ninja-girl who flipped me on my back in the staff room for flicking her belly-button ring.
While Gabbi dances without a care in the world, Amy is a lot more reserved. She’s an island. They watch, but they don’t touch. There’s an aura around her that keeps people from invading her space. The tight bandage dress she’s wearing doesn’t show as much skin as Gabbi’s attire, yet it is probably more revealing because it highlights every curve and crevice of her form while it hides her actual body from sight.
Like a present—she’s wrapped in cellophane with a big bow. You know the gift inside is going to be delicious, yet you can only use your imagination to picture the delights contained within.
My pants are suddenly tight. I move awkwardly in the shadows to adjust myself without being busted. It’s a strange response; one I’m not used to.
I’m no longer a thirteen-year-old boy with raging hormones—I don’t lose control like this.
Returning my attention to Gabbi, I decide that it’s time to let her know I’m here and I’m still interested in taking her up on the offer she made at the supermarket—despite her silly rules about fraternising with workmates.
The crowd parts as I move closer. One guy is a little reluctant to leave his position behind Gabbi, but he’s quickly disabused of his notion when he sees Jep, Drew, and Taz behind me. My movements mirror Gabbi’s when I dance behind her. She swings her hips from side to side, her hair moving across her shoulder blades, and she backs closer to me when I lay a hand on her flat stomach to hold her against me.
Amy meets my eyes. A smile lifts her lips when she sees it’s me. Gabbi must look to her for validation that I’m okay to dance with which Amy provides with a subtle incline of her head. I feel Gabbi relax all the way against me so I let the music take hold of me and move with her to the beat. Drew moves to dance behind Amy, but she darts out of his space and maintains her own part of the dance floor even as they gyrate together.
Conflict (Black Hearts MMA, #2) Page 6
