Against the Ropes
Authors: Sarah Castille
Copyright © 2013 by Sarah Castille
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image and design by Blake Morrow
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Chapter 2: My heart isn’t so easy to please
Chapter 3: I’m afraid she’s taken
Chapter 5: It has nothing to do with sex
Chapter 6: Angry girls don’t bounce
Chapter 7: Did you just kiss me?
Chapter 8: Where’s my muffin top?
Chapter 12: I didn’t bring you here for the view
Chapter 13: I’m not that kind of girl
Chapter 15: You know the rules of the ring
Chapter 16: Sex is not really the problem
Chapter 17: Where it all falls down
Chapter 19: This one is quite wet
Chapter 23: You didn’t trust me
Chapter 24: Everyone not tied to a chair jumps up
Chapter 25: A decent kinda guy
To Mum and Dad, for everything you have given me.
And to John…always.
Oh, betraying lips
“You come in. You fight. It’s simple.”
Me fight? He can’t be serious. Do I look like I pound on people for fun?
“Sorry. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Forcing a tight laugh, I shuffle back to the red line marking the fighters’ entrance to Redemption, a full-service gym and training center that is home to one of Oakland’s few remaining unsanctioned, underground fight clubs. Maybe I should have read the rules posted at the door.
“No, you don’t.” The hefty blond grabs my shoulders and pulls me toward him. My nose sinks into the yellow happy face tank top stretched tight over his keg-size belly. The pungent odor of unwashed gorilla invades my nostrils, bringing back memories of school trips to the San Diego Zoo. Lovely.
Gasping for air, I glance up and flash my best fake smile. “I’m just here to sell tickets. One of your fighters, Jake, asked my friend Amanda to work the door and she asked me to help her. Why don’t we just pretend you didn’t see me cross the red line and I’ll get back to work?”
If I were a different type of girl, wearing a different—and lower cut—shirt, I might try another kind of technique to get out of this predicament, but right now, a smile is all I’ve got.
It backfires.
“Mmm. Pretty.” He releases my shoulders and paws at my hair, mussing it from my crown to the middle of my back. What a waste of two hours with the flat iron.
“I’m not too sure about pretty.” My voice goes from a low quiver to a thin whine as he strokes my jaw with a thick finger. “But I am small, fragile, delicate, easily frightened, and given to high-pitched screams in situations involving violence.” In an attempt to make my lies a reality, I suck in my stomach and tuck in my tush.
He frowns, and for the first time I notice the missing teeth, jagged scar across his throat, and the skull and crossbones tattoos covering his arms like sleeves. Not quite the cuddly teddy bear I had thought he was. More like a Viking berserker.
My heart kicks up a notch, and I hold up my hands in a defensive gesture. “Listen. I was chasing after some deadbeat who didn’t buy a ticket. He came in just before me. Tall, broad shoulders, black leather jacket, bandana—I only saw him from the back. He was in line talking to people, and then suddenly he breezed past the ticket counter and went through this entrance. Did you see him?”
A smile ghosts his lips. “You’ll have to talk to Torment. He deals with all line crossers and ticket dodgers. Usually takes them into the ring for a lesson in following the rules. He likes to hear people scream.” His chuckle is as menacing as his breath. Maybe he ate a small child for lunch.
“Let’s go. I’ll introduce you.” His hand clamps around my arm and he tugs me forward.
A shiver of fear races down my spine. “You’re kidding, right? I mean, look at me. Do I look like I could take on someone named Torment?” My smile wavers, so I add a few eyelash flutters and a desperate breast jiggle to the mix. Unfortunately, my ass decides to join the party, and my thighs aren’t far behind.
Wrong message. His heated gaze rakes over my body, and a lascivious grin splits his wide face from ear to ear. “Torment likes the curvy ones.”
Now there’s a slap in the face. But maybe I can use the curves to my advantage. If I can’t talk my way out of this mess, I’ll just wiggle.
“Come on. He’ll decide what to do with you.”
Heart pounding, I scramble behind the self-styled Cerberus deep into the belly of Hell. I wish I had written a will.
Upon first glance, Hell disappoints.
The giant sheet-metal warehouse, probably around 20,000 square feet, boasts corrugated metal walls, concrete floors, and the stale sweat stench of one hundred high-school gym lockers. The ceiling is easily twenty-five feet above me. At the far end, a few freight containers are stacked in the corner, and a circular, metal staircase leads up to a second level.
Our end of the warehouse has a dedicated training area and a fully equipped gym. Half-naked, sweaty, pumped up alpha-males grapple on scarred red mats and spar in the two practice rings. Fight posters and pennants are plastered on the walls. In one corner a man dressed as a drill sergeant is barking orders at a motley group of huffing, puffing fighter wannabes.
My stomach clenches as the drumroll of speed bags, the slap of jump ropes, the whir of the treadmill, and the thud of gloves on flesh create a gut-churning symphony of violent sound.
“Hey, Rampage, you get us a new ring girl?” A small, wiry, bald fighter with red-rimmed pupil-less psycho eyes points to the “FCUK Me” lettering on my T-shirt and makes an obscene gesture with his hips. “Answer is yes, honey. Find me after the show.”
I berate myself for my poor choice of attire. But really, it is my sister Susie’s fault. She sends me the strangest gifts from London.
Rampage leads me toward an enormous raised boxing ring in the center of the warehouse. Spiky-haired punkers, clean-cut jocks, hip-hop headers, businessmen in suits, and leather-vested bikers fill the metal bleachers and folding chairs surrounding the main attraction. I’ve never seen a more eclectic group. There must be at least two hundred people here with seating for probably two hundred more. But there’s no sign of Amanda. Some best friend.
We stop in front of a small, roped-off area about ten feet square. Rampage opens a steel-framed gate and shoves me inside. “You can wait in the pen. It’s for your own safety. We can’t have people wandering too close to the ring.”
“I am not an animal,” I mumble as the gate slams shut. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Maybe he doesn’t go to the movies.
I walk to the back of the pen for a good view of the ring and instantly recognize the man with the black bandana, despite the fact he has changed into a pleasantly tight pair of white board shorts with black winged skulls emblazoned on the sides. “That’s him,” I shriek. “That’s the guy who didn’t buy a ticket.”
Amusement flashes in Rampage’s beady black eyes. He stalks over to the pen and throws open the gate. “You get that guy to buy a ticket, and we’ll call everything off. I won’t make you face the ring.”
My brow crinkles. “Isn’t he a fighter? Does he even need a ticket?”
“I made you an offer. You gonna stand around talking or are you gonna take it?”
I lean up against the gate. “This has got to be a joke. And guess what? I’m not playing anymore. Just let me find Amanda and I’ll get out of here.”
Rampage glowers at me and his voice drops to a menacing growl. “You get up those stairs or I’ll take you up myself and I can guarantee it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
I sigh an exasperated sigh.
“I’m going. I’m going.” What the hell. Even if this is some kind of joke, the guy in the ring has mouth-watering shoulders and a great ass. I can also make out some tattoos on his back. It can’t hurt to get a closer look. Maybe make a new friend.
Stiffening my spine, I climb the stairs and slide between the ropes and onto the spongy canvas mat. Hesitating, I take one last look over my shoulder. Rampage smirks and waves me forward.
My target is leaning over the ropes on the other side of the ring talking to an excessively curvy blonde wearing a one-piece, pink Lycra bodysuit. Her mountain of platinum hair is cinched on top of her head in a tight ponytail. Her huge, brown doe eyes are enhanced by her orange, spray-on tan and a slash of hot pink lipstick. She is pink and she is luscious. She is Pinkaluscious.
She rests a dainty, pink-tipped hand on Torment’s foot and gazes up at him until he slides his foot back and away. Ah. Unrequited love. My heart goes out to Pinkaluscious, but really, she could do better than some two-bit, cheapskate fighter.
“Hey, Torment. I brought you a treat.” Rampage’s voice booms over the excited murmur of the crowd.
In one smooth, quick movement, Torment spins around to face me. My eyes are slow to react. No doubt he caught me staring at his ass, and now I am staring at something even more enticing. Something big. My cheeks burn, and I study the worn vinyl under my feet. Someone needs to make a few repairs.
Footsteps thud across the mat. The platform vibrates under my bare feet sending tremors through my body.
Swallowing hard, I look up. My eyes widen as well over six feet of lean, hard muscle stalks toward me.
Run. I should run. But all I can do is stare.
His fight shorts are slung deliciously low on his narrow hips, hugging his powerful thighs. Hard, thick muscles ripple across the broad expanse of his chest, tapering down to a taut, corrugated abdomen. But most striking are the tattoos covering over half of his upper body—a hypnotizing cocktail of curving, flowing, tribal designs that just beg to be touched.
He stops only a foot away and I crane my neck up to look at his face.
God is he gorgeous.
His high cheekbones are sharply cut, his jaw square, and his eyes dark brown and flecked with gold. His aquiline nose is slightly off-center, as if it had been broken and not properly reset, but instead of detracting from his breathtaking good looks, it gives him a dangerous appeal. His hair is hidden beneath a black bandana, but a few tawny, brown tufts have escaped from the edges and curl down past the base of his neck.
His full lips quirk into a faint smile as he studies me. A lithe and powerful animal assessing its prey.
My finely tuned instinct of self-preservation forces me back against the ropes and away from his intoxicating scent of soap and leather and the faintest kiss of the ocean.
“Excuse me…Torment. I…thought you forgot to buy a ticket, but…um…I don’t think you really need one. Do you?”
“A ticket?” His low-pitched, husky, sensual voice could seduce a saint. Or a young college grad trying to supplement her meager salary by selling tickets at a fight club.
My heart thunders in my chest and I lick my lips. His eyes lock on my mouth, and my tongue freezes mid-stroke before beating a hasty retreat behind my Pink Innocence glossed lips.
He steps forward and I press myself harder against the springy ropes, wincing as they bite into my skin through my thin T-shirt.
“Are you Amanda?”
With herculean effort, I manage to pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth. “I’m the best friend.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Does the best friend have a name?”
“Mac.”
“Doesn’t suit you. Do you have a different name?”
“What do you mean a different name? That’s my name. Well, it’s my nickname. But that’s what people call me. I’m not going to choose another name just because
you
don’t like it.” My hands find my hips, and I give him my second-best scowl—my best scowl being reserved for less handsome irritating men.
His gaze drifts down to the bright white “FCUK Me” lettering now stretched tight across my overly generous breasts. With my every breath, the letters expand and retract like a flashing neon sign. I hate my sister.
He leans so close I can see every contour of bone and sinew in his chest and the more intricate patterns in his tribal tattoos. The flexible ropes accommodate my last retreat, and I brace myself, trembling, against them.
“What’s your real name?” he rumbles.
“Makayla.”
Oh, betraying lips.
He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Makayla is a beautiful name. I’ll call you Makayla.”
Heat roars through me like a tidal wave. He likes my name. “So…about that ticket—”
He snorts a laugh. “I don’t need to buy a ticket.”
Why is he standing so close? Has he not heard of personal space? My body trembles from the exertion of pressing back against the ropes, and my brain clicks into babble mode. “I guess the joke’s on me. Rampage said I would have to fight you if I didn’t get you to buy a ticket. Not that I believed for a second I would have to fight. Well, maybe I did until we got here and I saw the ring and the blood spots on the concrete and I remembered my stepdad is a policeman. I mean I’m a girl and you’re a guy—”
He looks at me aghast and cuts me off. “Shhh. It’s okay, Makayla. I’m not—” He takes a step toward me. In my effort to dodge away, I lose my footing and the ropes propel me right into Torment’s chest. He steps backward and falls to the floor pulling me on top of him.
No way. I am not that heavy. Sure, I enjoy my desserts, but not enough to send a two-hundred-pound man tumbling to the ground.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. One of my legs is tucked between his muscular thighs. My breasts are pressed against the warm, bare skin of his hard chest. My head is nestled on his shoulder and my hands rest lightly on his thick biceps. We breathe together. Our hearts pound together. I melt into him, not wanting what should be a humiliating moment to end.
Torment snakes an arm around my waist and I hold my breath, daring to hope he will pull me closer, but instead he rolls us so we are each on our side and rests one hand in the curve of my waist, propping his head up with the other.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“Is this what you plan to do to every person who doesn’t buy a ticket?” he murmurs. “If so, I might have to offer you a permanent position.”
“You…own the club?” My eyes find yet another tiny tear in the mat. Really, he should keep his equipment in better repair.
“Yes, I do.”
“But Rampage—”
“Set you up.” He finishes my sentence for me. “I’ll deal with him when we’re done here. I don’t allow mixed fighting at the club, and I don’t force people to fight who have not already agreed to do so. I also have a zero-tolerance policy for hazing beautiful new staff members.”
He thinks I’m beautiful. Or maybe it’s just a figure of speech.
His warm hand strokes the dip of my waist and the curve of my hip, back and forth, up and down—a seemingly absent and casual caress. And yet, he appears to be a man very much in control of his body. A solid, heavy, muscular body.
“I didn’t really knock you down, did I?” My mouth blurts out my thoughts before they make it through the filtering process. As usual.
He gives me a slow, sexy, devilish smile but his sensual lips remain firmly closed.
Well, I’m not going to complain. He can pull me on top of him any day.
