What is he, a friggin’ comedian? This guy’s so full of himself. It’s not like he’s some big shot fighter… oh no. Realization dawns in a face-flaming instant, and my one stroke of good luck is that I’m behind him so he can’t see me. He’s one of the UFL’s top fighters.

Blake Daniels, nicknamed “The Snake” for his submissions. Jiu-Jitsu black belt, fighting for the UFL since 2006, middleweight title contender. I read all about him in the prep email Mr. Gibbs sent me.

Blake has a big fight coming up. It’s the reason Mr. Gibbs wanted me to start right after the New Year so I could learn the ropes as the fight night approaches.

No more mouthing off to one of the UFL’s golden boys. I follow him into a warehouse-like gym, my mouth tightly shut. He greets a few other guys by name. I recognize some of them, and run through their stats in my head.

He pushes through a door and into a smaller room. The wall is lined with mirrors, and there’s a group of girls sitting at a table. One is sitting on top of it.

“Hey, Blake,” the girls sing in unison.

I shake my head at the seductive tone in their voices.

Guys like Blake Daniels are bad news. Breaking hearts with a look, no doubt.

“Ladies. I found this one lost in the lobby. Thought I’d escort her in.” He looks around the room, his eyebrows low. “Where’s everyone else?”

“No tryouts today.” The blonde who was sitting on the table hops off and struts toward us.

What tryouts?

“Hm. Well, you guys should get, uh…” He looks down at me. “What’s your name, Mouse?”

What is up with that nickname?

I glare up at him. “Stop calling me that.” I face the blonde and her two sidekicks. “I’m not here for tryouts for, um, whatever you—”

“Cage Girls,” a redhead girl says.

I point at her, glad somebody finally let me in on what’s going on. “Cage Girls. Right, I’m not here for that. Mr. Gibbs hired—”

“You’re not here for tryouts? With that hot little body?” Blake’s compliment has me shifting on my feet.

“No, or thank you, I guess, but no. I’m Mr. Gibbs’s new assistant.” I shove my hand toward Blake, acting firm and professional. Confident. “Layla Moorehead.”

His expression is blank, giving nothing away but a slight twitch of his lips. “What did you say?” He ignores my proffered hand.

I pull it back and clutch my bag to my body. “Mr. Gibbs hired me to—”

“No, I heard that.” His lips curve up on one side. “What’s your name?”

“Layla. Moorehead.”

He throws his head back with a laugh so loud and deep it resonates off the walls. “Fuckin’ A, Mouse. That’s the best name for a chick I’ve ever heard.”

Oh, here we go. I should have known a man like this would have the sense of humor of an eighth grader. I rub my temples, pushing back the oncoming headache. “Are you finished,” I say as dryly as I possibly can, but most likely not loud enough to be heard through his howling.

“That’s some funny shit.” He catches his breath after his fit of laughter. “Wait, let me guess.” He scratches his cheek, which is covered by the perfect amount of stubble. “You’re a stripper, right?”

What. An. Asshole.

Three

Blake

No shit. Layla Moorehead?

This babe’s hot as hell, and she’s named after sex and blowjobs. That’s a combination impossible to ignore. And that’s not where the dick-swell stops. The chick has attitude. Most girls do the blush-and-duck when I tease them. Miss Sex and More Head gave it right back. I like that.

“So you’re the new executive assistant Taylor’s been blabbing about?” Damn, guess I won’t be seeing that gorgeous body in a Cage Girl uniform after all. Not that the tight sweater dress she’s wearing leaves much to the imagination. And fuck me if she doesn’t smell downright edible.

She wiggles her nose and then pushes her glasses up with her middle finger. I squint toward her and grin. She just flipped me off like grade school kids do. Yep, seriously diggin’ the attitude.

“I guess I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She checks her fancy wristwatch. “I’m late.”

She walks past me, and the scent of vanilla from her sunshine-blond hair penetrates my senses. I resist the urge to lick my lips and sample the air. She smells like she looks. Delicate and irresistible.

I enjoy the show, watching the tight curves of her body roll beneath the fabric of her dress as she heads toward the wrong door. She reaches for the handle that opens into a large storage room and yanks hard. It’s locked. Instead of walking away when it doesn’t budge, she yanks again. She squeaks in frustration, just like she did in the lobby when I found her on her knees with that fine ass in the air.

Hands on my hips, I watch and wait. And grin like a fool. This girl is fucking hilarious. She tugs again, like maybe the sheer will of wanting to escape will magically open the door. The Cage Girls giggle.

“Mouse. Wrong door, sweetheart.”

She spins around, fast and angry, a long piece of her shining hair falling from its ballet girl bun and dancing down her face. She pushes it back only to have it fall right back down. Fuck, this girl is cute.

I point to the door she needs, and she straightens her shoulders. Cradling her broken bag in her arms, she marches toward the door, throws it open, and disappears behind it.

“Too bad,” Melinda, the captain of the Cage Girls, says. “She would have made a great CG. A little short, but perfect body.”

“Hmm.” I’m smiling at the door that Mouse just left through. “Yeah, too bad.”

What’s a shame is that Layla’s too locked up in her head. She’s fun as hell to play with, and her body alone promises a different kind of excitement. But there’s one thing I know about girls like Miss Moorehead—they’re more chore than whore. But I’ll enjoy the eye-gasm I get every time I pass by that sweet piece.

After tossing the Cage Girls a quick later, I make my way to the weight room, the place I was headed before I got sidetracked by Taylor’s new hire. The place is practically empty except for Rex and the boys, who’re already lifting.

“Late, bitch.” Owen’s spotting the new kid, Mason, on the bench press.

“Had to show Taylor’s new assistant around.” I pull my thermal over my head and toss it aside, leaving me in my sleeveless undershirt.

“Finally. That guy needed to get rid of Helga years ago.” Rex curls his weights, talking to my reflection in the mirror.

“Her name was Heidi, dumbass.” I stop at the bench and glare at Mason.

He hops up, and I take my place under the bar.

“She acted like a Helga. Fuckin’ girl was as slow as a ninety-year-old woman on muscle relaxers.”

Owen throws on a couple more weights and locks them on the bar. I brace my shoulders against the bench and then push up and out, steadying the bar that’s loaded to 300 pounds. I drop the weight to my chest and thrust it back up.

Owen hovers at the bar. “What’s she like?” He looks down at me. “The new one.”

I grind through a few more reps and slam the bar back onto the rack.

What’s she like? Hot, cute, and full of attitude. Her eyes are the color of dark chocolate, sultry and exotic, the complete opposite of her bubblegum-blonde good looks. Getting lost in those eyes would be easy, but there was something else there. Even with her sexy librarian glasses, I could see it. The disconnect in her gaze, like she was talking to a wall rather than a human being. If I had to guess, I’d say she carries a lot of shit on those perfectly toned shoulders.

I shrug. “Cool, I guess. Seems smarter than the last one, that’s for sure.”

I shake my arms out and prepare for my second set.

“Good. Maybe she’ll help Gibbs pull his head out of his ass. He’s becoming a media slut. That shit that went down with Jonah gave him a freakin’ hard-on with all the national coverage it brought.” Rex drops his weights and rounds the leg press machine.

“Yeah, I heard about that. Sucks for ‘The Assassin’ and his wife.” Mason sits on a bench across from mine, his eyebrows pinched together. “What’s he doing with the media?”

Owen clears his throat. “He’s less about the sport and more about the attention. Letting bitches backstage before a fight, joint promotions with the female team. Shit, yesterday he had a film crew in here talking about taping our training sessions for a reality show.”

Mason’s eyes grow wide, and he shakes his head. “None of that sounds bad.”

I finish my second set, sit up with my elbows on my knees, and face him. “It ain’t good. A fighter needs focus. His head needs to be clear, not filled with the complications that unnecessary attention brings. Not messed up about how he’s being portrayed on some piece of shit TV show.” I lean in closer to Baywatch. “You here to fight or are you here to get your damn face on TV with the Kardashians?”

He nods. “Here to fight.”

“Damn straight you are.”

“But hanging with the Kardashians doesn’t sound too bad either.”

I scrub my face with my hands. This guy has got to be kidding. I’m a motherfucking jiu-jitsu black belt. The Brazilian founders of the sport are probably shittin’ their gi’s at the direction the sport is taking.

MMA, going to Hollywood in a shit can.

Choosing to ignore Baywatch’s stupid comment, I set up the weights to do some dead lifts. My first day back to training after some well-deserved time off, I’m hitting it hard. Fight night will be here shortly, and there’s no way I’ll be satisfied with anything other than a win.