I didn’t bother taking the bait on that. I had bigger things to focus on.
“Good evening,” the host greeted as we came up to the doorway. “Mr. Townsend and Ms. Jeffries, please enter.”
We passed through the main entrance, and as soon as we did, Annabelle’s expression switched from pouty to cheerful. She was an out of work actress, like so many other people in that damn city. Of course, she could turn it off and one on a dime.
“I heard Lena Clarkson is going to be here tonight.”
“Who?” I asked, only half caring as I gazed around the room, mentally checking off who was there and who wasn’t.
“She’s a singer. You had to have heard of her.”
With a frown, I replied, “Does she sing rock?” It was a rhetorical question. I knew she didn’t because if she had, I would’ve heard of her.
“No. Lena’s sound is more R&B, soul, and some pop.”
“Pass.” I didn’t do the sappy music shit. All the whining about love lost, forever love, missed opportunities? No thanks. Give me fast tempos, electric guitars, and screaming vocals over any of that sentimental nonsense.
“There’s Roger Wolcott.” I gestured with my head in his direction. “We need to speak with him.”
Wolcott owned a major boxing gym chain in LA, was a fight coach, and was heavily involved in the amateur MMA scene in LA.
For the next thirty minutes, I rubbed elbows with guys in suits who enjoyed talking more than they enjoyed working. Yet, they were the connectors I needed to get to Eli.
“Here he is now,” Wolcott said sometime later.
I turned to find the man I’d been waiting on all night strolling up to our small circle.
“By the looks of it, I’m right on time,” Eli Gatlin said with a lift of his chin.
Wolcott introduced him to everyone in the group. When he got to me, Eli’s gaze narrowed, and the corners of his lips raised.
“Gabriel Townsend. I’ve gotten at least a hundred messages from your company between you and your business partner.”
I withheld my frown. “The cage isn’t the only place you like to exaggerate,” I commented as we shook hands.
That got a laugh out of everyone around us, including Eli.
“My partner and I have reached out to you. We’re certain we can make the transition from amateur to pro worth your while.”
His eyebrows rose, and he glanced around the semi-circle of men, chuckling. While he tried to appear unaffected, I spotted the way his eyes glittered with interest. “You sound confident as fuck. Looks like the cage isn’t the only place you like to play wolf,” he goaded, using my fight name.
“I don’tplayanything. I take my business as seriously as I take any fight,” I assured.
“A lot of people make promises they can’t keep,” an unfamiliar male voice interjected.
Eli shifted, which allowed me to see the man standing behind him.
“Eli, this is Nate Richards,” Roger Wolcott introduced. “Nate, this is Eli.”
“I know who he is,” Nate answered.
I studied this new intruder, noting the wide smirk, Italian suit, and large, gold pinky ring. He had that LAtrying too hardlook about him that always grated on my nerves.
From the way he attempted to grab Eli’s attention, it was evident that he was also interested in managing the fighter. I would’ve been nervous if I didn’t trust my gut so much. Nate Richards wouldn’t be a problem.
However, as I mentally dismissed Nate, I locked gazes with a pair of cinnamon eyes, with flecks of gold in them. All of the background noise ceased to exist. The asshole to her left was no more, and it became difficult to remember my intention of signing Eli Gatlin as the next fighter to my company.
Her cinnamon eyes dared to turn upward at the corners, like a cat’s. The eyes were only part of her appeal. The pert nose at the center of her face gave way to a set of naturally plump lips. Rare for Los Angeles.
