In His Corner (The Corner #1)

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.”

There are a couple of old plastic chairs by the window, so I sit, rummaging through my backpack for a pen. I’m not even sure I have one. Shit.

A pen appears in my field of vision.

“You might need this,” he says. I reach for it, nodding my thanks.

“Name’s Tiernan.” He says, holding out his massive hand, his colorful tattooed sleeves even more striking in person. I try not to stare, but damn, that is some serious arm porn.

“Thanks.” I hesitate before grabbing his hand. It’s warm and solid. He shakes mine with firmness but not pressure. I hate guys who try to crush my hand. They always turn out to be bullies.

“Arlo. Nice to meet you, sir.”

His mouth thins and his jaw clenches slightly.

“Just call me Tiernan. I don’t need that “sir” crap.”

I nod my agreement. Not sure how to respond, so I just let the awkward silence hang.

“Take your time.” He gives me a long, measured look before disappearing back through the side door. The scent of sandalwood and soap lingers.

I fiddle with the pen while I stare down at the application, finally writing the shelter’s address. It’s all I’ve got at this point. I’ll tell him I’m moving so he doesn’t actually use it.

I move on to my work history. Well shit. The last job I had was two years ago at a fast-food joint. They probably don’t even remember me. I certainly don’t remember them. Or their address and phone number.

It’s not like I can use rent boy as an actual occupation. Nope. Better to go with nothing. Fuck! Maybe Derek was right. There’s no way anyone will hire me.

Derek is not right, and you weren’t a rent boy.

Fuck, I might as well have been. He didn’t keep me around for my ability to clean house.

I fill out what I can, leaving the rest blank. There’s nothing I can do to fix it now.

I tug at my shirt, wishing I could have ironed it. The plain green t-shirt is clean but wrinkled. Too late now. I set the partially completed application on the chair next to me. My leg jiggles with nervous energy. I want to get up and pace, but that’s not a good look.

Tiernan shows up a few minutes later, making my wait time mercifully short.

“You done? Come on in the office with me.”

I hand him the paper, and he gestures for me to follow him.

There’s an old brown couch lining the back wall. It’s a bit worn but looks comfy. A black IKEA desk dominates the center of the room, and behind that is a framed picture of what looks like a family crest. I glance around his office while he reads my application.

A large black filing cabinet stands against the right wall, next to a bookcase that looks as if it matches the desk.

Books take up two shelves, although I can’t read their titles from here.

There are some framed photos on another shelf, and the top shelf looks like it has a big golden belt.

The kind they give you when you win a fight.

This guy must have been pretty damn good if he’s got one of those.

His desk is neat and clean. Not a lot of clutter. Just a few essentials—a bunch of colored pens in a coffee cup that says “Fight me, I’m Irish,” a black Swingline stapler, and a small container of multicolored paperclips.

So Irish, not Scottish. Good to know.

“Let’s talk about your work experience.”

Well, shit.