Free A Father's Fight: Blake and Layla #2 (Fighting #5) by Jb Salsbury

service,” he says with a bloodied-lip grin.
    We all laugh, the tension in the air dissolving enough that we
move to get on with what we came here for.
    I hop the octagon fence and give my brother a shove. “Show’s over;
let’s hit some weights.”
    He follows me toward the weight room. “Dude, that was kickass. I
can see why you like it here. I mean I get to train, but we never get good hand-to-hand
like what I just saw there.”
    Poor guy never has been sent to the war he’s training for day in
and day out. I remember what it was like to know so much and have to bottle it
up, never given the opportunity to exercise my training in a physical and
tangible way.
    I flick on the lights and hit the stereo, putting Black Sabbath
on Pandora to make sure plenty of hard metal pumps through the room and keeps
us energized. We hit the free weights first, and I realize immediately that my
baby bro has been spending plenty of time in the gym. He needs zero instruction
as we move mindlessly through our own workouts, grabbing weights similar to
what I lift.
    He fatigues quicker than I do, but that could have a lot to do
with his extracurricular activities. As much as I enjoyed living that life when
I did, I’m glad it’s part of my past. I push him to hit the bench press, and after
a few sets, we take a water break.
    “How’s the hangover now?” I toss him a towel that he immediately
presses to his face.
    “Much better,” he says, out of breath. “Thanks for asking me down
here. I’d probably be nursing this hangover with a little hair of the dog in
the casino if you hadn’t texted me.” He takes a swig of water. “Also helped me
get rid of my date from last night.”
    Well, I’ll be damned. My baby brother’s got game.
    “Careful, dude. Vegas chicks aren’t like the chicks back home.”
    He glares up at me. “Why not? I mean pussy’s pussy.”
    I drop my chin and laugh at how he sounds just the way I did the
other day at the OB’s office. I take a minute to imagine the heaping pile of
verbal comebacks my Mouse would lob at Brae if she were to hear him say that. Damn,
I love that woman.
    “I’m just warning you now not every girl is as innocent as she
might pretend to be. ’Lotta pros in Vegas.”
    He lifts one eyebrow. “You mean prostitutes?”
    I wipe the back of my neck with the towel. “No, not necessarily,
but professional manipulators that prey on pretty boys like you.” He throws his
sweaty towel at me, and I swipe it out of the air before it hits my face. “Just
be safe, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
    He recoils, his lips twisted as if he’s tasting something he
doesn’t like. “Please, tell me this isn’t the you-better-be-using-protection
talk. Got that from Mom at fourteen.”
    “Yeah? From Mom? I never got that talk.”
    He shrugs. “That’s because you were too busy running off to play
piano when you were fourteen. I was going to the senior prom with ‘Kitty Cat’
Coffman when I was fourteen.” His eyes go unfocused and he grins. “Never heard
a woman purr before, but damn . . .” He shakes his head.
    “You fucked ‘Kitty Cat’ Coffman?” That girl was gorgeous and four
years older than him. “She was in my grade.”
    “What can I say, brother?” He swipes a pretend piece of lint from
his shoulder. “Hate the playa’ not the game.”
    “Dude, never say that again.” I toss my sweaty towel in his face.
“You sound like a douchebag.”
    “Whatever, I appreciate your concern, but I’m a big boy.” He
chuckles and pushes up from the bench. “At least, that’s what she said.”
    My jaw falls open on its hinges. “How dare you? That’s my line.”
    He laughs and pulls his elbow over his head to stretch his
triceps. “Your concern for me is sweet, but I can take care of my own dick,
thank you very much.”
    I bite down against the urge to tease him about taking care of
his own dick and focus on what I asked him down here for.
    “So Mom wants you to bring me home to