Fighting for What's His (Warrior Fight Club 2)

He frowned and shoved down a tendril of anger. Did she think he couldn’t do it? “Nope, but I’m offering.” And, truth be told, he wouldn’t mind the break from being in her presence, because something about Shayna Curtis sent his thoughts—and his body—in directions he shouldn’t and didn’t want to go.

“Well, okay. Then I’m about five cars down the block. The silver CRV with New York tags. I’ll grab my keys.” She made quick work of retrieving her keyring from upstairs, then held it out to him. “Thanks. I’ll need to use my own vehicle for work from time to time, so everything needs to come in.”

“Got it,” he said, coming closer to grab the keys.

Those blue-green eyes peered up at him, questioning, appreciating, maybe even admiring. And it was all suddenly more than he could handle. “Can I help?”

“I’ll handle it,” he said, partly speaking to himself, which was why the words came out more harshly than he intended. Damnit. How long was it until fight club again?

“Okay.” She stepped back from him as if she knew he was a pressure cooker about to explode.

Damn it all to hell, she wasn’t fucking wrong. Not that it was her fault. It wasn’t. And it meant he needed to get his shit together.

Billy forced a smile. “Let’s get you settled in so you’re all ready for your new gig.”

Chapter Three

By the time Billy got across town to the Full Contact MMA Training Center, he was nearly desperate to release some of the pent-up frustration and restlessness that had been barreling through his body all damn day.

Walking through the front door of the gym was a little like coming home. The familiarity of the modern reception area, with its cases of trophies and ribbons filling one whole wall. The scents of air conditioning and cleaner and sweat and determination. The symphony of sounds—equipment clanging, weights dropping, feet beating out a rhythm on treadmills, boxing gloves hitting their targets.

Just the promise of release was enough to fire a shot of relief through his veins.

And he had Warrior Fight Club, which met at Full Contact every Saturday, to thank for every bit of it.

He’d belonged to the WFC for almost two years, and it had done more than anything else he’d tried to screw his head on right. Talk therapy was fine. It was whatever. He didn’t hate it but it just put him further into his own feels. And that was generally the last place he wanted to be.

Whereas his fists took him way the hell out of his head—while also proving to himself that, despite his injuries and his pain and the loss of his military career, he could still take care of himself and, when necessary, others, too.

He wasn’t surprised to find that he was the first one there. He’d left way earlier than he needed to, but he’d had to get away from Shayna.

He’d brought her belongings in from her car just like he said he would, and when he’d expressed surprise at how many cameras she owned, she’d shown him each one and explained its advantages and uses. She’d been cute and almost contagiously enthusiastic while she’d done so. But she’d created such a disaster in his office—he really needed to stop thinking of it that way, didn’t he?—that he’d just gotten the hell out of there rather than risk waving his freak flag at her.

It was all for the best, because now he had time to pound out a few miles on the treadmill before anyone else arrived. He was on his fourth mile when a deep voice pulled him from his thoughts.

“How’s it going, Billy?”

He turned to find a big mountain of a man grinning at him as he dropped his bag of gear to the floor. Moses Griffin, who was also a Ranger, though they hadn’t been in the same battalion.

“Hey, Mo. It’s going.”

Mo palmed a dark h

and over his bald head, the movement emphasizing the bulk of the man’s biceps. “That good, huh? Did your company arrive yet?” He got onto the treadmill next to Billy’s, feet straddling the belt.

“Roger that,” Billy said. Mo had been there the day Ryan had called in his favor, and he and a few others had heard Billy vent about it. But now that he’d met Shayna, he felt a little bad about having done so. “It’ll be fine, though. She’s cool.”

She’s beautiful. And interesting. And uses hilariously random curse words.

Mo’s eyebrows went up and he slanted him a glance as he adjusted the settings on the machine’s LED screen. “Glad to hear it,” he said, his tone flat.

Which wasn’t really like Mo, who seemed to have two settings: happy and gregarious, or sarcastic as fuck. He was just one of those guys who came at life with humor and optimism, and who looked at every stranger as a friend waiting to be made. Billy had always admired that about him. But today, something seemed off.

“You okay, big guy?” Billy asked as Mo started running.

“Yeah, I’m fucking fine,” he said, not really sounding fine at all. Billy arched a brow, and it made Mo laugh. “Okay, so I’m not. Got rejected from a job I applied for and I’m in a mood over it.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Mo. Is it that time again?”