“Easy. Layla’s man is Blake Daniels. Not sure if you caught his fight this weekend, but you’d be smart to keep your opinions about Layla to yourself unless you want Blake in here mopping the floor with your corpse.”
He raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Business it is.” His eyes scan the room before coming back to me. “Right here in the lobby?”
I don’t answer and wait. The more I’m around this guy, the more I feel as if he’s got something to say that’s just gonna piss me off.
His beady brown eyes narrow on mine. “I’ve been training.”
“You come all the way here to tell me that?”
“Rumor has it you’re coming full circle. Going back into the cage?”
It takes everything I have not to give away my shock. How the hell does he know that? No use in covering it up, but the board strictly said they didn’t want talk of the possibility until they made a decision. Something about a media nightmare. “Not sure what you’re talking about, but if I ever had the opportunity to re-enter the octagon, I’d take it.”
“So you need a challenger.” He scratches his jaw and shrugs. “I’m interested.”
“You shittin’ me?”
This little nugget of good news almost makes it worth all I had to do to get here. I’d pay money for the opportunity to kick this guy’s ass, but to get paid to do it is better.
“Not even a little. You and I were lined up to fight back before you quit.”
My body tenses. “I didn’t quit.” The words are shoved out through clenched teeth.
“Uh. . .” He scratches his chin. “Pretty sure you did. I was at the press conference.”
He knows exactly why I had to walk away from fighting. He fucking knows it!
I’m breathing heavily as I step into his space. As expected, he doesn’t back down and a slow grin spreads across his ugly mug. I’m giving him what he wants, falling right into his trap, but fuckin’ A if I give a shit.
“I’ll take the fight. You pick the date and—”
“Cam.” Layla’s at my side, her hand on my forearm. She looks from me to Rusty. “Would you mind giving us a second?”
The asshole completely ignores Layla’s question, and my fists clench ready to teach the dick a lesson in manners.
She jerks her head to the side, and I follow her out of earshot of Faulkner.
On tiptoes, she leans in. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? I’m taking the fight.”
Her gaze swings up to the ceiling where she stares as if she’s trying to gather strength, and then swings it back to me. “I see that. But why not give him an answer later? You don’t call these shots, Cam. The board does.”
Good point. “Knee-jerk reaction.”
“I get that, but right now you’re CEO. Not a fighter.”
Fuck. I take a deep breath. “Agreed.”
“All right.” She pushes back her shoulders and cradles her legal pad to her chest. “You good?”
Brain damaged, not incompetent. I glare my response.
She nods, sharp and quick. “Good enough.”
We move back to Rusty, and he doesn’t even try to hide his greedy eyes as they move over Layla’s body. Sick fuck. I’d give anything to have Blake walk in while this shit’s going on.
“I’ll meet with the board first and then give you my answer.” Not that it matters what they say. I’m taking this fight.
“Gotta be complicated, eh, Cam?” He pulls a card from his breast pocket and throws it on a nearby coffee table. “Here’s where to find me.”
I stare at his back until he disappears from view. This is the fight I’m looking for, everything I’ve ever wanted dropped directly into my lap. No way am I backing away from an opportunity to return to the octagon and prove I’m not a failure. I mean what’s the worst that could happen? One more punch to the head kills me, that’s what. Fuck. So what do I do?
As soon as the question filters through my brain, the fighter in me rages his answer.
I will fight Rusty Faulkner.
Seven
Eve
Mondays suck balls. If I ever become president, the first thing I’m going to do is make Monday illegal. Not really sure how I’d do that, which is probably why I’ll never become president, but I add it to my mental bucket list anyway.
I’m sitting in the tiny office that I share with three other managers. It always smells like dirty socks and farts. No matter how many cans of Febreze I spray in this place, the smell only seems to get worse.
“You want to grab a bite before the lunch rush?” Dion, the cook, who I swear is trying to poison me, pops his head into the office. He offers a plate piled high with pasta.
“Do I look stupid to you?” I do my best Joe Pesci impersonation from Goodfellas, but the effect is lost on Dion. “I’m not eating your poison pasta.” I shoo him away and catch his laughter as he heads back to the kitchen.