Defying the Odds (6 page)

Clay told her about his day, which was pretty uneventful. It turned out famous Mixed Martial Arts fighters spent 90 percent of their time doing Mixed Martial Arts…and eating.

If Melody ate half as much as Clay, she’d weigh seven hundred pounds, but there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He was all muscle, and she allowed herself the luxury of admiring him. She studied the broad expanse of his chest and the flex of his powerful arm muscles beneath his shirt as his low voice washed over her, soothing her with the lull of his accent. She certainly chose right to hide out in a small town close to where she grew up. Hearing the sounds of her youth in everyone’s voice was nice. If she never saw a city again, it wouldn’t be too soon.

“Then Jules asked me to help out with one of the self-defense classes she teaches at the Cellar, since Wyatt was wise enough to work overtime. Said he had a domestic disturbance, but you and
me
know that
ain’t
true. He was sitting at the station screwing around on the city’s dime,” Clay said, taking another bite of his food before he gave a half laugh. “So I spent an hour getting beat on by old ladies.”

Melody smiled, letting her eyes drift closed. “Sorry I missed it.”

“I think a few of those old gals was touching me inappropriately on purpose.”

“Maybe I need to take me a self-defense class,” Melody teased.

“I got connections at the Cellar, seeing as how I own half of it,” Clay said, his voice no longer lighthearted. “You could take whatever classes
ya
wanted, Mel. A self-defense class
ain’t
a bad idea.”

Melody snorted. “If I find that much free time, the only thing I’m taking is a nap.”

“
Gimme
your tips; I’ll count ’
em
. Help
ya
get done early.”

“Nah,” she argued, her eyes still closed. She felt exhausted on a soul-deep level. “I still
gotta
get prep work done, and I
gotta
get your ticket rung up and—”

“Here, take this.”

Melody blinked, finding Clay’s thick, wool-lined jacket in her face. “What?”

“Take a power nap, and I’ll eat slow,” Clay suggested
,
jacket still pushed in her face as he held it across the table. He leaned out of the booth, scanning the near-empty restaurant. “Judy’s still got two customers. You got a few minutes to rest.”

It was a testament to how truly tired she was, because she grabbed the jacket. It smelled like Clay, warm and woodsy and masculine. She couldn’t help but bury her face in the wool lining, letting his scent comfort her. It was such an overwhelming feeling she couldn’t even think to be embarrassed. Life was too damn short, and something as soothing as Clay’s scent surrounding her had Melody falling down on the booth bench. She buried her face in the jacket, nearly smothering herself, but it didn’t matter because all the tension eased out of her.

“Don’t let me get fired,” she mumbled into the wool. “Wake me up if they come snooping.”

“
Gimme
your tips.
You can tell ’
em
you were counting.”

Melody reached into her apron. She grabbed handfuls of small bills and slapped them on the counter. When she’d retrieved all the bills, she fished for the coins, setting them blindly on top of the cash to keep them in place, but she heard a few strays try to roll away as they clattered on the tabletop.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“That’s it.” Melody tucked her hand under her cheek and pulled her sneakered feet closer to her body so they weren’t hanging out of the booth.
“Pretty busy tonight.
Can’t be half bad, but I’ll probably be mopping.”

“Christ.” Clay sighed over the sound of him sorting through the bills. “No wonder you’re always working. This
ain’t
nothing
.”

“You smell nice,” Melody mumbled in response, still high on the smell of him clouding her senses and the soft feel of wool against her cheek. “Just
gonna
close my eyes. Wake me up before someone comes.”

Clay grunted in the affirmative, and that was enough for her. She let her eyes drift closed, thinking she hadn’t been this comfortable in her entire life. Melody fell into a deep, fathomless sleep almost instantly.

Clay counted Melody’s tips while he ate. When he was done, he stared at the pile of cash that totaled eighty-eight dollars and seventy cents, realizing she’d worked since breakfast for it.

Life seemed really fucking unfair when he considered his own bank accounts, which had a truly obnoxious amount of money in them. What the hell kind of world did they live in that he made so much for fighting a few cocky bastards a year and she made so little for running around, taking care of people fifteen hours a day?

He wanted to add a few grand to that pile, but he knew from experience it wouldn’t fly. That first breakfast when he’d requested Melody wait on them, he’d left her a hundred-dollar tip. He wasn’t three feet into the parking lot before she was running out after him, arms bare in the cold as she thrust the big bill back at him, flat-out refusing to accept it. He’d argued and refused to take it, pointing out her truck had no heat and her jacket was near bare in spots. She’d just boldly stuffed the money into the pocket of his jeans and walked back inside, claiming it wasn’t fair.

Then Clay started to get creative. He’d bribed everyone who worked at
Cuthouse
Cellar to eat at Hal’s on her shifts and leave big tips. Three days in, Melody smelled a rat and refused to wait on
anyone
from the Cellar, including Wyatt and Jules. That’s when he gave up, because more than half the town either worked for or attended classes at the
Cuthouse
Cellar Training Center. Swearing off the Cellar patrons and employees was the equivalent to committing waitress suicide.

Once Clay promised to lay off the tips conspiracy, Melody went back to waiting on anyone who sat in her section. Clay supposed near ninety dollars on a Wednesday was decent, but he knew she was still trying to save for her truck and furniture and rent. She owed Terry the deposit for the utilities that he’d fronted her. She owed Hal two hundred dollars he’d loaned her to get groceries and other supplies. She needed a new coat. Her sneakers had holes in the bottoms of them. She never wore gloves, and there wasn’t a damn thing Clay could do about any of it because it seemed she was willing to accept at least some help from anyone but him.

“Hey, Melody, darling, Powerhouse’s the last of—”

Clay leaned out of the booth, giving Judy a pleading look, and whispered, “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars to let her sleep.”

Clay was dead serious. He’d pay twice that to give her the few minutes of sleep she desperately needed. He was starting to worry about her driving, because she always looked two blinks away from passing out.

“No, no, I’m up.” Melody shot up in the booth before Judy could respond, stray strands of blonde hair escaping her bun and framing her face. She blinked as if still trying to get her bearings. “I was just resting my eyes.”

“
Don’t that
mean sleeping?” Judy asked, giving Melody an indulgent smile. “You
wanna
take off? I’ll do the prep work for tonight.”

“No,” Melody said quickly as she worked at pushing the stray wisps of hair back into place. “You
ain’t
doing my job for me. If I’m
gonna
take double shifts for the extra money, then I’m
gonna
do all the work.”

“You look like a strong wind would blow you over,” Judy scolded.

“I got it.” Melody scooted out of the booth, reaching over to grab Clay’s jacket before she turned to him. “How much did I make?”

“Oh.” Clay looked to the neat pile of money and coins he had stacked in front of him.
“’Bout ninety.
Eighty-eight and some change.
I guess that’d make it near a hundred if you include my tip.”

Melody turned to look at Judy hopefully, but her shoulders slumped when Judy winced and said, “I had the Wednesday church group tonight.”

“No, it’s good,” Melody said, recovering easily as she handed Clay his jacket. “Thanks. The power nap worked. I feel better.”

Clay grabbed her hand when she leaned over him, picking up her money and putting it in her apron. He studied Melody’s angelic face, seeing dark circles under her eyes. She was still beautiful enough to haunt his dreams every night since she’d first bought him that piece of pie, but there was no question the hard work was wearing on her. He wanted to toss her over his shoulder and tie her to the bed until she stopped fighting and got some much-needed sleep.

But if there was one thing Clay understood, it was the need to fight.

“Can I help
ya
?” he asked softly. “I’m a good
mopper
, highly qualified. I mop the Cellar all the time, and those floors are pretty damn repulsive. This place
ain’t
nothing
for me.”

Melody shook her head. “Ah no, Hal wouldn’t—”

“Sure he would,” Judy interjected. “If he’s feeling inspired to work for free, Hal
ain’t
one to complain ’bout that. After I had Stella,
Jerry’d
drive out here every night with the baby and do all my prep work while I sat in the back and fed her.”

Clay grinned triumphantly and tossed his jacket into the booth. He pulled off his UFC baseball cap and put it on backward, letting her know he was ready to work. He squeezed Melody’s hand, seeing her cheeks were flushed pink and a smile quirked at the corner of her full, pink lips.

He stood up, deliberately crowding into her personal space because being near her felt like breathing fresh air after a lifetime of choking on dust. Her head only came to his shoulder, and it left him feeling powerful and masculine in a way he found addictive. He let go of her hand only to cup her face. He gave in to the indulgence, letting his thumb sweep across Melody’s cheek. He savored her smooth skin, wondering if all of her was just as silky.

His entire body tightened because he was officially obsessed with Melody Dylan, who was exotic and unique to him. All the women he spent time with were built like Jules—with strong, condensed, muscular bodies honed from years of martial arts training. The groupies were slender and fit too, thinking hard bodies were essential to gaining attention, and perhaps they were for other fighters, but not for Clay.

He liked Melody’s softness and cherished the gentle curves instead of hard angles. Clay wanted to drown in her, to spend a lifetime learning her with his mouth and hands. He didn’t just want to fuck her; he wanted to actually
love
her with his body in a way that had never occurred to him before Thanksgiving. It was more than her lush figure and beautiful smile. It was her soul that called out to him. Being around her felt like coming home. He could smile around her. He could laugh and feel normal in a way he never anticipated with anyone, even Wyatt and Jules, who were practically
family
.

When his hand slid to the back of her neck on instinct, Melody’s eyes drifted closed. It’d be so easy to kiss her, to find out if that heart-shaped mouth really tasted as sweet as it looked. After days of jerking off in the shower to her image, he felt out of his mind enough to give in to the temptation.

Melody turned her cheek away before he could, not fighting his hold on her neck but opening her eyes to stare past his shoulder. Disappointment flashed brilliant green behind her black-rimmed glasses, forcing Clay to turn and look.

Judy stood there, eyes wide as she watched the two of them. Behind her, Hal was leaning out of the door to the kitchen, making his interest blatantly obvious. Clay actually moaned out loud, his cock aching with frustration as he glared at the two of them.

“This town does need a movie theater,” he grumbled under his breath as he turned back to Melody.

“That
ain’t
a lie,” Melody agreed, placing a palm on his chest and pushing him away with a look of pain that told him she was hurting as badly as he was from the forced separation. “If you’re dying to mop, then be my guest.”

He was dying to do something else entirely, but mopping was his only outlet for the tension. Clay mopped the hell out of Hal’s Diner, putting real elbow grease into getting the floors cleaned. Once the front was clean, Clay walked into the kitchen, still frustrated. He tackled the kitchen, finding those floors more appealing because of the thin coating of grease from the day’s cooking. Maybe if he could get the kitchen clean, he could start thinking clearly again.