“Thanks, man. And sorry about…” I motion to the purple bruise on his ribs that’s starting to take on some pretty nasty red tones.
That crazy fucker looks down and rubs his hand along the injury, pushing in and wincing. “Nah. That was a perfect middle roundhouse. Shit felt good.” He’s smiling like he means it.
I shake my head, grinning. “You’re a crazy motherfucker.”
Throwing on my clothes with a mean endorphin buzz, my mind wanders back to Layla. Things are getting hectic with the fight coming up and the promotional stuff that has Gibbs’s ass in a twist. I’m sure these things have been keeping her locked in her office. It’s not unusual that I’d go a day without seeing her, but I thought she’d come find me today.
I hope like hell she and Axelle had a good talk this morning. It took everything I had not to drive to her apartment and hide out, listening for breaking glass and girlie screams.
I would’ve done it if I hadn’t kept myself up all night going over all the reasons why I can’t get involved. Her shit has nothing to do with me, and I got more involved than I should’ve last night. Dragging Axelle to the hallway when she disrespected her mom was probably a step farther than I should’ve gone. But hell if I was going to stand there and listen to someone call my woman pathetic.
My woman? My friend. Not my woman.
Sleep deprivation has my mind stumbling over itself. I head out and check the clock on the wall in the training center. It’s almost five, and I haven’t seen her once. I change direction and walk back toward the offices. My feet move faster at the prospect of seeing her, and I mentally smack myself for breaking under the anticipation.
Don’t get involved. Just ask her how things went this morning. That’s a reasonable question. A friendly question.
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.”