Against the Ropes (19 page)

“So, how do you feel?” Amanda emerges from behind her partition fully clothed and without a hair out of place.

“Exposed. It’s not a comfortable feeling.”

Amanda smiles. “Don’t worry. It’s worth it in the end.”

Where it all falls down

By seven o’clock I am at Redemption, bare, sensitive, and ready to work. For the first hour, I hide in the first aid room in case I bump into Max. If I wasn’t so desperate for money, I would never have shown up tonight.

Rampage stops by to tell me Max is caught up in a business deal and won’t be at the club tonight. My shoulders sag and I slump back in my chair. Thank God. Even after my chat with Giselle, I am still not ready to face him.

I open the cupboard to inventory the supplies for the tenth time that evening. A cough alerts me to Rampage’s continued presence in the room.

“Was there something else?”

Rampage clears his throat. He smoothes the sheet on the bed. He polishes the doorknobs on the cabinet with his T-shirt. He leans against the door frame and tells me Homicide’s wife has been at the club three times this week, and Homicide is now a contented man. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink.

“I’m happy for him,” I say.

Rampage sighs. “Guess I’d better get going.” He turns and shuffle hops to the door.

“Something wrong with your leg?”

He whips around and smiles. “Yeah, doc. I think I twisted my knee.”

Curious. I would have thought he would be disappointed—devastated even—to have an injury. An injury means less training time and fewer fights.

Rampage leaps up on the bed with an enthusiasm I have never seen in an injured fighter. While I examine his knee, he inveigles advice from me about how to win the heart of the fair Pinkaluscious. I am more than delighted to help him divert her attention from Max, even if he never wants to see me again.

If I can’t have him, neither can she.

I tell Rampage I can’t find anything wrong with his knee. He pats me on the back and assures me he won’t hold it against me. He shuffle hops out of the room, this time favoring the opposite leg.

Hmmm.

Half an hour later, I am inundated with fighters suffering from injuries ranging from a sore finger to a splinter. For every fighter with a semiserious injury, I treat at least three more who present with fake injuries for the sole purpose of extracting relationship advice from me. Men, it seems, have as many issues and worries as women—maybe more.

After the club officially shuts down, the core members haul out the beer kegs, and I am invited to join the party. Rampage cuts loose and leads the Electric Slide in the ring. The Blade Saw—he insists I call him Blade Saw, even if it means putting up with my laughter—runs up and down the bleachers, screaming and punching his fists in the air every time he reaches the top.

We consume copious amounts of alcohol. Pinkaluscious and I become best friends. She gives me the scoop on Max’s past relationships but says nothing about what happened between them. I become depressed and drink some more. I teach Eugene “Hammer Fist” Smits how to mambo. A few of the other fighters try to teach me some moves on the practice mats. Due to my inebriated state, I spend most of the lesson giggling on the floor. Rampage dares me to stop Blade Saw’s incessant running by flipping my skirt and flashing my cheeks. I comply. Blade Saw stops and screams at my ass. It is the best party ever.

Max doesn’t show at the club on Saturday either. My impromptu counseling service, however, is a huge success. I have to fight my way through the crowds of fighters outside my door to tend to actual physical injuries, including two broken bones and a dislocated shoulder. I give hugs and peck cheeks. I squeeze hands, and several times, I even wipe tears. I love my new job.

By the end of the evening I hate women. Why do we nag men when they come home from work and just want to sit in front of the television with a beer and a home-cooked meal? Why do we ask them to participate in household chores when there is a game on TV? Why don’t we dress up in a French maid’s outfit to vacuum the carpets? And what the hell is wrong with a quickie? I resolve to be different. But first, I will have to learn how to cook, clean, and give up orgasms.

I am invited to another party after the club shuts down. It is even better than the last one. Tequila replaces the beer kegs. I lead ten rounds of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Rampage and I do the Twist with the grapple dummies. Blade Saw teaches me to drink upside down. Hammer Fist breaks a board over my head. We all play strip poker. I lose hand after hand.

When I am down to my bra and panties, Max arrives. He looks yummy in his T-shirt and low-slung jeans, but maybe a little annoyed. I toast him by shooting tequila from my cleavage. Annoyed becomes angry.

Max stalks over to us. I tell him I just lost the last hand of poker. I ask him to help me undo my bra. His face turns an interesting shade of red. Or is it purple? Grown men shout and scatter, knocking over their chairs in the process.

Max picks up the card table and throws it across the mats. My sense of self-preservation kicks in. I jump up, fold my arms, and scowl. Max doesn’t notice. He is too busy rampaging after his friends like an enraged bull. I wish I had a red cape.

“Leave them alone.” I raise my voice. “We were just having fun.”

“Get your clothes on. Go to my office. And stay there.” He drives his fist into a punching bag.

My jaw clenches. “Not until you stop this. You are totally overreacting.”

His voice turns to ice. “Get your clothes on. Go to my office. And stay there.” He spins around and slams an elbow into one of the practice dummies hanging on the wall. Homicide laughs. Max takes a step toward him. Homicide screams and runs away.

“If you seriously injure any of them, I will never speak to you again.” I stride across the mat and put myself between Max and a gasping Homicide. “So I took off a few clothes. These are your friends. If you can’t trust your friends, who can you trust?”

“They are men,” he barks. “I know what they are thinking, and if you even had an inkling of what that might be, you would have been in a cab and home hours ago. You are tempting enough sober and clothed. Now. Last time. Get your clothes on. Go to my office. And stay there.”

“Make me.” My hands clench into fists on my hips. My heart thuds in my chest. I stand my ground and glare at Max. Yay, for alcohol loosening my inhibitions! I am brave tonight.

The room stills. The fighters who haven’t run away suck in a collective breath. Maybe challenging him wasn’t such a good idea.

Max’s eyes narrow. His body tenses. He stalks toward me, scoops me up, and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of rice.

“Put me down.” My efforts at escape are futile. He has my legs pinned tight, and the thud of my fists on his back does not even warm his skin.

When we reach his office, he dumps me unceremoniously on the couch and stands in front of me, his massive arms folded. “Stay.”

“No.” I push myself to my feet. Max steps in front of me to block my way.

“Are you going to run out on me again?”

Guilt makes me immediately contrite. My cheeks flame. “I’m sorry I left. It was all too much. I was…overwhelmed.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “
You
were overwhelmed?”

I shrug. “Everything you do overwhelms me. You’re big. You’re strong. You’re covered in incredible tattoos. You ride a monster motorcycle. You have a tendency to glare and shout and stomp around when things don’t go your way. You’re bossy and controlling. You take overprotectiveness to the extreme. But even with all that, I think I can handle you.”

He walks across the office and swings the door closed so hard the pictures on the wall rattle. “You can handle me?”

I grab a blanket from the couch and wrap it around myself. “I think I can handle you because inside you are caring and compassionate and funny and sweet. And I like that you are protective and possessive. And I like that it’s not just about me. You’re a great teacher. You look after your guys. You are the first one on the floor when someone is hurt. You know who needs you to pull your punches and who needs you to let go.” I cross my fingers behind my back and meet his gaze. “Like now. You weren’t going to hurt anybody, were you?”

His face softens the tiniest bit. “Maybe not.”

“But most of all, when I’ve asked you to back down, you backed down. Except today.”

“You were standing half naked in a room filled with drunk guys. There is nothing you could have said that would have stopped me from taking you out of there. You were in danger.”

My cheeks flame. “Maybe not the most sensible thing I’ve done.”

“Definitely not.”

“Where it all falls down…” I continue at double speed to hide my embarrassment, “and what I can’t handle, is in the bedroom.”

Max freezes. “The bedroom?”

I twist the blanket in my hands and study the tiles on the floor. “I like it when you…um…take charge. It makes me…well…hot. But the fact that I like it scares me. What if that means I like you to be controlling outside of the bedroom? What if I stop asking you to back down when you cross the line? I can’t let that happen. I can’t ever put myself in that situation.” I cut myself off before I give myself away by saying “again.”

Silence.

I look up. Max is studying me, thoughtful, intense. “What happened to you, baby?”

My heart thuds in my chest.
Nonononono
. I didn’t want to have
this
conversation. I don’t talk about what happened. Ever. It’s a family secret. Part of it even from me.

“Nothing. I was just trying to tell you how I feel.”

He reaches over and tugs on the blanket, drawing me to him like a fisherman reeling in a fish. With a sharp yank, he unravels me and folds me in his arms. “Something happened to you that made you afraid to embrace who you are.”

“I know who I am.” I squirm, trying to get away, but Max tightens his hold and rests his chin on my head.

“I’m not so sure you do,” he says. “But I’ll tell you what I know. You are different from any other women I’ve been with. You don’t listen to me. You won’t do what I say. You won’t do anything you don’t want to do, and once you’ve made up your mind about something, you won’t change it. It is irritating as hell, but I admire your strength and conviction. You are caring, compassionate, sweet, and damn sexy. You live life. You experience it. But you do it on your own terms. I don’t think a woman like that ever has to worry she might find herself in a situation she doesn’t want to be in.”

“Are you talking about me?”

Max chuckles. “Yes, baby. I’m talking about you.”

“I don’t think you know me at all. The guys I went out with were all nice guys, but boring and dull. I gave up a chance to go to medical school, and now I’m stuck in a dead-end job. Does that sound like someone who is living life?”

“It sounds like someone who doesn’t know what they want. But when you do know what you want, you take no prisoners, and along the way, you enjoy the ride.”

The fact he has spent any time thinking about me, analyzing me, makes my toes curl.

“Why aren’t you angry I left yesterday morning?”

He pulls away and cups my jaw with his palm. “I told you I could never be angry with you. I was frustrated and disappointed with myself that I had pushed you so far that you felt you had to leave. I’ve never had a woman walk out on me, and you walking out felt like being stabbed in the gut. If Colton had not come home when he did, I might have destroyed a good portion of the house. He convinced me you just needed some time, and by the end of the day I thought he might be right. I pushed you too hard. I didn’t consider your level of…inexperience.”

I bristle. “I’m not that inexperienced.”

Max chuckles. “Trust me, you are. But I’m not complaining.”

Apparently not, since his hands have somehow found their way to my breasts and he is kneading them so gently I want to scream.

“You have beautiful breasts,” he murmurs. “But they are only for me to see. If anyone had touched you, I can assure you I wouldn’t have been pulling any punches.”

“Men are hardwired to like any and all breasts.”

Max leans over and draws my nipple into his mouth. “Not true. I have no interest in doing this to any breasts but yours.” He nips gently and I gasp.

“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

Max chuckles. “What girls?”

“All the girls you’ve dated. Sandy told me you had been with over almost thirty women in the last three years. She says you like a taste, but you don’t want the main course.”

“If I had been with thirty women in three years, I doubt I would have had time to run two businesses, much less leave my bed.” He teases my other nipple into a tight, hard peak with his finger and thumb. My knees shake.

“I don’t just want to be an amuse-bouche,” I whisper.

Max hugs my face in his warm hands. “You are my amuse-bouche, my appetizer, my main course, and my dessert.” He backs me up to the couch and presses me down to sit. With easy grace he kneels between my legs and slides his hands up the insides of my thighs, easing my legs apart. “Open for me, baby.”

My panties dampen and I widen my legs. God, the things he says make me almost crazy with lust.

“You are my cheese sandwiches, pizza, and mashed potatoes with lots of butter,” he whispers, brushing his lips softly over my ear. “You are my salmon mousseline, oysters in sea foam, frilled cod, and flying beets.”

“Don’t mention the beets,” I giggle. “I still have nightmares.”

Max nibbles my earlobe and traces lazy circles up the insides of my thighs. “You are the richest chocolate, the most decadent dessert, the smoothest coffee, and the most intoxicating wine.” He kisses his way down my throat and circles each of my nipples with his tongue. My body melts and I arch my back, offering more.

“You, Makayla Delaney, are a buffet of sensual delights. A feast for my eyes, my ears, my hands, my nose, and my tongue.” He slides his finger over my panties and brushes it gently over my sweet spot. I suck in a breath and my thighs clamp onto his hips.

“So responsive,” he murmurs.

“You forgot ice cream,” I point out. “If anything, I want to be your ice cream.”

A wicked smile curls his lips. He points to a small bar fridge in the corner. “I have ice cream in the freezer. I bought it for you.”