Against the Ropes

by Sarah Castille

  signals a restart. Torment is still the fresher fighter. He dances around

  and throws a few kicks and punches. Misery deflects them, but his

  blocks are slow and his feet drag on the mat. Misery’s bulk must be

  working against him.

  In what seems like a last-ditch effort to win, he shoots in on

  Torment and knocks him to the ground. They grapple for a few seconds

  and then Torment, in an incredible display of flexibility, tucks one shin

  under Misery’s neck and swings his other leg over Misery’s back. He

  pulls Misery’s head down, applying pressure to his trachea with his shin

  and effectively choking him.

  The crowd goes wild. People jump, scream, and cheer.

  Rampage leaps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air. “No way.

  No fucking way. Torment locked him in a gogoplata.” He high-fives

  Jimmy and Pinkaluscious and then pulls me up to my feet.

  “Gogoplata?” Sounds like a dance from the fifties.

  “It’s one of rarest submissions in Jiu Jitsu. I’ve only ever seen it

  done once, and I’ve been doing MMA for fifteen years.”

  The crowd draws a collective breath, waiting for Misery’s sub-

  mission. Instead, we get three short blasts of whistle and a wild-eyed

  Homicide running toward the ring screaming “Evacuate. Evacuate.”

  The warehouse erupts into chaos.

  Lights go on. Doors are thrown open. People storm outside in a

  frenzy of shouts and stomping feet.

  Homicide joins us, gasping for breath. “I just got a text from

  Flash that he reported us to the Commission. He was pissed off about

  being kicked out. We gotta get everyone out and lock down before they

  get here.”

  I grab the first aid kit and look up at the ring. Torment has released

  Misery and is standing at the ropes. He points me to the door and

  mouths “Go.”

  Behind him, Misery has climbed to his feet. He stalks across the

  mat, his intent clear on his face.

  “No!” I scream and point at Misery. “Torment, behind you!”

  Torment spins around. Too late. Misery lets loose what must be his

  knockout punch. Torment’s head snaps to the side. He staggers back

  into the corner, whacks his skull on the post and slides to the ground.

  “Why did he do that?” I scream my outrage. “The fight was over.”

  I push chairs aside, trying to clear a path to the ring.

  Jimmy grabs my hand and pulls me back. “Technically, the fight

  wasn’t over. Misery didn’t tap out or go limp.”

  “But the club is being evacuated. Torment clearly thought the

  fight was done. He was just trying to make sure I was safe. Surely that’s

  against the rules, aside from being just plain unsportsmanlike.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “No one will criticize Misery for wanting

  to finish the match. Torment knows better than to turn his back on an

  opponent before the fight is done.”

  Torment moans and rolls to his back. His hand twitches, and then

  he is still. Warm tears slip from my eyes and drip onto my cheeks.

  “We have to go,” Jimmy says, his voice urgent. “They’ll question

  anyone they find. We don’t want to give them the ammunition they

  need to shut us down.”

  “But…Torment.”

  “Don’t worry. His people will come for him.”

  Shaking off Jimmy’s hand, I turn back to the ring. Misery is stand-

  ing in his corner, massive arms folded. Torment is still lying dazed on

  the mat. Vulnerable. Hurt.

  “We can’t leave him like that,” I say, aghast.

  “I can’t risk getting caught. I haven’t told anyone but I’m apply-

  ing for the amateurs. Being caught at an unsanctioned event might

  destroy any chance I have of getting in. Sandy and I will wait outside

  for you as long as we can.” Jimmy pivots and disappears into the

  dwindling crowd.

  My heart pounds against my ribs and I climb into the ring

  beside Torment.

  “Torment? Max?” I turn his face toward me. “Are you okay? Talk

  to me.”

  His eyes open and he gives me a weak smile.

  “Stay with me,” I urge him. “Keep your eyes open. Focus on me.”

  My hands are already running over his body, checking for breaks and

  injuries. He has a bump on his head and a cut on his temple. Possibly

  a concussion.

  “You didn’t kiss me back.” His voice is so soft I barely hear him.

  My eyes widen. “This isn’t the time. You’re hurt.”

  “Kiss me better, Makayla,” he whispers.

  Cupping his face in my hands, I lean over and brush my lips

  against his cheek. Electricity shoots through me like a bolt of white,

  hot lightning.

  “A real kiss,” he grumbles as I pull away.

  “That’s all you get,” I snap. “I’m not going to ignore your medical

  needs so I can indulge myself.”

  A smile ghosts his lips. “I thought you were all about indulgence.”

  The platform shakes. Misery pounds his way across the ring

  toward us.

  “Enough. He’s talking, so the fight’s not done. Get out, bitch.”

  My blood runs cold and I position myself between Torment and

  Misery. “He’s hurt. The regulators are coming. The fight is over.”

  Misery’s face darkens. “I don’t take backtalk from bitches, espe-

  cially not when their mouths should be doing something else. Looks

  like you need a lesson in respect.” He stalks toward me, a bald, sweaty

  Goliath with murder in his eyes.

  My knees shake, my pulse races, and my mouth goes dry. Fragments

  of memories burst from my subconscious. Long buried. Another night.

  A man stalking toward me in the darkness. I hold up tiny hands, terrified

  I won’t be able to protect myself, or the person on the floor. I scream.

  Misery stops short. His eyes focus on something behind me and

  widen to the size of tea cups. Torment steps in front of me and throws

  a punch, and then another. His fists fly, hitting Misery in the head

  and face, over and over and over again. Misery staggers backward into

  the ropes. He bounces forward and into Torment’s waiting knee before

  crumpling to the floor with a groan.

  My heart thumps in my chest while my mind spins backward, des-

  perately trying to fill in the missing pieces to a nightmare I haven’t had

  since I was a child. What happened when he reached me? How did we

  escape? The fight ring blurs, and I grab the ropes to steady myself.

  “I’ve got you.”

  Strong arms lift me and slide me under the ropes. My dizzi-

  ness subsides. My vision clears. Torment jumps down to the floor

  and lifts me easily in his arms. I frown at his concerned expression.

  “What happened?”

  “I thought you were going to faint. You were a little…unfocused.”

  His arms are warm around me and his footsteps echo in the near-

  empty warehouse.

  Oh God. He’s carrying me. “Put me down. I can walk.”

  “No. You’ve caused enough problems for one night. Taking on

  Misery wasn’t the wisest of moves, especially for a girl who professes to

  abhor violence.” He ducks under the bleachers and heads toward an exit

  door hidden in the corner.
>
  “Sorry. I was just trying to help.”

  “You did help. You gave me enough time to clear my head and

  get to my feet.” He pauses and his voice takes on a more serious tone.

  “But next time don’t put yourself in danger. You’re the healer. I’m

  the fighter.”

  “I’m not a healer.”

  Torment frowns. “You have a gift—a passion—for healing people.

  Don’t downplay it. You don’t just heal bodies, you heal people inside.

  Somehow you can see what people need—”

  My cheeks heat and I manage to wiggle my way out of his arms.

  “Okay. You got me. I like to help people. I like to make them feel better.

  But it doesn’t make me a healer.” If it did, I would heal myself.

  “You’re wrong.” He pushes open the door and I follow him out

  into the cool, still night air.

  “Mr. Huntington, sir, the limo is over here. You’d best hurry.”

  A cut-glass English accent is not something one hears often in

  Oakland. My head whips around just as a tall, broad-shouldered man

  emerges from the shadows. He is shorter than Torment by about three

  inches, and heavier. He has a shaved head, rounded body, and a cheerful

  countenance. From the slight sag to his skin and the wrinkles creasing

  his brow, he might be in his early forties—older than Torment, and

  much older than me. His suit—a stiff white shirt, striped blue tie, long

  gray suit jacket and matching gray dress trousers—is more appropriate

  for an office or a wedding and not a Ghost Town alley reeking of stale

  beer and rotting garbage.

  “Makayla, this is Colton. Colton, Makayla.”

  Colton nods. “How do you do Miss Makayla. It’s a pleasure to

  finally meet you.”

  Finally? How does he know about me? Why does he know about me?

  Instinctively, I thrust out my hand. “Hi.”

  Amusement glitters in Colton’s clear, sparkling blue eyes, and he

  gives my hand a gentle shake. Then, he snaps his fingers and a sleek,

  black Bentley limo purrs out of the alley and stops beside us.

  My eyes widen. “What is this? What’s going on?”

  “Why did you bring that?” Torment grumbles.

  “I thought it might be more comfortable if you were unconscious

  again, sir. We had difficulty keeping you upright last time in the Lexus.”

  A door slams and a man in a black suit and flat-brimmed hat races

  around the limo and pulls open the passenger door.

  Torment sighs. “Makayla, this is Lewis. He insists on wearing a

  uniform despite my preference for casual attire. Lewis, this is Makayla.”

  Lewis narrows his eyes and gives me a tight-lipped smile. I im-

  mediately don’t like Lewis in his fancy uniform. I also don’t like limos

  appearing out of nowhere in dark alleys and men in suits who call

  Torment “Sir.” I especially don’t like not understanding what the hell

  is going on.

  Torment places his hand on my lower back and urges me forward.

  “After you.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I stare at the vast expanse of

  polished chrome, the uniformed chauffeur, and…Colton. Words fail

  me and I shake my head.

  His jaw tightens. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me.”

  My voice, when it returns, is soft and hoarse. “But what about

  your motorcycle?”

  “Mr. Huntington’s motorcycle is already on a truck and on its way

  home,” Colton answers.

  Everyone stares at me. Waiting. Expectant. But my brain is still

  playing catch-up and my feet refuse to move. “Why are you riding

  around in a limo with a chauffeur and a—”

  “Butler, Miss Makayla.” Colton is quick to fill in the gap in

  my knowledge.

  “Butler. You have a butler. Who are you?”

  Torment tugs off his bandana and rubs his hand over the back of

  his neck. “We can talk in the limo. We don’t have time to discuss it

  here. The regulators are coming, and we need to clear the area before

  they get here. Jake is inside getting rid of the last stragglers and shutting

  things down. He’ll help Misery’s cornermen get him out. We’re free

  to go.”

  Something inside me tightens. He isn’t who I thought he was. I

  don’t know him at all. But I do know not to get into a car—or a limo—

  with a stranger.

  He reaches for my hand, but I back away.

  His face falls. “Makayla—”

  “Who. Are. You?” Raising my voice, I enunciate each word no

  longer caring if the regulators find us.

  “You haven’t told her?” Colton asks.

  Torment shakes his head.

  Colton’s eyes flick to me and his blue eyes soften before his gaze

  returns to Torment. “Might I suggest you give her your phone and let

  her look you up on the Internet, sir? I retrieved your personal belong-

  ings when the whistle blew. I suspect in your current state, you will be

  unable to do justice to yourself and given our time constraints it is best

  if she receives her information from a reliable source. She might then be

  able to assure herself of her safety in your company.”

  Torment’s shoulders slump and he nods. Colton reaches into the

  limo and retrieves Torment’s phone.

  “You can just speak to it.” He hands the futuristic gadget to me.

  “Tell it to search for Max Huntington.”

  “I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” Hands trembling, I type “Max

  Huntington” into the search engine, and get dozens of hits.

  My mouth drops open when I read about Max Huntington, one

  of America’s youngest leading venture capitalists and partner of IMM

  Ventures. I scroll through article after article about him in the business

  newspapers and financial magazines. His name also appears in society

  and gossip columns as one of California’s most eligible bachelors. Here

  he is at a charity event with a woman I recognize from the movies. And

  here he is looking breathtaking in a tux with a beautiful model clinging

  to his arm on a luxury yacht. My eyes drink in pictures of him at lavish

  parties, gala openings, media events, and even the Oscars. But none of

  him fighting in Ghost Town.

  I exhale slowly and my heart thuds into the ground. For a moment

  I can only stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Torment shrugs. “You liked me as Torment. Except for Sandy, the

  women I’ve been with couldn’t see past the money, and would have

  been horrified to know I was on the underground fight club circuit.”

  Sirens wail in the background. Lewis sniffs.

  Colton tenses. “It sounds like they’ve brought the police with them

  this time, sir. It would be a PR nightmare if you were caught here.”

  My hands clench into fists. “You lied to me. You made me think

  you were a regular guy.”

  A pained look crosses Torment’s face. “I never lied to you. I just

  didn’t tell you everything.”

  “Sir. We have to go.” The urgency in Colton’s tone makes the hair

  on the back of my neck prickle.

  “Come with me. Please, Makayla.”

  My head spins. Too much. Too many things to process. Torment

  coming to my house. The fight. Our almo
st kiss. The rebirth of an

  unwanted memory. And this. My beast turned into a prince. Or is it the

  other way around?

  Tears well up in my eyes. “I know Torment. I know pizza and

  picnics and motorcycles. I don’t know you, Max, with your fancy limo

  and your staff and your movie star girlfriends. I don’t know what kind

  of man you are. All I know is that you’re incredibly rich and I’m…

  well, me. I buy my shoes at Handi-Mart. I eat cereal for breakfast and,

  recently, for dinner, too. I have had to sacrifice my principles to make

  money to pay my…rent. And I don’t know what will happen to me if I

  jump into your rabbit hole.”

  His steady gaze falters, almost as if I’ve hurt him, and guilt crawls

  through me.

  “I’m the same man,” he rasps. He pauses, and the disappointment

  in his voice is almost palpable. “But I understand. Colton can call for a

  taxi and he’ll wait with you until it arrives.”

  Colton nods and speaks into a headset I didn’t even notice he was

  wearing. He gives me a sad, guilt-inducing smile. “Taxi will be here in

  two minutes.”

  Torment brushes a kiss across my cheek, then turns and steps into

  the limo, leaving me with a sense of loss deep in my stomach and a hole

  in my chest.

  “Wait.”

  He pauses, one foot in the limo and one foot on the street.

  I close the distance between us and take his face between my hands.

  I search his eyes, looking for Max. Instead, I see Torment.

  Torment in pain. Torment in need.

  Blood trickles down his cheek. His eye is badly swollen. His jaw

  is cut and bruised. I stand on tiptoe and run my hand through his

  hair. He winces when I touch the lump where he hit his head on the

  metal post and again when my hand runs over the slight swelling where

  Misery hit him.

  He is rich, successful, and until the fight, breathtakingly gorgeous.

  He has everything. Why does he need the fight club? Why does he

  need me?

  “You’ll need a stitch here,” I whisper, brushing my thumb over

  his cheek. “And maybe here too.” I run my hand over his chin, rough

  with stubble.

  His eyes darken and he takes my hand, pressing his lips to the

  underside of my wrist. “Maybe you could just kiss it better.” The deep

  rumble of his voice sets my nerve endings on fire.