Unraveled (Undisputed Book 2) Read online

  “Okay, fine. Rebecca. Your house was not show ready, in my opinion.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I completely forgot there was a showing today. But a little bit of laundry on the couch isn’t a deal breaker, right? I mean, it just makes it feel homey.” I laugh, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “The laundry was not what I was referring to,” she sneers, and suddenly, I’ve had enough of this conversation.

  “Well, then, Ms. Edens, get to the point already. In case you’ve forgotten what number you dialed, I’m at work and very busy.” I glance around the empty room and shrug to myself.

  Whatever. She doesn’t know.

  “There was a personal item on the bathroom counter that my very conservative clients found offensive.”

  Oh. My. God.

  Embarrassed, I sputter, “I…I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes, well, it was quite a shock to flip the light on and see that, that thing on the counter,” she says.

  The moment she said her name, I Googled her and wasn’t shocked to see that she looked exactly as I had envisioned her. Prim and proper and stuck up. When the mental image of her walking into my bathroom and finding my vibrator on the counter pops into my head, I’m unable to suppress the laughter.

  Holding the receiver away from my mouth, I allow myself a second to giggle and then ask, “Uhm, does this mean they won’t be putting in an offer?”

  When the phone clicks without another word, I throw my head back and laugh until I can’t breathe. Finally pulling myself together, I get back to work on Tripp’s schedule and think about the irony of my life.

  I spend my days making sure no one forgets an important meeting or training session but don’t even have a calendar for myself.

  You really gotta get it together, Reb.

  For the next three hours, I’m swamped with answering calls—thankfully, no more real estate agents—and helping anyone who comes in while trying to finalize the boys’ events for the next month. When that damn bell chimes for the hundredth time today, I plaster a forced smile on my face and glance up. When I finally focus on the man walking through the door, the smile vanishes, and my jaw falls open.

  What the actual fuck?

  His head is high as he looks around, studying the room. After giving the gym a quick once-over, his gaze finally lands on where I’m seated behind the desk. Our eyes meet, and my heart hammers, the pounding so loud that I fear he can hear it from across the room. I tear my gaze away from his and scan his body, surprised at the physical reaction I’m having to him.

  With a slight shake of my head, I slap my palms on the paper-covered wood and shove out of my chair, causing it to shoot out at least ten feet behind me. “You have some nerve walking in here.”

  He stops in his tracks and blinks at me before an easy smile crosses his face. “Rebecca Toler. Shoulda known I’d see you here,” he drawls as he continues walking toward me.

  My pulse is pounding in my ears, and my stomach is practicing its floor routine for the Olympics as I stare at the man in front of me. Taking a minute to appreciate his strong jawline, which is covered in scruff, I notice that his hair is in desperate need of a trim as it falls across one eye.

  Fuck, he’s sexy.

  He always has been. Regardless of how much it pains me to admit it. Though his looks aren’t why I want to full-body hurl him from the building. Memories of our last interaction flood my mind, along with the hurt and anger I felt.

  “How ya been, Reb?” he asks.

  His use of my nickname, a familiarity he doesn’t have––or deserve––causes me to childishly snap, “Who said you could call me that?”

  He grins but doesn’t reply.

  Fuck, that grin is hot.

  “What are you doing in Atlanta, Ryker?” I ask, attitude still thick in my voice.

  He takes his time looking me over, and my body betrays me by flushing at the attention. His eyes indicate he’s appreciative of what he sees, but strangely enough, it doesn’t feel like he’s ogling me.

  He steps forward and shoves his hands in the pockets of his washed-out jeans, which hang low on his hips. “Well, I was in town and thought I’d stop in and say hello to my buddy Breccan. Seeing you is an unexpected bonus.” His lips tip up in a smile, and my stomach flips again.

  “Your buddy?” I hiss through clenched teeth while attempting not to let my gaze linger on his pants any longer.

  The thought of Ryker and Breccan ever being buddies would have been funny if I weren’t too shocked to laugh.

  His gaze finally makes it back to mine, and he nods once.

  For a few moments, we simply stare at each other. He’s smiling while I scowl. Finally, the sound of a door slamming behind me breaks the spell, and I turn in time to see Breccan come out of his office. When he looks up, he skids to a halt, and his head whips back and forth between us.

  “What’s going on out here? Reb? You okay?” He cocks an eyebrow at me.

  I vigorously nod. “Yep. I’m fine,” I blurt. It’s a lie. I’m not fine. I can’t figure out why his presence has me so flustered. I work in a gym, around gorgeous men all the time. What is it about this man that has me so verklempt?

  Breccan comes to stand next to me and throws a protective arm around my shoulders before peering across the countertop. “Whatcha doin’ in my gym, Hawke?” he growls.

  I cross my arms across my chest and smile smugly at our visitor.

  There’s been nothing but bad blood between these two for years, and I’m shocked Ryker had the nerve to show his face here of all places. Breccan narrows his eyes while waiting for a response, and Ryker’s mouth opens briefly before clamping shut.

  He cuts his gaze over at me and then back to Breccan. “You have a minute to talk to me? In private?”

  “Ha!” I snort. There’s no way Breccan’s agreeing to that.

  My thoughts are validated when Breccan tells him, “I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes.” He flashes his gaze at me.

  I roll my eyes before nodding at him.

  “Sorry. Maybe next time.” He shrugs and releases me before walking away.

  I watch him saunter away. Once he’s out of sight, I turn my attention back to our unwelcome guest.

  “Have a nice day, Ryker.” I force a fake smile.

  I sit back down in my chair and resume typing a memo for Tripp while pretending not to watch Ryker out of the corner of my eye.

  He stays motionless for a minute and then clears his throat.

  I tip my head back up and say, “Oh. You’re still here? What do you want?”

  He runs a hand through his hair before rubbing the back of his neck. Try as I might, I can’t help but wonder what his hair would feel like under my fingers.

  Snap out of it!

  “Tripp here?” He sighs, looking around the gym.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “Listen, Reb––”

  Scowling, I say, “Stop calling me that!”

  His eyes narrow, but he holds both hands up in surrender. “All right, fine. Rebecca. I really need to talk to Breccan or Tripp. It’s urgent. When will they be free?”

  There’s not a chance in hell I’m telling him their schedule, but I pretend to ponder the request while looking him over.

  He’s in excellent shape, with his muscles straining through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. There’s a hint of his tattoos poking out the bottom of his shirt sleeves, and I’m curious to know what they are. He’s watching me intently with his green eyes, and for a brief moment, it feels as if he’s able to see what I’m thinking.

  I’m unable to tear my gaze away from his, and it costs me, because just a second later, Tripp comes waltzing through the front door.

  Fuck.

  Ryker turns and calls out to him, “Yo! Tripp Toler. What’s going on, man? Just the guy I was here to see.” His entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, and the guy who was studying me intently is gone, having been replaced by this arrogant asshole.r />
  Tripp skids to a halt when he sees who’s talking to him, but in true Tripp fashion, he quickly recovers and makes his way over to us. Sticking his hand out, he says, “Ryker. Man! Good to see you. What are you doing in Atlanta?”

  I roll my eyes and interject, “I asked him the same thing. I didn’t get an answer though. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  Tripp glances between the two of us and raises his eyebrows at me.

  Seemingly oblivious to our exchange, Ryker tells him, “I just need a minute of your time, dude.”

  With all the Southern charm our parents instilled in us, Tripp replies, “Sure, sure. I’ll do ya one better. You can have three minutes. I’ll lead the way.” As he passes me on the way to his office, he winks.

  My jaw falls open, but I clamp it shut as Ryker pauses beside me and reaches a hand out.

  Gently rubbing my arm with the backs of his fingers, he damn near purrs, “Good to see you, Rebecca. Beautiful as always.”

  I snatch my arm away and tell myself that his compliment didn’t cause my heart to clench. Only it did. It so fucking did.

  He continues to Tripp’s office and quietly closes the door behind him. I’m rooted in place for about thirty seconds, replaying his words in my mind and wishing they hadn’t had any impact on me, before I snap out of it. I’m taking a step toward the office when someone comes in the front.

  Sighing, I greet the next client and pull the membership paperwork out for him to fill out. When the phone rings, I give up any hope I had of eavesdropping on their conversation and check the clock. Noon. Score.

  I pull a miniature bottle of wine out of the mini fridge under my desk and twist the cap. Taking a long swallow straight from the tiny bottle, I lean back in my chair.

  A trainer walks past and mumbles, “Is it noon already?” while making a show of checking his watch.

  I hold the bottle up and shout, “Cheers!” at him before taking another swallow. Then I glance at the front and see the new guy staring at me, his mouth open. “What?” I ask, popping an eyebrow at him.

  He quickly shakes his head and drops his gaze back to the forms he’s holding.

  If I have to wait for Tripp to tell me what Ryker’s mysterious meeting is all about, I may as well have a drink. Besides, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?

  Stepping into Team Undisputed is one of the hardest things I have ever done. It has been eighteen months since my suspension, and I have run out of options––and money.

  I expected some resistance when I asked if Breccan Carlisle, the guy who practically gave me my title, would have a word with me. So, I wasn’t shocked he turned me down and then walked away. Especially when his best friend, and surprisingly his secretary, was so bent out of shape over my presence.

  Everyone in the sport knows who Rebecca Toler is. As a former Octagon Girl, she was the best there was. Women wanted to be her, and men wanted to sleep with her. I was definitely in that line, too. The day Breccan walked out of the cage, ending his career, she did, too. I admire her loyalty to him and their friendship, even if I think she’s crazy.

  After Breccan walked out of the gym, I knew my next best option was talking to Tripp. He’s always seemed to be the more levelheaded one of the two anyway. It was sheer luck that he walked in when he did. If it weren’t for the fact that Rebecca is gorgeous and I couldn’t take my eyes off her, I would have missed him completely.

  With a sigh of relief, I followed him to his office, but not before succumbing to the urge to touch Rebecca. I thought she would pull away, and I was right. It didn’t make the interaction any less satisfying though. My fingertips still tingle from where they caressed her smooth skin.

  Closing the door behind us, I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the nerves in my belly to go away.

  Here goes nothing.

  In an abrupt one-eighty from the jovial guy in the lobby, Tripp cuts right to the chase. “Tell me why you’re here, and do it fast, Hawke.” He settles into the chair behind his desk.

  I look at the two leather wingback chairs positioned across from him and decide to remain standing. “All right. If you don’t want to waste time exchanging pleasantries, I’ll get right to it.”

  His eyes narrow at me, and he says, “I don’t know what you’re doing here. But I’m willing to bet you didn’t come all the way here to shoot the shit. So, forgive me if I’m not interested in ‘exchanging pleasantries.’” He curls his fingers in a pair of air quotes.

  He has a point, so I square my shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “I came to see if you were looking for any trainers.”

  He blinks at me once before throwing his head back and roaring in laughter. “Trainer? You?” He pauses to resume laughing. “Did you see a ‘help wanted’ sign out front?”

  I grit my teeth. “I didn’t really take the time to look.”

  “Get the fuck out of my gym, Ryker,” he commands, leaning forward and resting his arms over the papers scattered across the massive desk.

  “I’ve still got––” I glance down at my wrist out of habit before remembering I pawned my Rolex a week ago. Looking around, I spy a clock hanging on the wall and finish with, “A minute and a half.”

  “Oh, you do? Well, then. Please continue wasting your breath with whatever bullshit you’re about to spew at me.”

  Tripp may not have ever fought professionally, but he’s definitely made use of the gym equipment he’s had at his disposal. I’d rather not get into any sort of physical altercation with him, especially not in this tiny office.

  I attempt to lighten the mood. “Maybe we should start by saying that bygones should be bygones? Water under the bridge? That sort of thing?”

  “Not interested in making a new BFF, Hawke. Finish up. You’ve got thirty seconds left.”

  Pressing my lips together, I debate walking out of the room. I’m still technically the light heavyweight champ, even if it has been two years since I fought last. I don’t need this bullshit.

  But I do need a job.

  Before I can let my pride get in the way, I shove my ego to the back of my mind. “Like I said, I wanted to see if you needed any trainers.”

  “And, like I said, I don’t.”

  “Come on, man. Gyms always need trainers,” I respond quickly.

  It’s true. The turnover rate for trainers in a gym is embarrassing. They follow their favorite fighters to different camps, think they can fight themselves, or just stop showing up when they realize they can’t pay their bills on their mediocre salary.

  “Fine. But why are you looking in my gym?” He smirks. He knows the reason why I’m here, but he’s toying with me.

  By the look on his face, I think he’s enjoying it, too. My blood pressure rises, but I silently talk myself down. If I want him to say yes, losing my shit isn’t the way to do it.

  “You know the way shit went down,” I say. “Other gyms have blackballed me.” I admit through clenched teeth. Saying the words out loud is tough, but not having a place to live would be tougher.

  “I can’t imagine why that would be. It wouldn’t have anything to do with the drugs you took, now, would it?” he asks condescendingly. “I hate a fuckin’ cheater. And you, Hawke, are a fucking cheat.” He pushes to his feet while jabbing a finger in my direction.

  Even though I’ve become accustomed to hearing the words, it doesn’t make being called a cheater—something I’m not—any easier to swallow.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with a prospective client. A light heavyweight, as a matter of fact, hungry for a belt.” His smirk is back, and my fists are clenching involuntarily.

  “Tripp, wait. Just hear me out.” I grab his arm to stop him from opening the office door.

  His eyes shoot lasers at me, so I release his arm and hold both hands up.

  In my entire life, I’ve never been one to beg or grovel. When I was a kid, if I wanted something and was told no, I found a way to get it without pleading. I learned at an early age that b
egging made you weak and gave the other person the upper hand. I’ve never wanted to be considered the underdog, even if that’s what I actually was. So, I made it my personal mantra never to plead for anything.

  But this is different. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And, while I am a proud man, I’d sacrifice everything for her. I refuse to let her down.

  To his back, I list out the worst jobs I can think of in the hopes that something will sway him. “Listen. I’ll do whatever you need me to in here. I’ll let the guys use me as a punching bag. They can practice submissions on me until I pass out. If you want me to spend twelve hours a day training the little kids, I will. Just give me a chance.”

  The hand he had on the door knob falls, and he turns in my direction. “Any job? Sanitizing the mats each night, even?” His eyebrows are raised, and he’s studying my face for a reaction.

  I would almost rather get a job at McDonald’s than spend my days cleaning other people’s sweat and blood off the mats, but I know he’s testing me. And I’m not about to fail.

  “If that’s the only way you can use me, then yeah. I’ll keep those mats so clean you could fuckin’ eat off them.”

  He shakes his head at me once. “Nah. Don’t think so.”

  My stomach sinks when I realize he’s not going to give in. After I swallowed my pride, the rejection stings. Giving it one last shot, I beg, “Tripp, man, come on. Look, I’ve already moved here. I’ve already uprooted Gram.” I whisper the last line.

  “Gram?” he asks.

  Everyone in the organization knows who Gram is. When I was at the height of my career, Gram was at every event and took on the role of mother hen to some of the fighters—including Breccan a time or two in the early days, when his parents were nowhere in sight.

  “Yeah. She moved in with me a few years ago.” I hang my head. Rubbing the back of my neck, I look up. “I need a job, man.”

  He’s staring at me, the clock ticking in the background. I begin counting the ticks, and I’m up to thirty-six when he finally speaks again.

  “She’s a good woman, your gram. I’m sure you crushed her when she heard about the drugs. I’ve always wondered. How did that kind, old woman raise a man like you?”