Chapter 1
Arlo
Peeking through the window of the MMA gym lobby, I sigh at the sight of the “help wanted” sign. I know nothing about MMA, but the “no experience necessary” means I have a chance, which is all I need.
Taking a deep breath, I deliberately relax my jaw. I can do this. Right? Shaking out my arms, I try to loosen the muscles in my shoulders. Today I’m going in there.
I’m prepared. Well, as prepared as I can be, considering how fucked up my life is at the moment—broke and homeless.
Could I be more of a loser?
I’m not sure how to play the homeless thing. Maybe I’ll use the shelter address where I slept last night. I’m not sure I want to go back, though. That shower was heaven, but I couldn’t sleep. Who can sleep in a room full of strangers? Not me. All those nasty bodily noises and the disgusting smells were killing me. Clearly, not everyone makes use of the shower facilities. I don’t like to think about the other reasons sleep was elusive.
Still better than Derek.
Getting this job is key. If I’m ever going to get my own place, I need a job. Rubbing my still damp fingers against my faded jeans, I check my appearance in a shop window.
I washed up in the bathroom at the laundromat this morning after spending five dollars of my dwindling cash to clean my clothes. Still, if I get the job, it was worth it. I’m presentable. Not fantastic, but good enough. It will have to do. I square my shoulders and head inside.
It’s unexpectedly loud. The clang of weights. The thud of bodies hitting mats. Laughter. Trash talk. The heavy bass of the music pumping through the speakers.
Too harsh. Too much.
The smell of old sweat and pine floor cleaner makes my empty stomach lurch. I’m suddenly grateful I didn’t eat breakfast.
The draft from the enormous ceiling fan is cool enough that I shiver. My hoodie is a little worse for wear, and I don’t want anyone to see it, so I left it safely in my backpack along with all the rest of my worldly possessions.
The front counter and the wall behind it hide the working area of the gym. It’s not a full wall because the ceilings are way too high, but enough to block the view from the entrance. It’s enough to make me more relaxed. A chill creeps up my spine at the thought of being exposed to anyone passing by the windows.
Never again, even if it’s at work.
The lobby looks very professional. The side wall sports a collection of framed photos. Pictures of fighters under a “Meet the Trainers” sign. The biggest picture is in the middle, someone called the “Black Wolf.” And underneath that is “Mac Tire Dubh.” No clue how to pronounce that. Based on the guy’s tattoos, I’d guess Scottish or Irish. His tattoos are all Celtic knotwork, except for the wolf’s head on his chest. It’s beautiful work. I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but Derek wouldn’t allow it.
The next guy is huge. Diesel. He doesn’t look quite as intense as wolf guy. He’s smiling at least, eyes soft and approachable. That’s a positive sign.
I wander over to the counter, past the large fake plant sitting by the front door. It’s an old wooden counter, refurbished but solid. The back wall is bare, except for the gym logo. No one is missing it. It’s massive.
O’Rourke’s Corner MMA and Fitness.
The wolf mascot in the middle threw me off. It wasn’t aggressive, but it wasn’t exactly welcoming. It was the faded pride sticker on one of the fighter’s water bottles that tipped it for me. Out there in the open where anyone could see it. I’ve learned the hard way to pay attention to the details.
The counter is empty. No bell. No sign. I’m not sure what to do.
I’m rethinking my entire plan when a tall and solidly built guy walks out from the back.
Jesus Christ, that guy is jacked.
His body is powerful. Not sculpted. Not for show. A black tank top, gym logo front and center, stretches across his broad chest. His ice-blue eyes seem to see everything I’m trying to hide. His black, wavy hair and the five o’clock shadow make him striking, if not classically handsome. He looks like the “Black Wolf” guy on the wall.
“Can I help you with something?” His voice is deep and masculine, exactly what I’d expect from an MMA fighter. It sends a shiver up my spine I have to fight to suppress. My mind blanks, and I hesitate before replying.
Get it together. You need this job.
“Hi, um I’m here for the job.” I point toward the sign in the window.
“Oh yeah. Great. Can you fill this out?” He hands me a paper application he’s pulled from under the counter. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes. Gotta finish something first.”
“Sure, no problem.”
