I nod and she motions for me to come in. “Yeah, Raven?”
“Yes. Layla told me you were coming. It’s nice to have another girl here to help dilute the testosterone.”
Her laid-back attitude makes me laugh. She looks so comfortable in her own skin. And I really dig her style; she’s wearing a cute pair of camo leggings and a long gray shirt that hangs off one shoulder and hugs a tiny pregnant belly. I follow her through the enormous arched foyer into a state-of-the-art kitchen.
Male voices filter in from another room, but I can’t make out Rex’s. I wonder how he’ll react to seeing me here. Maybe he’ll be mad, think I’m busting into his inner circle, but I’m hoping he’ll be happy to see me.
“Mac, you made it.” Layla jumps off a stool with a handful of popcorn and throws her arms around me.
“Of course. You know I’d never miss a party.”
She drags me over to the granite-topped breakfast bar that’s covered in a variety of different food. “Party. Right. With our pregnant asses, it’s more like a crabby cry fest”—her hand sweeps across the air over the food—“with a buffet!”
Raven laughs. It’s hard to look at her this close. The distinct color of her eyes is eerily familiar. I rub the back of my neck, hoping to loosen the muscles that have tightened there.
“Here, we made mocktails.” Layla sets a martini glass filled with some chilled pink liquid down in front of me.
“Mac, what’re you riding out there?” Raven sips on her drink. “Honda?”
“CB900.”
“Is it easy to ride?”
“I think so.” I try my pink drink. Mmm, not bad. “Why? You thinking of getting one?”
“I’d like to. Jonah has a Harley and I want to learn to ride, but that thing’s huge.”
“That’s what she said.” Layla pops a ranch-dipped baby carrot into her mouth and shakes her head. “Sorry. Blake’s rubbing off on me.”
Raven and I burst out laughing, and it’s the first time I’ve really felt connected to any girls other than Trix. My chest warms. It’s like having friends. Real friends.
*
Rex
“Fucking strike three, bitches.” Blake jumps from the couch and high-fives Owen. They’re backing the New York Mets while everyone else is a Cubs fan. “You boys wouldn’t know good baseball if it slapped you in the dick.”
“Eww, Blake.” Axelle’s repulsed reaction comes from across the room where she’s sitting with her phone under her nose, texting.
“Shit.” Blake grimaces. “Sorry, kiddo. Forgot you were here.”
A laugh rumbles in my chest.
Blake glares at me. “What?”
“Never heard you apologize for cussin’ before.” I pull my lip ring between my teeth to avoid laughing harder. “Seriously, dude, who are you?”
“Shut up, fu—er . . . just, shut up.” Blake turns his attention back to the game.
I eye the spread of food on the coffee table: chips, dips, and those little hot dogs wrapped in dough. I double-fist my sixty-four ounce water, reminding myself that the fight means more to me than indulging. Dieting sucks.
“Heard Reece and his camp show up tomorrow,” Jonah says, popping a chip into his mouth. He chews and swings his gaze to Blake. “Wade too. You boys are fired up. Need to hold your shit together if you see ’em.”
“Please.” Blake glares at his best friend. “You think I’m scared of that dipshit? He can skip his little fairy ass all over the training center if he wants. Fact remains on fight day he’s toast.”
“Yeah, I’m with B. Reece won’t be a problem for me.” Feeling the pressure in my bladder from all the water I’ve been drinking to drop weight, I stand to hit the bathroom. “It’ll be me who’s his problem once we step into that octagon.”
The guys all grunt in agreement, and I step around the oversized sectional headed to the bathroom.
The room erupts in cheers, and I turn to see the Cubs hit a homerun. Nice.
“Hey, guys?” Layla says from behind us.
Blake turns around, but everyone else keeps their eyes to the TV, watching the action.
“I want to introduce you to someone,” she says, getting the attention of the room.
I turn around and my jaw goes slack; my lips curl into a smile.
Mac.
She’s wearing a tight white tank top, and I can see the hint of her black lace bra through the thin fabric. Her faded skin-tight jeans are the picture of sexy-as-shit casual, even shredded a little around the hem that circles her black biker boots. Her hair is long, loose, and wild as it falls over her kick-ass black leather jacket. Pale skin, deep cherry lips, and cheeks pink from the sun or the wind, I don’t know, but either way she looks amazing.
“Guys, this is Mac. I’m sure most of you know her from the club. Mac”—she waves her arm across the room in an all-encompassing sweep—“these are the guys.”