I cringe at his words. “You’re saying I have PMS?”
He chuckles and wipes beads of sweat from his forehead. “Sort of. The good news is, like women, the mood will pass. When you stop taking the supplements, you should feel better. For now, I’d use that extra aggression to train.”
That makes sense. Why didn’t I think of that?
This whole time I’ve been worried that I’ve inherited the asshole gene from my dad. A short fuse with a temper that chases away the people I care about. The possibility alone was enough to make me crazy—crazier.
Instead, I’ve got HMS. Hormonal Man Syndrome.
Well, shit. Now I really feel like a *.
I stand up from my chair and give Doc a nod. “I’ll do that.”
Moving out and through the locker room, I take a cleansing breath. The doc’s right. I’ll channel this aggression into my training. A small part of me warns that I can’t control it, but I push that aside. I’ll try harder.
I remember the promise I made myself the night I left the Marines and became a fighter.
Nothing and no one will control me.
This is no different.
Layla
I’m clicking around my computer, watching the clock and waiting impatiently for my lunch break. Blake’s been meeting me for lunch at the same time every day for the last week. It’s become the highlight of my day, next to seeing him walk through my front door on the nights he stays over.
But today, I’m even more anxious to see him. He left my bed early after I got a phone call from my parents. I couldn’t be sure, but he seemed mad when he left. I’ve replayed our conversation a million times but can’t figure out what triggered his sudden departure, or why he slammed the front door when he left.
Things like that have been happening a lot lately. I’ll be in the middle of talking to one of the other fighters at work, or I’ll mention something about our lives back in Seattle, and Blake goes solid, tensing his jaw and clenching his fists. Sometimes I could swear I’ve heard him grinding his teeth.
There’s a part of me that worries I’ve attracted someone with anger issues. A man who walks the thin line of his temper, always on the verge of blowing up. My stomach spirals and I pinch my eyes closed. But he’s also so sweet. Caring in a way I’ve never experienced before. The complete opposite of Stewart.
“Excuse me,” an irritated female voice sounds from behind me, dragging me from my thoughts.
I spin in my chair to see a beautiful blonde in revealing workout clothes standing in front of my desk. “What? Um… can I help you?”
Her cheeks puff with an exaggerated breath. She drops her gym bag on my desk, sending my pencil cup tumbling. “Uh, you better. Taylor said I’d have the same locker I had when I was here last. I tried the combination, and it didn’t work.”
“Oh.” Who is this woman? She’s not a Cage Girl. Those girls have killer bodies, but this girl’s body is trained to kill. Her muscles are cut like a man’s, but on a smaller scale. Her blond hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, the long locks trailing down just past her shoulders. With her bright blue eyes and full lips, she’d be considered gorgeous if it weren’t for the hideous scowl marring her perfect features.
“Who are you? Where’s Heidi?” She’s still scowling.
“She doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Layla.” I stand up and offer my hand. “And you are?”
I didn’t think it was possible, but her eyes narrow even more. “Who am I?” A burst of humorless laughter flies from her lips. “You don’t know shit, girl.”
Girl? Who the fuck is she calling girl? I might not be old enough to be her mom, but I’m definitely older than this twit.
I lower my hand, straighten my shoulders, and throw on a confident smile. Even across the desk, it’s obvious this girl has a good six to ten inches on me. “I’ll tell you what I do know. I know you need a locker. I’m the person who assigns them. If you tell me who you are, I can help. If not, then you can wait for Mr. Gibbs.” I motion to the chair at her side.
She studies me in a way that would make a lesser woman squirm. But I hold her evil eye, eyebrows raised, waiting.
“Call him right now and—”
The door to Gibbs’s office swings open, and the sound of his angry voice breaks up our bitchy-girl stare-down.
“—how risky that was?” Gibbs growls into the phone before looking up to see he has company. “Z, hold on.” He looks at Robo-bitch. The bright red of his cheeks recedes, and his thin lips relax into something that resembles a smile. “Camille, you made it.”
“Yeah, I need a locker.” She scoops her gym back off my desk, narrowly missing my framed picture of Axelle. “You told me I’d—”