Page 21 of Craving the Edge

There was no bank error. There never was.

I’d spent the last six months cleaning up his mess, wresting control of the accounts from whatever shoebox he used for receipts. I’d untangled the direct debits, chased overdue memberships, and put the suppliers on a proper payment schedule. We weren’t turning a massive profit, but the bills were paid. There was money in the account to make payroll. Which was easy since I was the only full time employee. Everyone else paid to be here and took a cut of their class fees.

Gary’s lie was what bothered me. It wasn’t his usual panic because he decided to buy a shitty car with the gym’s assets. This felt like he was hiding something else.

I turned to look at him, but he was already gone, his office door slamming shut behind him.

Shit.

I had a whole new problem to worry about, and it had nothing to do with a famous fighter with pretty eyes and a disappearing act.

What the hell had Gary gotten himself into this time?

CHAPTER 8

CHAR

For the first time ever, silence settled over Fighter’s Edge. The gym should’ve been pumping, full of fights training, the morning boxing class…or like it’d been lately. Infested with Declan Walsh.

I stood near the heavy bags, arms crossed over my chest, watching Billie take full advantage of the no-show.

She flowed through a shadow-boxing routine in the centre of the floor. Her feet were light, a soft squeak of trainers as she pivoted. One-two, slip, hook. The snap of her hands slicing through the air was the only sound.

They hadn’t even bothered telling me they wouldn’t be here.

No call from Rhys. Not a word from Declan. Just an offhanded comment from Tomas as he’d left yesterday. Irritation prickled under my skin. The decent thing to do was to let me know so I didn’t have to be here at six in the morning sitting in an empty gym. Shit, I could’ve opened for our regulars who’d been shoved aside so Walsh could train.

Billie dipped under a phantom punch, her blonde ponytail swinging. I tracked her hands, which were wrapped in black, as they carved through the space where an opponent would be.

I leant against one of the cold iron support beams near the mats, the rough paint flaking against my hoodie. Billie slowed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. She unwrapped her hands, grabbed a towel from the ring post, and scrubbed it over her face and neck before walking over.

“You’re a million miles away, Char.”

“Just thinking.”

“About what? Why a celebrity fighter who booked this place out for a month suddenly has somewhere better to be this morning?” She slung the towel over her shoulder. “Because I’ve got a theory.”

“I don’t need a theory, Billie.”

“It involves a secret, underground fight club that only operates on Thursday mornings.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling.

“You and I both know he’s at some press conference.”

“Okay, then tell me why you’ve been wound up since he got here.”

I looked away, towards the silent weight racks. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

A hot flush crept up my neck and I pushed off the iron beam. “He’s a disruption.”

“Judge, it’s me. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. Just admit it.”

My shoulders sagged. The fight went out of me, leaving an empty space where the irritation had been. “Admit what?”

“That you’re into him.”

I looked at the worn canvas, the scuffed floor, anywhere but at her. Finally, I let out a breath. “Alright. Yes. I’m into him. Happy?”