Against the Ropes (4 page)

“Heh, heh, heh.” I join him laughing at his own joke. What a pathetic laugh. Thank God I can’t see Charlie’s face.

A few moments later, Dr. Drake’s lean, toned body is settled in my desk chair. He pounds away at my keyboard, and I glance over the partition at Charlie. Big mistake. He mouths “heh, heh, heh,” and then wheezes in a breath, and doubles over in a fit of laughter. I resolve to find Charlie a psychopathic girlfriend with a sharp knife.

“I think this may require an IT specialist after all.” Dr. Drake’s perfectly smooth brow wrinkles. “Why don’t I take you for lunch? I’ll ask IT to send someone up while you’re away from your desk.”

My mouth drops open. Dr. Drake is asking me out for lunch? With his medical pedigree and women lining up to get in his pants, he doesn’t lack for potential lunch partners. Why me? And why couldn’t he be a beguiling fighter with the manners of a Southern gentleman?

A fighter I will never see again. The rational thought sobers me up and I muster a lukewarm smile. Only last week I would have been overjoyed at the chance to lunch with the hospital’s number one most eligible bachelor. Or maybe not. We are fiscally incompatible. He is caviar and I am instant noodles.

“I’m afraid she’s taken.”

Brain freeze. From somewhere deep in my core, recognition of the deep, sensual rumble of that voice sizzles through me, awakening every nerve ending in my body. Awareness comes back slowly. A shadowy image hovers in front of my desk. Gradually, my vision comes into focus.

Torment.

Torment is here.

My heart takes off down the speedway.

His loose, wavy brown hair is neatly tucked back into his black bandana. He is wearing his black leather biker jacket over a Harley-Davidson T-shirt stretched tight across his broad, muscular chest. His black jeans are a feast of tight seams in all the right places. He exudes pure, raw sensuality. And he is looking at me.

“Ready to go?” He drops his pack onto the chair in front of my desk and holds out his hand.

Inhaling a sharp breath, I blurt out an eloquent, “What?”

His lips curve into a smile. “Lunch, Makayla. You do eat, don’t you?”

“You want to have lunch with me? How did you know where I work?”

His gaze sears through me, hot and electric. “You told me last week. I have a good memory for details. And yes, I am here to take you to lunch.”

“Mac, do you know this…
person
?” Dr. Drake rises slowly from my chair and positions himself between me and Torment. From the unnatural wrinkles in his perfectly smooth forehead, I assume he is not pleased to have our discussion interrupted.

“This is…um…Torment.” My cheeks burn and I glare at Torment, willing him to reveal his real name and save me from the perils of bad manners. His eyes glimmer with barely repressed amusement, but his sensual lips stay firmly closed.

Dr. Drake gives me a quizzical look. “Torment? Is that a last name? Or perhaps an affliction?”

“I believe it’s a ring name.” I try to block out the muffled sound of Charlie’s snort of laughter. “He’s an MMA fighter.”

“Ah.” Dr. Drake rests his hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. I stiffen at the unexpected touch. Torment’s eyes narrow and focus like laser beams on Dr. Drake’s hand.

“A sweet girl like you shouldn’t be associating with these rough, fight types,” Dr. Drake says in the gentle tone usually reserved for wayward children and small animals. “They are violent men who think nothing of flaunting the law or exposing innocent girls to the more uncivilized elements of our society.”

How can he talk like that with Torment standing right in front of him? Aside from being impolite, it’s dangerous. I try to pry his hand off my shoulder. “I think you might be overreacting.”

Dr. Drake slides his thumb under my hair in a gesture that is disconcertingly soothing. “So compassionate. I sensed that quality in you during your interview. But don’t let your empathy obscure who these men really are and what they can do. Come to the ER one Friday or Saturday night and see for yourself the effects of uncontrolled violence.” His thumb rubs up and down, gently massaging my neck. My back arches involuntarily and I inhale a sharp breath.

Torment growls—a deep, barely audible, entirely thrilling sound. He leans across the desk, grabs Dr. Drake’s hand, and rips it off my shoulder.

“She’s coming with me. Now.” He whips off his jacket, tossing it on the chair beside his pack, and folds his arms over his chest, his biceps tensed like he is about to punch someone.

Dr. Drake snorts his derision and his eyes flick to me instead of staying focused on the deadly threat in front of him. “Exactly as I said. Uncivilized.”

Torment sucks in a breath and takes a step closer to my desk.

I reach over and rest a soothing hand on Torment’s corded forearm. Electricity darts through me the second I make contact. My heart almost goes into cardiac arrest. Not good. Given his reaction to Dr. Drake’s unexpected neck stroking, how would Torment react if Dr. Drake had to perform CPR and rub my chest? I jerk my hand away.

“I forgot we were going for lunch today.” I give Dr. Drake my best fake smile as the lie slides off my tongue with a healthy dose of drool. “I’ll have to take a rain check on your kind invitation.”

Dr. Drake’s eyes soften. “I’m free on Monday. I’ll arrange for IT to look at your computer while you’re away from your desk.” He gives Torment a dismissive glance before weaving his way through the crowded waiting room, seemingly unaware of the sighs and flushed cheeks he leaves in his wake.

“What the hell was that?” I yank open my desk drawer and grab my purse. “You almost got me fired.”

Torment scowls. “He won’t fire you. He wants you too much. He probably wouldn’t even accept your resignation if you tried to leave.”

“Are you crazy?” I round my desk and pull up in front of him. “He’s never paid any attention to me until today.”

“You just haven’t seen him. I know his type.” He pauses and his voice takes on a deeper, cutting edge. “Are you going to have lunch with him on Monday?”

“None of your business.” I am righteous in my indignation. “And what’s this about lunch today? Usually, if you want to have lunch with someone, you call and ask if it’s convenient. I only have half an hour. It’s barely enough time to go to the cafeteria.”

“You left so quickly I didn’t get a chance to ask for your number. I have your paycheck, a picnic, and a proposition for you.” He squares his shoulders and raises my hand to his lips. “If it is convenient, would you care to join me for lunch, Makayla Delaney?”

This is just like the movies. Entranced, I just stare and smile, like the vacant fool I am.

Torment chuckles. “Makayla?

I shake my head. “Um. Yes. Lunch. Good. Picnic area. Outside. For staff.”

Oh God. Someone, please put me out of my misery, or at least cover my mouth with surgical tape.

“Lead the way.” Torment picks up his pack and jacket, and I lead him through the hospital to a grassy outdoor quadrangle dotted with picnic tables, flower beds, and leafy trees.

“What’s the proposition?” I glance over at the feast of testosterone walking beside me. Really, who needs lunch?

“I desperately need a medical professional to cover our underground events. Two more guys had to go to the hospital last week, and I’m concerned someone is going to rat us out to the CSAC. We’ve heard rumors on the underground circuit that if an event is restricted to club members and a doctor is present, they’ll look the other way provided the fighters are not given any compensation. We’re okay on the compensation side. I’ve always given the money we collect at the door to charity. But we can’t find a ring doctor, and I haven’t been able to find anyone with first aid experience willing to commit to being at every match. We usually have events once or twice a week on the weekend.”

“Oh.” My heart thuds into my stomach. He just wants me to work. Not that I don’t need the work with Sergio now in the picture, but it would have been nice to be wanted for something else.

His face falls. “You can’t do it? I’ll pay you anything you ask.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ll do it.”

“You will?” His face brightens. I slide into a picnic table bench under a shady tree and Torment takes a seat across from me.

“Could you come tonight for an orientation? It’s the only time I have free.”

“Sure.”

He beams. “I wasn’t sure if you would agree because of your violence issues.” He pulls two wax paper packages from his pack and slides one across the table.

“I need the money, and if I stay in the first aid office and only come out when I’m needed, it shouldn’t be a problem.” I take the sandwich he offers and peek inside at the one-inch thick piece of cheese slathered in what appears to be half a tub of margarine. Horrors.

“I made it myself,” he says. Pride shines in his warm, brown eyes.

Not wanting to hurt his feelings, I smile. “I love cheese.”

Torment opens a steel container and places it between us. Chopped veggies. Very healthy, but not very delicious. I select a baby tomato and bite down. Tomato juice shoots across the table and hits Torment square in the chest.

Damn. The Clumsyosaurus strikes again.

“I’m so sorry. Obviously, I don’t get out much. Nor do I eat many vegetables.” I reach over the table and dab at Torment’s tomato-juice stained chest with a tissue from my purse. He sucks in a sharp breath.

My eyes follow his gaze into the gaping maw of my unbuttoned shirt. My cheeks heat. “Enjoying the view?”

“There wasn’t anywhere else for me to look.” Amusement flashes in his eyes and he gives me a cocky, toe-curling smile. “And even if there was, I thought it would be impolite to turn down the invitation.”

“You could have closed your eyes.” I sit back down and feign annoyance, but he is too cute, and too happy, and I can’t help but smile back. Plus, I’m quite proud of my girls.

“That would have been worse.” His voice drops to a low, sensual rumble. “My imagination might have run wild.”

My heart thuds in my chest. Me? The object of Torment’s wild fantasies? Really?

Torment takes my hand and lifts it to his mouth. He kisses my fingers one by one, and then brushes his lips down my palm. Electricity shoots from my hand straight to my core. I think he’s coming on to me. Or else, he’s really, really pleased to have a new first aid attendant.

“Since you’re willing to handle the first aid, I have another proposition for you,” he murmurs.

Frozen, rapt, unable even to breathe, I watch his sensuous lips work their way up the inside of my arm to the sensitive crease of my elbow. His kisses are as light as butterfly wings. I shiver—a bone-deep awakening of dormant desire.

“What is it?” There is almost nothing I could refuse him at this very moment. Sex on the picnic bench? Check. Strip off and do the Macarena on the grass? Check. Crawl under the table and do naughty things? Not much experience in that department either, but…check. Ride off into the sunset? Double check.

“Dinner.”

“Okay.”

“If you give me your address, I’ll pick you up at home before the club opens.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll grab some pizza, and then I can go over the rules of the club.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll do the orientation and I can show you around.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll bring you home at the end of the night.

“Okay.”

“Makayla?”

Filled with the joy of renewed hope, I lift my eyes to his.

“You have something on your cheek.”

Come and get it

It is after six p.m. by the time I get home from work. Unable to face the cheery chatter of my housemates, I make my way to my bedroom, strip down to my panties, and throw on a tank top and a pair of faded, torn gym pants. All comfy for a round of “he likes me, he likes me not” with a wilted daisy from the garden, and if “not” then a sulk about hot, witty, charming guys who make me picnic lunches only to get into my first aid kit and not my pants.

Once I have arranged the purple cushions on my bed, I settle my laptop on my knees, and amuse myself by typing “Torment,” “California,” and “Redemption” into various search engines. Nothing of interest comes up. I read Redemption’s web page and find no mention of the unsanctioned events. “Torment” yields all sorts of references to games, books, music, and torture, but no pictures of men with tattoos and warm, brown eyes.

A flash of black catches my eye, and I look up. My hands fly to my mouth when I glimpse the shadow of a man by the door. I drop my computer, a shriek ripping from my throat.

“Shhh. I’m not going to hurt you.” Eyes wide, Torment holds up his hands, palms forward. He takes a step back just as my four housemates barrel into my room.

My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “What’s he doing here?”

“He said you were expecting him.” Rob’s voice wavers with uncertainty as he glances over at the leather-clad giant dwarfing my tiny room.

“Yes, but not for a few hours.” I draw in a ragged breath. “And you’re not supposed to let strangers just walk into the house. You’re supposed to ask them to wait at the door. What if I was changing? What if I didn’t really know him?”

Rob grimaces. “I’m sorry, Mac. I didn’t think.” He runs a hand through his thick, black curls. “You want me to throw him out?”

With his slender frame and gentle manner, Rob is hardly in a position to throw me out, much less six feet two inches of hard, lean muscle. Laughter bubbles in my chest, and I shake my head. “You’ll need both your arms to take over my garbage duty next week, which you will be doing by way of apology.”

Rob gives me a wink and follows my disappointed housemates down the hallway. Fights are always good entertainment.

“When you said you would pick me up before Redemption opened, I didn’t realize you meant two hours before it opened,” I moan as soon as Rob’s curly head disappears around the corner. “I just got home from work.”

“You didn’t give me your number,” a bemused Torment retorts. “We have a lot of ground to cover to get you up to speed on the club’s rules and operations. I wouldn’t want to see you in the ring again.” He scrubs his hand through his thick, chestnut hair. Without the bandana, it is longer than I imagined, falling well past his collar, and cut with apparent carelessness to follow the line of his jaw. Could he look any more breathtaking?

“Fine. We’ll exchange numbers to avoid any future surprises. Just let me find my phone.” I hunt around for my cell while Torment makes a slow, careful, inspection of my room. Not that there’s much to see. Twin bed. Desk. Shelf. Wardrobe. Dresser. Purple walls, purple bedspread, purple area rug, purple curtains. A few dollar store prints. At least I keep it tidy.

I cross the room and catch sight of myself in the mirror. Dear Lord. I’m not wearing a bra. And worse, my interest in the tribute to testosterone planted in the middle of my floor is clearly evident in the hard buds of my nipples visible through my tank top.

A squeak escapes my lips and I slam my arms across my chest and turn to face the wall.

“Is this where you sleep?” The inflection in his voice betrays a lack of appreciation for my sanctuary. Or maybe he doesn’t like purple.

“Yeah. It’s not much, but it’s cheap.” I shuffle toward my dresser, keeping my back to him.

“This isn’t a room,” he admonishes, “it’s a hallway.”

“Actually, it’s a back entrance.” I point to a door in the side wall. “That’s the back door. Our communal bathroom is right beside you.”

“Communal bathroom?” he splutters. “People have to walk through your bedroom to use the bathroom?”

My dresser is finally within reach and I yank a hoodie out of the drawer and pull it over my head. “I only pay half the rent the others pay. I volunteered to take the room because I couldn’t afford to pay the full amount, and I’m the only one without a regular bed friend.”

“How many people live here? I saw at least ten when I walked through the house.” He stops in front of my bookshelf and studies my books: an eclectic collection of college texts, medical reference books, running logs, travel guides for all the places I dream of visiting, thrillers, and romance novels. Lots of romance novels.

“Officially five, but usually there are about nine or ten people around if you count boyfriends, girlfriends, cousins, friends, and the odd vagrant.” Relaxed now that I am decently covered and no longer besieged by naughty thoughts, I turn around and lean against the dresser.

“But it’s not safe,” Torment’s voice rises sharply. “And you need privacy. How can you live like this?”

Why does no one ever understand? I like having people wander in for a pee and a chat. I’m a sociable girl. “It took a while to get used to. The biggest downside is that I can’t let my parents visit. My stepfather is a policeman. If he saw this place, he would drag me home.”

Torment crosses the room in two strides and twists the handle on the back door. The lock gives way and the door creaks open. “Who’s your landlord? Anyone could come in this door. The lock isn’t secure.”

I want to tell him his delightful protective streak is showing, but I don’t want to embarrass him. “Some guy who’s never around. Slumlord. We haven’t had a working stove for the last six months, and the dishwasher broke on Tuesday, but we’ll be lucky if he even stops by in the next year.”

Torment scrubs his hand over his face. “You said you don’t make much at the hospital, but isn’t it enough for a decent place to live?”

My cheeks heat. “I have a few college debts to pay. I also haven’t decided yet what I want to do with my life, so it’s okay for now. It’s got…character.”

I finally spot my cell under the bed and get down on my hands and knees to retrieve it.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely contrite. “It’s just…a woman should feel safe—” He cuts himself off and makes a choking sound. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting my phone. It must have fallen under the bed when you suddenly materialized in my room.” Looking up over my shoulder, I follow his gaze to my bottom, waving around in the air, my panties partially exposed by the tears in my gym pants. Can this day get any worse?

There is just no elegant way to extract myself from this situation, so I don’t even try. I grab my phone and back into the center of the room, delivery truck style but without the beeps.

“I’m guessing you don’t have to share a bathroom at your house,” I say with the casual tone of someone who isn’t waving her half-naked bottom in the air in front of a hunky, semi-stranger and soon-to-be-boss. I push myself to my feet and edge my way back to the dresser, this time keeping my back to the wall.

He snorts a laugh. “No. Nor do I have a back door in my bedroom or a collection of random people walking around my house.”

“Sounds lonely.” I grab a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the top drawer and shuffle over to the bathroom.

“I’m too busy working to be lonely.”

I toss him my phone. “You can do the number exchange while I get ready. No long distance calls. I don’t have many minutes left on it.”

He stares at my cheap plastic cell with a puzzled look on his face. “Is this real?”

“Of course it’s real,” I snort. “It’s a basic prepaid cell phone. It comes with a set number of minutes and I buy phone cards to top it up when I need to. Why? What do you use?”

The sleek, silver and glass device he pulls from his pocket is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Slightly bigger than an iPhone but half as thick, it has an incredible, crystal clear screen that sparkles under the naked bulb overhead.

“What is it?” I breathe a gasp of longing.

He shrugs. “Prototype. Can’t really talk about it.”

“It has multiple windows. You could display all your social media at once. You wouldn’t miss anything.”

“I don’t do social media.” He calls himself with my phone and his device quivers in his hand.

“No Facebook? No Twitter? No Pinterest?” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.

“What’s Pinterest?” He finishes the number exchange and hands me my cell.

“Seriously? You haven’t heard about it? It’s like a bulletin board. You post pictures on it. You could put up all sorts of pictures of yourself in various fighting poses.” Curling up my forearms, I drop my spare clothes and mock up a few fighting stances.

Torment stares at me, his face devoid of expression.

I freeze. What am I doing? This is exactly why guys never take me seriously.

His laugh takes me by surprise. A deep, rumbling roar of a chuckle. I can’t help but smile.

He bends down to pick up my clothes. “You are quite the package, Makayla. I’m surprised your doctor friend didn’t snap you up sooner.”

My mouth drops open. Maybe tonight won’t be a write-off after all.

“How do you run your business without social media? How do you advertise? How do you let people know when there’s an event?”

“We’re already at capacity in the gym and training center. As for the events, Jake’s the promoter. He handles that side of things. And we don’t advertise. The invitations are sent by text a few hours before the match starts so it’s almost impossible for CSAC to regulate us or shut us down.”

He hands me my jeans, but when I reach for my shirt he frowns. “Is this the shirt you wore last week?” He holds the shirt up, and I grimace when the bright, white “FCUK Me” lettering shines under the overhead light.

“You aren’t wearing this.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want the men at the club thinking what they think when they see you in this shirt.”

“What do they think?” My hand finds my hip and my eyebrow finds the ceiling.

“Makayla.” He purrs out my name in a warning tone. “Not at the club. The men there—do you have anything less provocative?”

My face heats up. “My shirt is provocative?”

“The words are provocative. The shirt is flattering.”

A grin spreads across my face. Provocative and flattering. Quite the package. I have died and gone to heaven.

Torment balls the shirt in his fist. “Find something else.”

I laugh and hold out my hand. “You do realize I have to wear the shirt now. Hand it over.”

Torment gives me a slow, sexy smile as he tucks my shirt into his leather jacket. “No.”

“Give me my shirt…please.” I’m not sure what kind of game he is playing, if it is a game, but damned if I am leaving here without that shirt on.

“Come and get it,” he rasps.

Something shifts in the air between us. As I walk over to him, no more able to resist his challenge than I can stop from breathing, his face wavers, changes, reveals the predator behind the sculpted cheekbones and the warm, sparkling eyes. I glimpse power, barely restrained and a force of will that takes my breath away. He draws me to him with the intensity of his gaze and the dangerous rumble of his deep, dark voice.

God, he’s hot.

By the time I am close enough to feel the heat from his body, my heart is racing at double speed. His eyes lock on mine, and I grasp the edge of my shirt. He smells of leather and a citrus scent that is at once sharp and sensual.

I draw my shirt away from his chest, inch by slow, thick inch. His dark eyes smolder, and his gaze drops to my mouth. I lick my lips and the tangy taste of Bubblegum Blast lip gloss bursts over my tongue. Need unfurls in my belly.

And then the shirt is in my hand, drooping with disappointment toward the floor. My breath leaves me in a rush of unfulfilled desire.

“It actually needs a wash.” I toss it into the laundry bin. “I’ll wear something else.”

His approving smile melts me inside. I want to see that smile again. But more than that, I want to hear him laugh.

Pulling an identical shirt from the drawer, I saunter into the bathroom and slam the door, mentally thanking my big sister for her habit of never buying one of anything when she can buy two.

After I’ve dressed, brushed my hair, and applied my makeup, I take a deep breath and fling open the door to the bathroom. Torment is staring out the window, lost in thought.

“Ahem.”

He spins around and his eyes widen. A grin spreads across his face and his deep, soft chuckle warms me to my toes.

***

Two hours, two pieces of pizza, and one exhilarating motorcycle ride around San Francisco later, we arrive outside the club. Torment glides his motorcycle to a stop and turns off the ignition.

For a moment we just sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to memorize the heady, erotic sensation of having my arms around his waist, my breasts against his back, and his ass tucked tight against the juncture of my thighs.

Finally, he pulls off his helmet and twists in his seat to help me. “Was that too fast?” He slides the helmet off my head and clips it under the seat.

“Are you kidding?” I squeal, bouncing on the seat like a little kid. “I think I might forget about buying a car and get one of these. What did you call it?”

His lips curve into a smile. “It’s a custom MV-Agusta F4CC, but you might want to feign a little concern for the fact we were going almost one hundred and fifty miles an hour down the freeway. I might start to think you want to live dangerously.”

My smile broadens. Maybe I do. Maybe that is what has been missing from my life—a little excitement and a whole lot of danger.

“What should I do with this?” I pat the stiff, leather jacket Torment gave me when he picked me up. Just my size.

“Keep it. You’ll need it for the ride home.” He helps me off the motorcycle and props it up on its kickstand. Although I don’t know much about motorcycles, I can appreciate the sleek lines, shiny chrome, and death-defying speed of his Agusta. My hand rests on the seat, still warm from our ride. When I look up, Torment is watching me and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart pound.