Strong Hold

by Sarah Castille

  “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.”

  Chapter 4

  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.”