Page 40 of No Mercy

“You’re up.” Jonah passes over the cue.

We’re playing Jess and Walker, who suck at pool. I don’t know why they insist on teaming up. They might learn a thing or two or have a shot at winning if they’d pick other partners.

“Cap and Frankie coming back tomorrow?” Sloan tosses out right as I take my shot.

I give it a little too much power, causing me to miss. Jess and Walker woot, patting Sloan on the back with a, “Thanks, man.”

Sloan shrugs. “Sorry, Gabriel.”

“Coach says they’re coming back with a new kid who’s got a thing for our girl,” Patrick offers up like his comment isn’t a punch to my gut.

“Whose girl?” I growl, burning them all with my fiery gaze.

“You sure she’s still yours?” Walker dares, obviously not caring if I knock his teeth out.

“I’m sure.” No, she hasn’t returned a single one of my calls. But Cap assures me she’s fine, and this new kid and her are only friends. He taunted me with it at first, but decided for my training’s sake it was best to level with me. My Angel put him firmly in the friend zone where all these dumb motherfuckers belong.

I pass off the cue to Jonah and tap my glass to Jake, the bartender, letting him know I need a refill. As I wait at the bar, glancing over my shoulder at the game, a familiar form shimmies up to my side. Blonde Tits.

“Long time no see, Gabriel.” She looks around like she’s looking for something, or someone. “Where’s your girl?”

“Home.” I don’t even give her the pleasure of my attention. My stone-cold stare is straight ahead.

“Really.” She walks her fingers up my bicep. “I coulda sworn I heard Walker say she’s out of town. Something about checking out new meat.”

I nod my thanks to Jake with a generous tip when he fills my glass three-fingers full.

“You know, it’s awful understanding of you—” Blonde Tits continues talking like I give a fuck what she thinks.

I check my phone and lay it on the bar as I take a drink and check out the status of our pool game.

“—I mean, who knows what goes on out there on the road. For all you know, she’s in a meat sandwich with these new guys as we speak.”

“What the fuck did you say?” I pin her with daggers for eyes.

She pushes into my side, her hand moving up my chest. “I could keep you company while she’s gone. No one has to know.” She turns an imaginary key like she’s locking her lips. I wish she had a real key.

Stepping out of her grasp, I grab my drink. “Not interested.” I can’t believe I took this chick home a few months ago thinkingshecould knock Frankie from my thoughts.

What the fuck was I thinking?

CAP, ROWDY, AND I WRAPPED UPour last day of our scouting trip. We’ve picked up two more fighters with the potential for a few others who felt they needed more time to think about it. What’s there to think about? Nobody takes better care of their fighters than Cap. But they don’t know that. Word of mouth is good, but fighters also don’t like to give up a good thing. If new blood is coming in, the older guys feel like maybe that means they’re out, so established fighters are more tight-lipped to be sure their good thing remainstheirgood thing.

The ones who fit end up finding us one way or another. It’s a karma kind of thing. You get what you give, and Cap gives good karma.

I may have celebrated a little too much at dinner. The guys egged me on. I rarely drink. They don’t know that, and I didn’t want to seem like a goody two shoes. It’s hard enough living in the testosterone-laden world of MMA. I don’t need to remind them I’m a woman by not drinking… But also, I wanted to cut loose for a change. At least a little.

So, yeah, I’m a little drunk. My room is too quiet and way too empty. And I’m homesick. Which can’t be true because I don’t even have a home. I’m officially homeless. All my worldly belongings are stuffed in trash bags, sitting in my office at Black Ops.

How did my life come to this? My professional life is on track, but somewhere along the way my personal life jumped the rails. It’s not even a runaway train. My life is a derailed train car, missing wheels, listing to one side, spray-painted with graffiti, the door broken off its hinges, scraping the ground. Yep, I’m a broken down railway car.

I flop back on my bed, my phone tight in my hand, resting on my chest. I want to hear his voice. I’ve deleted every voicemail he left. I didn’t listen to a single one. Now I wish I had. I’d at least know what he’s thinking. He hasn’t called me today. I’m not even worth him chasing me for three days. He gave up after two. Hell, he didn’t even fight for me when I was in the same house. I packed and left his home without a peep from him.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Sitting up, I click on his name before I can chicken out. It’s late. He should be home. He’s a stickler when he’s in training.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Click. Voicemail.

---