“You shouldn’t be offering dating advice. You don’t even have a girlfriend. In fact, in the time I’ve known you, except for Sandy, I don’t think you’ve ever had a date.”

Ray sips his coffee and his gaze flicks to me. “Private things should stay private. Always believed that. Always will. And I didn’t have a date with Sandy. Not my type.”

Curiosity piqued, Penny assails him with questions about what exactly he might be keeping private, why he didn’t go out with Sandy, and what was his type, none of which he answers. And I know he never will.

“You coming?” He taps his watch and looks at me. “We’re gonna be late. I thought you wanted to be there to watch your man fight.”

“All signed and ready to go. Penny’s going to take it down to the courier while I change. Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

“Five,” Penny says, picking up the envelope. “I’m actually going to run. No way am I going to be late.”

Ray pushes himself off the couch. “I’ll go with you and pick up a coupla coffees for the road.”

After they’ve gone, I race into my office and slam the door. Moments later I’ve stripped off my suit and pulled on studded jeans and a T-shirt. Fight events are dress down, but I can’t resist throwing on a pair of heels. Jake loves heels. Clackity clack. Clackity clack. I race to the washroom to put on my “Amanda” face. A slap of blush, a slip of lipstick, a stroke of mascara, and I’m ready to go. I pull out my ponytail and fluff my hair as anticipation ratchets through me. I’m going to see Jake.

My heels click down the hallway to the rhythm of the Slugs’s latest single, “Danger Lies Ahead.” Damn. Penny forgot to turn off her radio. I race back to reception at top speed. After only a few sessions of Get Fit or Die, my top speed is pretty damn fast, and I am at her desk in a heartbeat.

Wham. Someone shoves me against the wall from behind. My purse flies out of my hand and hits the floor with a soft thud.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Who’s been waiting for me? I don’t recognize the voice and my inquiring mind wants to know. I look back over my shoulder. Oh. It’s Evil Reid. Just hanging around my reception room as evil doers do. The skin on my neck prickles and I fight for calm.

“Reid. Hi. I’m in a hurry. I have to go. Something I can do for you?”

Reid spins me around to face him and his cruel smile cannot hide the darkness in his eyes.

“There’s a lot you can do for me. You f**king owe me, Westwood. Farnsworth kicked me out of the firm. He said I didn’t meet the moral standards for the partnership. Can you believe the irony? And not only did you humiliate me, you did this.” He pulls a sheet of pink paper from his pocket and waves it in front of me.

Heart thumping, I try to focus on the blur of black letters. “What is it?”

“Your complaint to the State Bar. I’m going to lose my practice license. Because of you.”

One less attorney in California. And an unstable one at that. Well, it’s a start.

“I didn’t report you to the Bar.” I try and fail to keep my voice from wavering. “You decided to send a copy of that file to my parents. They reported you.”

“I have no doubt you put them up to it.”

Breathe. In. Out. Slow. Deep. Swallow the fear. Focus on the fight. “What do you want, Reid?” I try to keep the conversation going as I take stock of the room. Why don’t we have emergency psychopath attack supplies alongside the fire extinguisher and flashlight? Maybe a knife or a bat or even a frying pan?

“You’re gonna pay for ruining my life.” He grabs my shoulders and shoves me against the wall.

“Get your hands off me, Reid. I’m warning you.”

He snorts a laugh. “You’re warning me? You think you’re tough because you hang out at an MMA gym?” His eyes slither over my body as he twists his hand through my hair and grips the top of my head. “You’re so tiny I could break you in two.”

Not this time. No one is taking me down.

Holding my hair, I spin out of his hair-grab using a technique Makayla’s stepdad taught me long ago. But Evil Reid is quick; he lunges for me, and in that split second, I smile. Poor Evil Reid is in for a whole world of pain.

Bam. Bam. I punch Evil Reid in the solar plexus just like Razzor taught me how to do. Then I follow it with an uppercut to the jaw. Evil Reid staggers back and he gasps for breath. This time I don’t need to imagine I’m Shilla the Killa because Amanda Westwood has her own moves.

Taking advantage of Evil Reid’s momentary weakness, I rush in with a Shilla-style head butt. When Evil Reid doubles over, I sweep his legs. Success! Evil Reid goes down.

Now what? Should I follow him down and lock him in submission? Hmmm. That would involve lying on top of him, and if I don’t do it right he might get the wrong idea. Also, I haven’t learned any submissions from a dominant position. How damn irritating is that?

My moment of hesitation is my undoing. Evil Reid jumps up with preternatural speed. He grabs me and shoves me into the corner. And suddenly I’m in Get Fit or Die, and Fuzzy is making us jog on the spot with our knees as high as they can go.

Someone’s got you in the corner. What do you do, Westwood? Do you stand around with your mouth hanging open? No, you loser. Use your knees. Knees! Knees! Knees! Get those knees up or you’ll have me all over your sorry ass.

I don’t want Fuzzy all over my sorry ass. Nor do I want to face his wrath. I knee Reid in the sternum, and when he doubles over, I knee him in the chin. Then I hit him in the jaw with a left hook followed by a right cross, just like Jake did in the cage. Evil Reid stumbles backward, and I kick him between the legs.