Against the Ropes (24 page)

Blood thunders through my ears, the rush so loud I can barely hear. For the first time in my life, I have nothing to say—no jokes or quips, sarcastic comments or smart remarks. All that I am has been sucked into the black hole in my chest.

“MOIRA!” Max’s fists clench and his shout attracts all sorts of unwanted attention. He turns on the grand dame and gives her a piece of his mind. But I’m not interested in what he has to say. I slip through the crowd and out the door, just as the clock chimes twelve.

***

Makayla, where are you?

***

Just let me know you’re safe

***

I’ve checked with Amanda, your parents, your doorman, and your housemates

***

Where are you?

***

You don’t have to tell me where you are. Just tell me you’re okay

***

I’m worried about you, baby

***

I should have told you

***

I’m sorry

Come with me

Friday night. Fight night at Redemption. If Amanda had not offered to come with me, I would never have been able to step foot through the door. She stands guard outside the first aid office with the sole purpose of warning me when Max arrives.

My first patient walks in before I even put down my purse. He introduces himself as Obsidian. His voice is so low he should be narrating the introduction of every Hollywood film. I run my hands over his delicious, dark skin to check for broken ribs. He is broad and heavily muscled and I regret he has not pulled a muscle in his groin. Guilt does not nag me while I indulge in lustful thoughts about Obsidian. He is no rich, society playboy. He would know how to treat a woman.

Unfortunately, he also knows how to treat a man.

He confides in me about his problems with his boyfriend, Raoul, and his bit on the side, Bulldog. He shares very intimate confidences. Too intimate. I recommend toys without sharp edges. After he leaves, I want to grab the bleach and give my ears a good scrub.

Amanda flits in and out, oblivious to the trail of panting men behind her. In a white sheath dress and sparkly gold stilettos, her golden curls tumbling down her back, she looks like a goddess. In my functional stretchy pants and pink Lycra tank, I look like I’m going to yoga class.

The constant stream of patients keeps me busy until an hour before closing time. I have just finished treating Jeff “Jackhammer” Jones for a twisted ankle when Max appears in the doorway. My heart sinks. What happened to my bodyguard? I had an escape route all planned.

Max leans against the door frame until Jackhammer limps away. He steps inside and closes the door behind him.

I jam my hands into my armpits and back up against the wall.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he murmurs.

I tighten my lips and stare at the ceiling.

“We need to talk.”

“I have patients waiting outside. This isn’t the time.”

Max frowns. “You work for me, Makayla. If I say it’s time, then it’s time.”

“I have an ethical duty to help people in need. It overrides anything a dishonest, playboy boss wants.”

“She was lying,” he says, his voice strained. “That is how high society works. Everyone watches everyone else. Someone saw us come out of the storage room and gave the information to the person they thought was in a position to do them the biggest favor. In this case, Moira. These are people who will befriend you one minute and then turn around and stab you in the back the next. It’s why I want nothing to do with them and part of the reason why I left all that in my past.”

“I might have believed you if I hadn’t heard something similar from Sandy. Go away.”

Max takes a step toward me. “I understand you’re angry, baby. What she said was hurtful, cruel, and directed at me. She hasn’t forgiven me for splitting with her granddaughter.”

I frown. “Sandy is Tootles.”

“Yes.”

“You were engaged to her.”

“Not exactly.”

I tap my foot on the tiled floor. “What does that mean? You either asked her to marry you or you didn’t.”

Max sighs and leans against my examination table. “She only knew me as Torment. We pretended to be engaged so she could get a break from her family’s incessant match-making. I went along because she was my girl. Neither of us realized her family would check into my background and uncover a family history I had gone to great lengths to hide.”

His words are like a slap across my face. Sandy, the society darling, was his girl. Makayla, the poor admin clerk, is not even in his league. A bruise of sadness forms in my chest.

“Get out.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t call me that. I don’t belong in your world. Money was tight when I was a kid and it was tighter when I went to college. I never even rode a horse much less had four horses, and we never even had a house until Mom met Steve. I’m not telling you that so you feel sorry for me. I want you to understand we are different—too different. I had deluded myself into thinking you were a regular guy. You’re not. You need someone like Sandy. Not someone like me.”

The skin around Max’s eyes bunches and his face softens. “What’s really bothering you? It isn’t finding out about my society ties.”

“You lied to me.”

He shakes his head. “I never lied to you. I didn’t think it was important.”

“It’s important to me. Ex-society fiancées who hug and kiss you and party with your friends and tweet my bottom around the world are important to me. Your background, understanding who you are and where you’re from, is important to me.” I take a deep breath and continue. I am on a roll. “We have great sex and fun together, but you never talk about yourself. It hurts to find out from a stranger you were engaged to Sandy. It hurts to know you were keeping secrets from me. I thought we were close. I thought we shared something special. I was wrong.” I am righteous in my fury and drowning in hypocrisy.

A solemn expression crosses his face. “You mean more to me than you could possibly imagine. You want to know who I am, I’ll show you.” He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

“No. It’s too late. It won’t change anything.”

He gives me an impatient look. “Come.”

“No.” My bottom lip trembles. “Just leave me alone.”

“I won’t take no for an answer.” His voice breaks. “I’m not losing you over this.” He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.

“Put me down,” I screech.

“Not until you see what I want you to see.”

“You can’t leave the first aid office unattended. What if the regulators show up? They will shut you down for good.”

“I’ll ask Rampage to find someone to fill in.”

Tears spill from my eyes. “Stop, Max. I don’t want this. It’s not funny.”

He ignores me and strides toward the door.

“Please, Max.” I choke back a sob. This is worse than hearing about Tootles and the storage room, worse than knowing I don’t fit in. He is taking away my choice, my control.

He reaches for the doorknob.

“Agusta,” I whisper.

Max freezes. He takes a deep breath and then he drops me gently to the ground. I take a deep breath and lean against the bed. My panic subsides.

“Getting to know me, giving us a chance, is more than you can bear?” His voice is raw with emotion and my heart gives an empathetic thud. He listened to me. He said I mean something to him. He wants to share a piece of himself with me. How can I refuse?

“I want to walk.”

His breath catches in his throat. “You’ll come with me?”

“I’ll come because I choose to come, not because you made me.”

He sucks in his lips and studies me for the longest time. “What made you so strong, Makayla Delaney?”

I shrug. “If I was strong, I would have said no and meant it.”

He tucks my hair behind my ear. “A strong person faces their fears. A weak person runs away.”

“Like I said, weak.” I tilt my head into the warmth of his palm. He hisses in a breath and pulls me close.

“Like I said, strong.” He clasps my hand and leads me through the warehouse to a small, circular flight of stairs in the back corner. We climb at least fifteen feet, and Max unlocks a heavy metal door and flicks on the lights.

Wow! A loft space has been created at the top of the warehouse. Floor to ceiling windows meet exposed beams and wood paneling overhead. Highly polished tigerwood angles across the floor space. Exposed brick walls are interspersed with textured drywall, and a black, wrought iron staircase runs up to a half-finished second floor. Stone and brick dividers separate multiple living spaces. A bed is tucked behind a wall made of glass bricks, and a huge, modern kitchen stands half-built in the middle of the open space.

“Max. This is you,” I breathe. Rustic and modern, hidden and exposed, rough and classy. He has a foot in two worlds, and this place combines the best of both.

Max’s face softens. “I’ve never brought anyone up here. I’ve done all the work myself.”

No one else has been up here. No Pinkaluscious. No girls. No friends. Just me. Butterflies flutter in my stomach and I squeeze his hand. “You’ve done an incredible job. It’s beautiful.”

I wander to his makeshift living area: couch, television, bookshelves, a soft shag area rug, and…pictures. My mouth waters at the thought of getting a glimpse of the real Max. “Are these of you? Can I look?”

“Anything you want.” His voice is a soft rumble. “I brought you here because you said you didn’t know me. Here I am.”

I drop to my knees in front of the table and sort through the pictures. I pull out a grainy, faded photograph of Max as a toddler, chubby and cute. He poses for the camera in kid-size boxing gloves beside a beautiful woman with long, dark hair.

“She’s beautiful. Is she your mom?”

“Was.”

I have so many questions, but this isn’t the time. I pick up his preschool picture and smile. His chubby cheeks are gone, but his face is still soft and recognizable as my Max. He grins from a makeshift boxing ring surrounded in bushes. I find a few pictures of young Max at the beach and playing at the zoo, but mostly the pictures are of Max boxing or holding up trophies or medals.

I shuffle through the pictures. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. It was just me.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“The South.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The South. Well, that narrows it down.”

Max sits on the couch behind me and tucks me between his legs. His arms slide around my waist and he squeezes me tight as if we’re on a roller coaster and he’s hanging on for dear life.

“You didn’t lie when you said you started boxing young.” I hold up another picture of toddler Max.

“My father wanted me to follow his dream.”

“Looks like you were very good.” I point to all the pictures of Max and his medals.

“I was.”

“You are.” I look over my shoulder and brush a kiss over his cheek. He has bought his forgiveness by letting me into his inner sanctum, and I want him to know I appreciate the gift.

He shudders and murmurs into my hair. “I wasn’t good enough.”

“Is this your dad?” I hold up a picture of five-year-old Max at his birthday. His mom is pressing a kiss to his cheek while beside them, an intense-looking man glowers at the camera. He could be Max but smaller, thinner, and not as handsome. But I know that scowl.

Max rests his cheek against my head and tightens his arms. “Yes. He was a professional boxer but was kicked out of the circuit after a series of injuries. He had worked his way through his savings when he met my mother. She was high society and very well-off. They fell in love and eloped. The family turned against her. They thought he was after her money so they disinherited her. She didn’t care. They were happy together until I was born.” His voice catches in his throat, but as I turn to face him he redirects me to the table and folds his arms around me.

“What happened? It looks from these pictures like you had a happy childhood.”

“I did. My dad worked as a boxing coach at a local gym. He didn’t make much but he wanted me to have the shot at stardom he never got. All his money went to pay for coaches, trainers, gym time, and equipment. My life revolved around school and boxing. I didn’t mind because I wanted to make my dad proud. But no matter how hard I tried, I was never good enough.”

The pain in his voice cuts me like a hundred little knives. My arms ache to hold him. I try to turn, but he tightens his arms and rests his chin on my head.

“As I got older, I never thought to ask how a coach got the money to pay for all my training. Turns out he borrowed it from the local mafia at an exorbitant interest rate, and one day, when I was fourteen, they came to collect. Only Mom and I were home. “

I gasp and my hand flies to my mouth.

“You remind me of her,” he murmurs. “You have the same hair. You are beautiful and headstrong and self-reliant. She never asked for help. She never listened to anyone—not even me—when it mattered most.”

My heart pounds. “What happened?”

“Four mafia enforcers broke into our home to collect the money my father owed them. I think he had hoped my winnings would cover the payments, but it wasn’t enough. They found my mother and me hiding in the bedroom. They saw her engagement ring. It was a huge diamond. I don’t know how my father ever afforded it.”

“Oh no,” I whisper.

“They wanted it. She refused. She said it was all she had left to remember my father the way he used to be—when they were young and in love and nothing else mattered.”

“She was a romantic.”

“They all had knives but she wouldn’t let me protect her.” He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “I pushed her behind me. I knew how to fight. I had a wall full of trophies and championship belts to prove it. But she wouldn’t stay out of the way. And she wouldn’t give up the ring. I tried so damn hard…” He buries his face in my hair.

Tears spring to my eyes. “Oh, Max. I know you did.”

“I managed to knock out two of them, but by then the other two had her. They tried to pull the ring off her finger, but she fought them off. One of them threw her against a glass cabinet. It shattered and a piece of glass cut her throat. There was so much blood.”

My stomach clenches. The glass must have cut her carotid artery. She didn’t have a chance.

“I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t save her.” His voice is so low, I can barely hear him. “I should have fought harder. I should have made her listen. If she had done what I said, she would be alive today.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. “Max, honey, you were only fourteen. You were her baby. I’m sure she was just trying to protect you.”

He draws in a ragged breath. “My father didn’t see it that way. He blamed me. He said I had failed her. I wasn’t good enough. After all the training, when it really mattered, I failed. He shot himself that evening.”

“Oh God.” I twist, breaking his grip, and turn to throw my arms around him. I hug him tight. “I’m so sorry. To go through that at fourteen.”

Max stiffens. “It was a long time ago.”

“What did you do?” I press my cheek against his, and tighten my arms.

“I lived with my aunt and uncle until I was old enough to leave. Then I took my inheritance and never looked back.”