Against the Ropes

by Sarah Castille

  “I’ll consider it a challenge.”

  I make a quick detour to let Amanda know where I’ll be. She is in a

  lip-lock with Jake and gives me a nod. When I catch up with Torment,

  he is in the training area shaking hands and chatting with his fighters.

  He has a personal comment or a piece of advice for everyone who comes

  to congratulate him. Through the frenzy of fighters clamoring for his

  attention, I catch his gaze. He gives me a wink that sends a sizzle of

  delicious heat darting through me, and I cannot help but smile.

  “Everyone gets nervous before a fight,” he explains, when he

  returns to my side a few minutes later. “Even the most seasoned fighters.

  Sometimes all it takes is a little encouragement to ease that tension.”

  So considerate. He can ease my tension any time.

  With his hand on my lower back, he escorts me through the rest of

  the club. I could definitely get used to this kind of courtesy. Maybe after

  I’ve found a real job, paid down my student loan, and figured out what

  to do with my life, I’ll move to the Southern States.

  We cross the red line and enter the only part of the building ben-

  efitting from proper interior construction. Shower rooms, bathrooms,

  and changing rooms for both men and women are on the right, as well

  as a kitchen and a small lounge area. The walls are covered with floor

  to ceiling chalkboards setting out the daily class schedules and work out

  regimes. I catch the words “Boot Camp,” “Kick and Lick,” and “Punch

  Fest.” Definitely not the gym for me.

  Torment leads me to the left and past a few offices with closed

  doors. Our shadows blend together, his magnificent body beside my

  small, curvy one. Even his shadow is sexy, dominating my other self as

  we weave our way through the loitering crowds to a door marked with

  a red cross.

  Torment pushes open the door and turns on the lights. The small,

  whitewashed room is bare except for an examination table, chair, and a

  small cabinet with a sink and cupboards.

  “Door open or closed?”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I head over to the sink to

  wash my hands. “Open is fine unless you’re concerned about showing

  any sign of weakness to the rest of the pride. Someone might deem you

  unworthy to lead and take you down.”

  Torment chuckles and his eyes sparkle, amused. He closes the door

  with a bang. My heart skips a beat.

  “Up on the bed.” I choke on the last word and my cheeks flame.

  Really. How unprofessional. What if he had a groin injury? My body heats

  and sweat trickles down between my breasts. Well, there’s my answer.

  Torment eases himself onto the examination table. I open the cup-

  boards and root around, pretending to search for supplies as I try to slow

  my racing heart. Deep, slow breaths. Unclench the jaw. Swallow the

  drool. Focus on the sharp scent of antiseptic.

  “Okay then.” I spin around and plaster on my best fake smile.

  Torment lifts his eyes from where my bottom used to be. He licks his

  lips. I almost melt under the heat of his gaze.

  Swallowing hard, I walk over to the bed. “I’m…just going to

  examine you. “I’ll be gentle.”

  He gives me a curt nod, and I place my hands on his shoulder. His

  skin is hot, his muscles tight. His raw, primal scent of sweat and musk

  sends my already heightened state of arousal into overdrive.

  Taking a deep breath, I clear my mind and focus on the task at

  hand. My training finally kicks in and I rule out a dislocation, not just

  because there are no physical signs, but because he does not appear to be

  in pain. I lean closer, pressing gently as I check for localized tenderness.

  My hair slides over my shoulder and brushes across his chest. He sucks

  in a breath and his muscles tense.

  “Sorry.” I glance at his face to assess how much pain I caused. His

  eyes are closed and his jaw is tight.

  “Did I…hurt you?”

  “It’s…your hair…it’s—”

  “Auburn?” I say, as he opens his eyes. “Most people think it’s a

  bad dye job because there’s so much red mixed in with the brown, but

  it’s real.”

  Torment twists a strand of my hair around his fingers. “So soft,”

  he murmurs.

  My lips curve into a smile. He likes my hair. He likes my name. He

  thinks I’m beautiful. My ego hasn’t had such a boost since…well, ever.

  I trace my finger over three smallish scars on his shoulder. “You’ve

  had surgery on this shoulder.”

  He shrugs. “It takes my weight when I fall. It’s seen a lot of misuse.”

  “Poor little shoulder.” I brush my lips over the scars.

  Torment’s body stiffens and he chokes. “Makayla.”

  Oh God. What did I just do? After four years with the ambulance

  crew, I thought I had the empathy problem under control.

  “Sorry.” I give myself a mental smack and rein my body in.

  “Don’t ever be sorry for who you are,” he rumbles softly. From

  the way the phrase glides of his tongue, I sense it is something he also

  tells himself.

  The rest of the examination proceeds uneventfully. I poke. I twist. I

  prod. I am the epitome of a clinical, detached, very horny professional.

  By the time I finish running my hands over his sculpted body, I am

  wound tight with need. My breasts ache. My panties are damp. But I

  am in control.

  “I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I say. “Probably a mild liga-

  ment sprain or a light tear. Pain killers and ice packs for twenty minutes

  every two hours should help. You might want to get someone to strap

  it down if it gets worse.”

  I pull an ice pack out of the freezer and hold it against his shoulder.

  Unable to resist, I close my eyes and inhale deeply, breathing him in. I

  had forgotten how heady the raw, natural scent of a man can be.

  “Makayla? Everything okay?”

  “You smell so good,” I blurt out, then clap my hand across my

  mouth. Did I just say that?

  Grimacing, I force myself to look up. His warm, brown eyes lock

  on mine and he gives me a heart-stopping grin.

  “So do you. Like flowers in the sunshine.” The soft, velvety texture

  of his voice takes my breath away.

  “You can take ibuprofen for the pain.” My words tumble over each

  other, and I try to maintain the rapidly diminishing facade of profes-

  sionalism. “Although I find a tub of Ben & Jerry’s works just as well.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Not just ice cream. Amazing ice cream. So rich you can only buy

  it in pints. They keep changing the flavors, but my current favorite is

  Chunky Monkey.”

  “Sounds…unhealthy.”

  “That’s the point. It’s an indulgence. It’s not supposed to be healthy.”

  Torment traces a finger over my lips. “I can think of several indul-

  gences that are very healthy.”

  I inhale a sharp breath. Oh. My. God. Is he coming on to me?

  What should I say? What should I do? I freeze and stare straight ahead.

  “What did you think of the fight?” He drops his hand and I lick my

  lips, t
asting his salty deliciousness on my tongue.

  “It wasn’t what I expected. I thought there would be more punch-

  ing and kicking people in the face. Lots of blood. Bones breaking. I

  didn’t know about the whole grapple and submission aspect.”

  “You asked me not to hurt him.”

  I twist my lips to the side. “So…it is how I imagined?”

  “Probably worse.”

  I slide the ice pack to a better position. “Well, then my first instinct

  to stay outside was a good one. I’ll remember that the next time I’m

  tempted to sell tickets at a fight club to make a little extra cash.”

  He frowns. “Do you need work?”

  “I have a job at the Admissions Desk at the County Hospital, but

  the occasional odd job helps make ends meet.”

  He tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, and the gentle,

  casual gesture makes my toes curl.

  “I’ve been looking for someone with emergency medical experience

  to handle first aid at the club.” His hand lingers on my shoulder and my

  stomach does a back-flip.

  “This was just a one-off for me,” I say. “I couldn’t work here per-

  manently because of the whole violence aspect.”

  He cups my chin in his warm palm and strokes my cheek with his

  thumb. My heart flutters and desire sends shivers through my body.

  “Is it just the violence, or do you have a boyfriend who doesn’t

  like the idea of you working here?” He drops his hand, and his tattoos

  undulate across his chest. The longer I stare at them, the more the center

  line begins to resemble a dragon, twisting its way down his sternum and

  over his abdomen, to disappear under the waistband of his shorts. Oh,

  to be that dragon!

  “No boyfriend.” I manage a hoarse whisper. “I mean not right at

  this very moment. I had one. Well, three, actually. In my life. Serious

  boyfriends. But not all at once and never for longer than a month or

  two. It just didn’t work out with any of them. It never does.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” The caress in his voice turns my bones

  to mush.

  Scrambling to orient myself, I focus again on his tattoos. So many.

  So intricate. But why only on the right side of his body? Maybe it was

  too painful. I remember the night Amanda and I foolishly decided to

  get matching tattoos to celebrate our high school graduation and how I

  screamed and ran the minute the needle touched my skin.

  Unthinking, I stroke my finger down the dragon, stopping just

  before it disappears below his waistband.

  Torment hisses in a breath.

  I gasp. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I wasn’t thinking…I know

  it hurts to get a tattoo and I was imagining your pain, and they are so

  beautiful and scary at the same time.”

  This is mortifying. I am on the verge of running away when the door

  opens and Amanda pops her head around the corner. “All ready to go?”

  Oh, thank God.

  “Yup.” I hand the ice pack to Torment. “I’m sorry I can’t stay

  longer, but Amanda is my ride home.”

  Amanda disappears and I repeat my instructions of when and how

  long to ice his shoulder. I get no response. His face is impassive and I

  can’t tell if he is angry, disappointed, or indifferent.

  After I tidy up the room, I turn to him and for lack of anything

  better to do or say, I hold out a stiff hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

  He slides his hand against my palm and strokes his thumb over the

  sensitive skin near my wrist.

  A delicious shiver slides down my spine. I can feel his eyes on me,

  willing me to look up, but I don’t want him to see how much he affects

  me. Especially since I’ll never see him again.

  “Bye.” I pull away and race through the door.

  Jake and Amanda are chatting outside the ticket office.

  “Can we go now?” I shift from one foot to the other.

  Amanda looks at me and her eyes widen. “What’s wrong, Mac?”

  “Nothing. I just…I thought we were leaving.”

  She gives me a long, assessing look. Her eyes flick over my shoulder

  and back to my face. She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow and gives me

  a conspiratorial nod.

  Uh-oh. Maybe I should stay at the club. My ride home promises to

  be an inquisition—Amanda style.

  “Sorry Jake.” She pecks him on the cheek, leaving behind the faint,

  pink imprint of her lush lips. “Have to go. Friends come first. But I’ll

  see you at my place after your fight. Don’t shower. I like you all sweaty

  and pumped up.”

  Jake rakes his hand through his thick, blond hair and grins. “I aim

  to please, sweetheart.”

  Amanda pushes open the door, and I glance back over my shoul-

  der. Torment is standing in the doorway to the first aid room, still as a

  statue, his body chiseled from the finest marble, his tattoos begging to

  be explored.

  No way in hell can I bring myself to go back and ask for my pay-

  check. I can’t face him ever again.

  He studies me, thoughtful, focused, intent, and then he smiles,

  transforming breathtaking good looks into utter irresistibility in a heart-

  beat. My breath catches in my throat. I take one last, lingering look.

  And then I walk out the door.

  Chapter 3

  I'm Afraid She's Taken

  “You’re five minutes late, Mac. That’s coming off your pay.”

  Big Doris taps her clipboard while I take my seat at Admissions

  Desk One in Oakland’s leading county hospital. Although only five-

  foot-two and weighing no more than ninety-nine pounds, Big Doris is

  possessed of an unnaturally loud voice, and her words boom throughout

  the crowded waiting room, drawing titters from the patients waiting to

  see the triage nurse.

  “I’m not late. The clock is five minutes fast. According to my

  watch, I’m exactly on time.”

  “According to the hospital clock, you are late.” Big Doris writes up

  a shame-inducing, green slip for my personnel file, and then peers down

  at me over horn-rimmed glasses I suspect are only for show.

  “No wonder you failed out of pre-med in college. You don’t even

  have the discipline to get to work on time.”

  “I didn’t fail out,” I explain through clenched teeth. “I graduated

  with a science degree and an Intermediate-Level EMT qualification. I

  didn’t have the money to pay for medical school.”

  “Ha!” she snorts. “As if there aren’t dozens of organizations willing

  to provide scholarships to train new doctors. You must have been at the

  bottom of the class.”

  Why is she always antagonizing me? She was so pleasant the first

  month, and positively evil for the last twenty-three months since I

  joined the department.

  “I was at the top of my class. I just wasn’t sure if it was what I

  wanted to do. I didn’t want to take money away from people who were

  truly committed.”

  She tears the green slip off her pad and flutters it in the air just out

  of my reach. “So much more fulfilling to be working the Admissions

  Desk and making a fraction of the salary, isn’t it?”

  Snatching
the slip from her fingers, I give her a cool smile. “I’m

  grateful to have any job in this economy.”

  Two seconds after she stomps away in her four-inch, fire engine

  red pumps, my counterpart at Admissions Desk Two and second best

  friend, Charlie, pokes his head around the partition.

  “Don’t let her get to you. She’s jealous because you are so much

  prettier than her. Just don’t eat any of her apples. She might be suffering

  from wicked queen syndrome.”

  “Maybe if I eat a poisoned apple, my prince will come.” I turn on

  my computer. “Nothing else has worked so far.”

  My computer hums to life and I stow my purse in the bottom

  drawer of my desk. Charlie rolls his desk chair into my cubicle, while

  seated, with a coordinated jerking of his hips and heels. His Mickey

  Mouse scrubs are bunched up around his thighs and a length of hairy

  calf protrudes above Disney-themed socks. His bright orange Crocs

  squeak when he pulls himself to a stop.

  “Here I am.” He throws his arms out to the sides and almost knocks

  over the partition. “One prince, ready to kiss you and carry you away to

  my tiny bachelor pad in the sky.”

  My grin and snort of laughter do nothing but encourage him. He

  closes his eyes and purses his lips, waiting for the kiss that is never going

  to happen.

  “Sorry,” I lie, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “My heart is taken

  by the prince who shall not be named.”

  “It’s Doctor Drake, isn’t it?” he whispers. “I can lower my stan-

  dards. I’ll dye what little hair I have left the color of spun gold, add

  some blue contacts, lose one hundred and fifty pounds, work out, get a

  fake tan, take a chisel to my jaw, accept a job as a highly paid surgeon,

  and hang out in the waiting room for seventeen months pretending to

  be assessing the staff.”

  “Doctor Drake is the head of administration now,” I interject.

  “That’s why he’s always lurking around. And rich guys make me

  nervous. I’m more of a pizza and beer kind of girl, not caviar and wine.

  I wouldn’t be able to walk the walk or talk the talk. I just want to find

  someone I could be comfortable with. Someone like me.”

  “Poor but proud,” Charlie sighs. “I suspect you’re going to have