Against the Ropes (11 page)

Max pulls his phone out of his pocket and shouts “Colton” at it.

“Yes, sir.” Colton’s voice is as clear as if he was standing right in front of us.

“Makayla needs a cell phone. Something that will never run out of minutes. Long-term plan.”

Long-term plan? Butterflies flutter in my belly. Maybe he isn’t as annoyed as he appears.

“Yes, sir.”

Max tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Done. He’ll bring it to you tomorrow at work.”

Amanda and I share an open-mouthed stare.

“I have a phone, Max.”

“Now you have a better one. If you decide not to be somewhere I expect you to be, you will be able to contact me, and if I am delayed, I will be able to contact you, and if you are in danger, you will be able to call for help.”

“See, I told you,” I say under my breath to Amanda. “He is different in his suit.”

Amanda looks from me to Max and then back to me. “The difference isn’t the suit,” she murmurs. “You kissed him. It changed things.”

Yeah, it changed things. It made him insufferably bossy.

As if she could hear my thoughts, Amanda reaches under the table and squeezes my hand.

“What’s this all about?” she says to Max. “You know it wasn’t safe for her to wait alone in a parking lot.”

Max runs a hand through his hair and looks at me as if I had asked the question. “I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know if something had happened to you. We searched the hospital and the parking lot. I called the doorman, and he checked your apartment—” His voice cracks then softens. “I was worried, Makayla. I didn’t…know…what to do.”

And with that, my heart stops banging. Max’s imaginary foot retreats from the line. All is right with me and Max.

Dr. Drake chooses this moment to make an untimely appearance with a test-tube rack filled with Medo-Jello shots. He plucks out the Larynx Lime. “Here you go, Mac. Just what the doctor ordered. Open that pretty little mouth for me and say ahhhh.”

A sound erupts from Max’s throat—a cross between a rumble and a growl. My eyes widen, and I suck in a breath and stare at Amanda. She gets the message and slides out of the booth.

“Who feels like dancing? Doctor Drake? Care to give me some medical attention?” She doesn’t wait for his answer, but instead grabs his hand and tugs him toward the dance floor.

“Your turn for the dirty doctor,” he laughs. He takes a step away and then turns back and stares at Max. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ll know me well enough by the end of the evening.” Dr. Drake’s face brightens and he points to the giant screen. “Look, Mac, we’re on again.”

Oh God.

Max spins around to face the screen. The Dirty Doctor Dancing caption flashes and a supersize version of Dr. Drake and I hump and pump our way across the screen to LFMAO’s “Sexy and I Know It.”

When Max’s gaze snaps to a rapt Dr. Drake, I shoot out of the booth and grab his arm.

“Please don’t hurt him.”

His lip curls and he shakes off my hand. “You think I’m going to hurt him?”

“You’re looking at him like a lion that has just spotted his supper, so, yes; I think you’re going to hurt him.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “You want him?”

“No, of course not. I thought I made that clear.”

“Then why does he always have his hands on you?”

I shrug. “He’s friendly?”

“Friendly is sitting across the table from someone and having a drink. Friendly is not grinding his dick into my girl’s ass while he feels her up on the dance floor.”

My
girl
. He thinks I’m his girl. I can barely breathe. I look up at Max. His forehead is creased. His face is lined with exhaustion. His jaw is tight and his eyes are distant and hard. If I had any sense, I would walk away. The violence simmering under his skin scares me, but not as much as his need calls to me.

What
is
this
all
about?
Amanda asked him.

I wrap my arms around him. He stiffens, but I hold him tight. I press my body against his. I let him feel me—the steady beat of my heart, the rise and fall of my chest.
I
am
here
, my body tells him.
I
am
safe. I am with you.

It takes a long time for him to answer. But he does. He hugs me into his chest and rests his chin on my head. Time drifts away as we slow dance to fast songs, our bodies molded together until the DJ clears the dance floor with “Bleed It Out” by Linkin Park. Good for a fight club. Not so good for a night club.

I look up at Max. He is calm now, his eyes soft, his face relaxed.

“Don’t you usually go to Redemption on Thursdays?”

Max presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “I wanted to see you.”

“How did you find me?” I press my nose against his shirt. The stale, musty smell of airplane cannot overpower the fresh, clean scent of his cologne or the raw essence of Max.

“Secret.”

“It’s not nice to keep secrets.” I pull away and mock a frown.

“You kept a secret from me.” His breath is hot and moist in my ear.

My body stiffens. I am keeping so many secrets from him, I don’t know which one he’s uncovered. Best to play it dumb. “What secret?”

“What were you thinking when we were grappling at Redemption?” His eyes blaze with sensual fire and my mouth goes dry.

A thrill of excitement shoots through me. “Naughty things,” I whisper.

“Tell me naughty things.”

The DJ takes down the tempo with Alicia Keys’ “Fallin’.” A tremor shivers through me. “Like what? I don’t really do naughty talking.”

Max lifts my hand to his mouth and brushes his lips over my knuckles. “Like ‘hand.’”

“‘Hand’ isn’t naughty.” I quiver as his lips feather up my arm and tickle my elbow.

“Oh, you don’t know how naughty it can be,” he rumbles, as he peppers tiny kisses over my shoulder. “Say ‘shoulder.’”

“Shoulder. Max, what are you doing?”

He slides his hot, wet lips to the sensitive hollow at the base of my throat, sending tingles down to my core.

“Say ‘neck,’” his deep voice demands.

“Neck.” My heartbeat quickens; my lips part. We sway to the music, our bodies melded together as he plays his curious game.

He leans down and nibbles my lips, teasing them open. His kiss is soft and gentle. Sweet. But his lips are firm. “Say ‘lips,’” he whispers.

“Lips.”

Anticipation ratchets through me when he slides his hand down my body to cup my behind. He gives my cheek a squeeze. “Now, say ‘ass.’”

I shiver in response to his firm touch. On his lips, the simple word takes on a sultry, erotic flavor that sends molten heat through my veins. I can do this. I have asked complete strangers in clothing stores if my ass looks big. I often told Susie to get her ass downstairs for dinner. In the bar, I told Amanda to wiggle her ass. Once, I even called Charlie an ass. My life is full of ass. “Ass,” I whisper.

“Good girl.” His lips brush over my ear, his breath hot and moist on my skin. Suddenly, I feel very, very naughty and very, very aroused.

He runs his hand over my hips, in and out on my waist, and along my rib cage. My body trembles, anticipating where he might go next. He brushes his fingers ever so gently over the exposed curve of my breast under my dress. “Say ‘breast,’ baby.”

A soft whimper escapes my lips and my back arches, pressing my breasts against his chest. People dance around us oblivious to the blazing inferno at the edge of the dance floor, unaware that the slow, sensual brush of Max’s fingers over my sensitive skin has peaked my nipples and fried my brain. His stroking fingers have turned the ordinary into the sublimely sexual.

“I’m waiting.” His voice is soft but laced with demand.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I imagine I am diving into a pool filled with warm, decadent, dark chocolate. “Breast.” The word drops from my lips like a falling petal.

“There we go.” He spins us into a corner and under the shadow of an eight-foot bottle filled with giant pills, he tightens one hand around my waist and slides the other between us. His hand caresses the underside of my breast and then, inch by inch, he drops it down. Warm fingers brush down my sternum and press against my tummy. A firestorm of arousal courses through my veins like nothing I have ever experienced before. My breath comes in short, rapid pants. My panties are beyond soaked. My entire being is focused on Max’s rapidly descending fingers. When he brushes the tips of his fingers over my mound my head falls back and I moan.

Triumph flares in the sensual depths of Max’s eyes. “Now say ‘pussy.’”

The soft, whispered word is erotic on his lips, sending a rush of molten heat through my veins. Max presses my body against his, trapping his hand between us. He is obviously erect and this, more than anything, sends my arousal spiraling out of control.

“Maaaax,” I moan.

He cups the curve of my sex and I am gone, lost to the moment, lost to passion.

“Say it, baby.” His demanding words bring me back.

My lips part. My body burns with lust. But some part of me says it is too much. This is not me and I have been pushed as far as I want to be pushed. The DJ spins Adele’s “Set Fire to the Rain.” Max tightens his arm around me and sings the lyrics in a soft, deep voice only I can hear. His deep baritone rumbles in his chest. Slow, delicious warmth spreads through me and something strange and new penetrates deep into my bones. Tilting my head back, I look up through my lashes. His dark eyes glitter, unyielding, and yet filled with sensual promise. “Say it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper into his chest, “Not yet.”

That’s gotta hurt

“Are you sure you’ve got the right address?”

Amanda directs our cab to a large, clapboard house in prestigious Menlo Park. The tree-lined street is littered with cars. Lights flicker through the windows of the attached four-car garage. It looks like there should be a party going on, but there is no music, and no one hanging out on the lawn. Maybe it’s a party Menlo-park style.

Amanda points to a group of pale, pasty-skinned men sporting bad haircuts, ripped jeans, screen-print T-shirts, and flip-flops. “It’s called the Geek Club. I think we’re in the right place.”

I slump back in my seat. “I can’t believe you dragged me out here.”

“It won’t take long, I promise. I’ll surprise Jake, let him know he’s forgiven, and then we’ll all go home and you won’t hear from me until Monday.”

“Couldn’t you have just called?”

Amanda pays the driver and we step out onto the street. “It’s a
surprise.
He doesn’t know I saw the details in his calendar the last time I was at his place. Plus I want to see him fight at this club. He told me it’s one of the more dangerous underground fight clubs in California. No rules. No mercy. Nonfatal weapons are allowed.”

“Anything wielded as a weapon can be fatal.” We skirt around a child’s wagon and three jolly garden gnomes. “Especially if people get carried away.”

Amanda gives my shoulders a squeeze. “Such a grouch. I really appreciate you coming with me. I know you’re upset Max hasn’t called since we left the bar last night.”

“I’m not upset. I’m glad I found out about his bossy and controlling side when I did. Makes the breakup that much easier.”

Amanda shoots me a sideways glance. “You didn’t tell me you broke up.”

“He danced with me, tried to get me all hot and bothered right on the dance floor, then took me home, dropped me off, and all I got from him was a text this morning that said he was keeping Redemption closed all weekend in case the CSAC showed up. By the time they got to the club on Saturday, everyone was gone and Jake had the place shut down. I guess he was worried they might try again or maybe he was making it up to get rid of me.”

“Hot and bothered, huh? And you didn’t invite him home?” Amanda clearly is not interested in the fate of Redemption.

“I’m not good with dirty talking. When I didn’t play his game, I guess he decided to leave me hanging to punish me. I swear if Doctor Drake had walked by, I would have been grinding with him on that dance floor like there was no tomorrow.”

Amanda’s eyes widen. “If you had done that, we would be visiting Doctor Drake in the hospital instead of Jake at the Geek Club. I thought Max was literally going to combust when he saw you and Doctor Drake on the screen. He is seriously into you.”

I shake my head. “For once, you’re wrong. He’s done with me. I got the message from the old drop-her-off-at-the-door routine. I just don’t know what I should do with this.” I pull out my new phone.

Amanda sucks in a breath and reaches out her hand. “Oooooh pretty. When did you get it? You can give it to me. I have no qualms about taking secondhand gifts.”

I pull it away, reluctant to share the most expensive and exciting piece of technology I have ever owned. “Colton brought it to the hospital this morning. It’s been very distracting. I just speak to it and it does what I say. Watch.” I stare at the phone and say, “CALL AMANDA CELL.” The phone dials. Amanda’s phone rings. She gives the phone a thorough inspection, then adds it to her Christmas list.

I knock over a garden gnome with a turtle on his head and stop to pick it up. “Maybe I should sell it to pay off the debt collector.”

“You could ask a friend to bail you out instead.”

Shaking my head, I tuck my phone away. “You know I would never do that. If I’m stuck, I can use the money Susie sent me to buy a plane ticket to visit her in London.”

Amanda’s face tightens. “You haven’t seen Susie in five years. That money was her way of making amends.”

More like her way of assuaging her guilt over abandoning the family and especially me.

We knock at the side door to the garage. A thin, reedy man wearing a plaid wool vest steps outside and closes the door behind him.

“We’re here to visit the Geek Club.” Amanda tosses her blond curls. I flip my bone-straight hair.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He sniffs loudly. “Just a private party going on inside.”

Amanda’s jaw tightens. “We both know it’s not a party. I’m with one of the fighters, Jake Donovan.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“Yes.” Amanda lies with aplomb. No wonder she is such a good attorney.

“I’ll go ask him.”

“Wait.” I put a hand on his arm. “Do you have anyone doing first aid at the club? I’m qualified and I’ll work for free if you let us in.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Let me ask the boss.”

Ten minutes later we step across the threshold. The doorman, now identified as Stormin’ Norman, informs us the boss is delighted to have both women and an EMT in the club. He hands me a first aid kit still wrapped in plastic and ushers us inside.

We enter the dimly lit garage, and my nose wrinkles at the pungent scent of sweaty bodies, spilled grease, and gas fumes. The crowd is thick around a makeshift boxing ring on the concrete floor. I count at least fifty men and maybe a dozen more groaning in the corner. War zone.

My heart pounds and I take a few deep breaths and fight the urge to run. I can do this. I’ve been in Redemption. I lived through two fights. It will only be an hour and then I can go home.

Amanda gives my hand a squeeze. “I know this isn’t easy for you,” she whispers. “You are the best wingman ever.”

While Amanda looks for Jake, I head over to the side of the garage where the injured are nursing their wounds. From here, I have a clear view of the ring, which consists of a few ropes strung between metal pillars. The EMT in me approves of the fighters’ protective gear—wire catcher masks and body armor, but is horrified at the sight of weapons. I blink several times. Not ordinary weapons—keyboards.

Yes, the weapon of choice in this fight club appears to be a keyboard. I should have guessed. We are in Silicon Valley, after all.

One of the fighters smashes his keyboard over the head of his much smaller but stockier opponent. A letter detaches itself from the cracked plastic and lands at my feet.
S
for sick.
S
for stomach.

I might need a bucket after all.

My arrival in the war zone is met with suspicion, but when I unwrap the first aid kit and commandeer a big bucket of ice, my patients warm to me. Or it might be my low-cut shirt.

While I ice a swollen knee, two new fighters enter the ring. The taller of the two is wearing a metal head mask resembling an upside-down trashcan with eye and mouth cutouts. I stare. It is a trashcan. He bangs two trashcan lids together like cymbals. I nickname him Oscar.

The other fighter adjusts his goalie mask and spins a vacuum cleaner hose over his head like a lasso. Somebody’s carpets won’t be cleaned tonight.

“Mac, what are you doing here?”

I spin around, my tension easing when Jake squats down beside me.

“First aid.” I hold up the partially bandaged hand of my current patient, a short, pudgy blond who can’t be over twenty-five. He looks familiar but I can’t quite place him.

Jake frowns. “Does Torment know you’re here? I can’t believe he let you step foot in this club. It’s too dangerous. If you couldn’t handle the events at Redemption, you won’t be able to handle this.”

I use my patient as an excuse to ignore Jake, and busy myself taping his fingers together. “Why is Torment fighting here?”

Jake shrugs. “He challenged Iron Fist, the fourth-ranked fighter on the underground circuit, but with Redemption closed, they decided to do a tag team match here instead. It doesn’t count toward the rankings, but he’ll get a feel for Iron Fist’s style.”

The crowd cheers and I glance over at the ring. The goalie whips his vacuum cleaner hose around his head multiple times before smacking his opponent on the legs. Oscar goes down in a cloud of dust, and his trash can helmet bangs on the concrete floor with such force it dents.

Nausea grips my gut and I focus on keeping down my supper. “I thought Torment didn’t use weapons.”

Jake doesn’t take his eyes off the fight. “He does here. It’s expected, and he likes the challenge.”

Torment uses weapons? Bile rises in my throat and my head spins. I fall back and into the wall.

“Mac? Are you okay?” Jake pulls me up and leads me over to a chair beside the door. Once I’m seated, he thrusts my head between my legs. “Breathe.”

After I take a few deep breaths, the dizziness begins to fade. I try to sit up, but Jake forces my head down. “Don’t move until I say,” he orders. “Torment is in the ring.”

“I want to see.”

“From what I’ve seen of your inability to cope with violence, you would be flat on the ground in ten seconds.”

“Please, Jake.” I try to push up, but he holds me immobile.

“I don’t like you very much at this moment,” I grate through clenched teeth.

Jake chuckles. “Is that the best you can do? I was expecting a few swear words. Amanda sure knows a lot of them.”

“She’s here. She came to see you.”

Jake snatches his hand away. “Fucking hell. Does she think I’m going to play her game? She’s the last person I want to see.”

I suck in a breath. I need to find Amanda. This is not going to play out the way she thinks. She’s going to get hurt.

The clang of metal hitting concrete rings through the garage and my heart begins to pound. What if Max gets hurt? Who will look after him? Amanda or Max? Amanda or Max?

“What weapon did the other guy choose?” I jump up and down but I can’t see over the sea of heads. “It sounds like a metal pipe. Oh, God. Someone’s going to hit Max with a metal pipe.”

Something whistles in the air and thuds against bare flesh with a sickening smack. The crowd murmurs in appreciation. My vision blurs and my lungs seize up. Jake grabs me and spins me into his chest. “Don’t look. He’ll be fine.”

Another clang. A crack. A soft thud. A moan.

Jake sucks in a breath. “Oh, jeez. That’s gotta hurt.”

Using every ounce of strength I possess, I push myself away from Jake and grab my first aid kit. I launch myself through the crowd until I have a clear view of the ring. Max’s opponent is indeed armed with a long, thick metal pipe. He is also wearing a mask, helmet, and body armor all emblazoned with the name Iron Fist. He does not, however, have an iron fist. Max has a baseball bat. He is wearing body armor and a helmet without a mask. It seems inadequate protection against a huge, metal pipe. Blood trickles down his temple and his forearms are bright red and swollen twice their normal size. I press my fist to my lips to stifle my distressed squeak.

Two men stand in opposing corners of the ring, both wearing body armor. Tag team. At least Max is not alone.

Iron Fist swings his pipe and hits Max in the ribs with a bone-crunching thwack. Max grabs his side and holds up his other hand in a defensive gesture. The other fighter hesitates and in that split second Max grabs the pipe, twists it out his hand, and tosses it to his teammate. They switch positions and relief trickles through me. Safe. For now.

Iron Fist’s teammate hands him a printer. From the size and shape, it appears to be a multifunction unit that prints, scans, and faxes. I sure could use one of those. Maybe he wants to get rid of it because the cartridges are so expensive.

Max’s partner swings his pipe, and Iron Fist uses his printer as a shield. He swings the printer in a wide arc and knocks the pipe to the ground. Max’s partner trips backward over the pipe. Iron Fist smashes the printer over his head. Max’s partner drops to his knees. My stomach clenches so violently I double over.

“I told you not to watch,” Jake barks from behind me, shocking me with his deep, commanding tone. Holy smokes. Amanda misjudged him. He may appear easygoing, but underneath he has a core of steel.

“I don’t always do what I’m told.” I force myself up and look over my shoulder. Gone is his usual genial expression. Instead, his jaw is tight and his lips are pressed into a thin, straight line. “Then you aren’t the right girl for Torment, and he’s not the right guy for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gives me an enigmatic smile. “It means there’s a lot you don’t know.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Not my place.”

I turn to the ring. Max’s partner is still on his knees. His opponent has stepped back and is tossing the broken printer from hand to hand like a football, as if trying to decide whether to pass. Good thing he has big hands.

“I don’t understand this place.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I can sort of understand Redemption. There are a few rules. There seems to be some code of honor. But this place is just violence for the sake of violence.”

Jake shrugs. “It means a lot to the people here. It fills a need. For some, it gives them the sense of control they otherwise feel they lack in their lives. For others, it provides an outlet for aggression that might otherwise be used in destructive ways.”

“And for Torment?”

“Fighting is part of who he is. Unlike most of the guys here, he’ll never be able to walk away.”

The fighter slumps to the ground. He taps the floor twice and then goes limp. Only Max goes to his aid. I grab my first aid kit and climb into the ring. The look of shock on Max’s face when he sees me is almost worth the nausea.

“Take off his helmet,” I snap.

Max carefully removes his partner’s helmet. The fighters around us grumble about delaying the next fight. Someone suggests we drag the injured man into the corner and attend to him there.

“Ignore them,” Max says. “Do what you have to do.”

“What’s his name?”

“Frank.”

Adrenaline surges through me and my pulse races. The rush I got treating Homicide in Redemption was nothing compared to this. Everything comes into sharp focus: Frank’s gray pallor, his soft moans, and his shallow breathing. I register the loose threads on his body armor, the tiny cut on his finger, the wedding ring on his left hand, and the faded word “Daddy” written in pen on the underside of his wrist. Oh no. He’s somebody’s father and husband.