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.”