Against the Ropes (28 page)

Wham. Someone slams into me from behind and throws me up against the fence. A thick hand clamps around my neck and I suck frantically, trying to get air.

“Gotcha.” My captor leans in to stare at me, his bald pate glistening in the moonlight. A smile creases his round, heavy face and his jowls jiggle as he laughs. His breath smells of garlic and onions. He brushes his humongous red nose against my cheek and sniffs as if he’s looking for truffles. I name him Pig.

“They saw you,” Pig grunts to the three drug dealers who have just joined us at the wall. “Grab Blondie and we’ll take them down to the cellar.”

Pig spins me around and covers my mouth with one hand. “You’re gonna walk to the cellar doors over there, nice and slow. You mess with me and I’ll cut off your air. You understand?”

I nod. Then I ram my foot into his instep and bite his hand.

“Fuck.” Pig jerks his hand away and staggers back.

I scream as loud as I can and run at the guy holding Amanda. Just as my fingers touch his jacket, something hits my head and the world goes black.

Everyone not tied to a chair jumps up

I open my eyes and for a second I think I am dreaming. I am in a huge, dimly lit room filled with boxes, barrels, and crates. Three guys—one redhead, one blonde, and the other with curly black hair are huddled over a table in the far corner, all dressed in cheap printed T-shirts, flip-flops, and torn jeans. A naked bulb swings from the ceiling. The air is fragrant with the rich scent of earth and the fusty aroma of dried herbs. It is almost surreal.

However, Amanda, tied to a chair in front of me, the burn of ropes around my wrists, and the pounding in my head are very real. So real, I groan.

“Mac,” she whispers. “Mac. Are you okay?”

“Aside from the fact I am tied to a chair and probably concussed, I’m fine,” I moan. “What happened?”

“The big guy hit you over the head with something. We’re in the cellar under the Geek Club. He’s gone to get the boss.”

I struggle against the ropes on my hands and feet, but they are secure. As is the room. Aside from the tiny windows along the edges, the only way out is up the steps.

The door creaks open and Pig comes down the stairs followed by a giant. A familiar giant.

Misery.

My heart pounds in my chest. He seems even bigger in the enclosed space than he did at Redemption, his head just clearing the ceiling. He storms over to the men at the table. “What the fuck were you doing taking the stuff out of the club? You are all fucking idiots.”

He looks Amanda up and down, and then his gaze falls on me. His eyes narrow. “I know you.” He leans down and grabs the guy with the curly black hair by the collar. “Who is she? Why do I know her?”

Curly wilts. “She’s Torment’s girl.”

“Fuck.” Pig spits on the ground, as pigs do. “I thought I recognized her.”

“Who’s Torment?” the blond asks.

Curly swallows. “He works the underground circuit. One of the top fighters. Used to be a professional boxer. Mean. Nasty. Hard as nails. He’s crazy. I’ve seen him take down three men here at the club without breaking a sweat.”

The blond whistles. “What were they packing?”

“Hard-drive casings, keyboards, laptops, external drives, a couple of flat-screen monitors, and a whole roll of HDMI cable.”

Red whistles. “Serious fight. HDMI cable isn’t cheap.”

“Geeks.” Pig rolls his eyes, making no effort to hide his derision.

“I heard Torment once shoved a hard drive down a guy’s throat,” Red interjects.

Curly’s eyebrows wiggle like two dancing caterpillars. “What capacity?”

“Four terabytes.”

“No way. That must have just been in the last few months. They haven’t rolled the fours out to the public yet.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Misery shakes Curly like a rag doll and tosses him to the floor. Curly’s phone skitters across the concrete. The sleek, silver design is familiar.

“Amanda,” I whisper. “I have an idea.”

“I’m so sorry I got you into this,” she sobs. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I went a bit crazy.”

I give her a half smile. “That’s why I came. I couldn’t let you be crazy alone. Now give me a distraction before we both start sobbing. Something to get them near us.”

Amanda nods.

“If we let them go, Torment will come here on a tear.” Pig’s voice wavers. And well it should. Max could eat him for supper.

Misery responds with a sharp bark of laughter. “I’m not fucking afraid of Torment. He ran out on our last fight.” He looks me over again. “Maybe we should send him a message to keep his bitch in line. Draw him out to finish the fight.”

I look Misery straight in the eye. “I’m not his bit…girl anymore. We broke up.”

Misery gives me a cold smile. “Even better. I can enjoy you without having him show up on my doorstep.”

“Nice one, Mac,” Amanda spits out. “You just threw away your only bargaining chip. You had value as his girl. Now we’re going to die because of your self-pity.” She gives me a wink. Operation Distraction has begun.

“What?” My voice rises. “We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you mooning after your guy like a lost puppy. You screwed up with him. Get over it.”

We banter back and forth, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. No man can resist a catfight. Too bad we didn’t have a couple of bikinis and a mud pit. They edge closer to us, and I spot my purse under the table.

When they are all as far away from the phone as they will ever be, I suck in a breath and scream, “CALL 911.”

Everyone freezes. No sound emanates from my purse. Is the leather too thick? Is it broken after being smashed against the wall? I take another breath, just as Curly’s phone starts dialing.

“Fuck,” Misery shouts. “She’s trying to set off your damn phone. Shut it off.”

Curly scrambles over the floor, grabs his phone, and shuts it off with a loud sigh.

I glare at my purse. I have to give it one last try. Maybe it didn’t recognize the numbers. “CALL MAX CELL,” I scream. My phone starts dialing.

“She’s got one too. Find it, you idiots.” Misery storms across the cellar and hits me across the face. “Shut it off.”

My head snaps to the side and blood trickles down my lip. Fire screams across my cheek. “No.”

He hits me again. This time, his palm connects with bone. The pain brings on the darkness, whispers of memories, someone yelling my name. A whimper.

No.
Not now. I fight away the nightmare and snap back to reality and a whole lot of pain.

“SHUT IT OFF!” Misery yells.

“No.”

His third hit almost knocks me out of the chair. Amanda screams for him to stop. Something trickles down my cheek. I can’t tell if it is blood or tears.

“Makayla, baby?”

Tears spring to my eyes when Max’s voice, deep and low, echoes in the room. Red crawls under the table and grabs my purse.

I take a deep breath and scream, “MAX. HELP. MISERY HAS ME AND AMANDA IN THE CELLAR OF—”

Thwack. Misery hits me again. The sharp, bitter taste of blood fills my mouth. My vision blurs. Red triumphantly holds up my phone and then smashes it on the floor. This time, it does not survive.

Misery gives a satisfied grunt. “Even better. He knows I have you but not where. Looks like I’ll get to send him a message after all.”

I slump against the chair. Amanda sobs. Misery pulls out his phone and makes a call. He orders a couple of pizzas—no anchovies—and a side of wings. I guess message time will be delayed.

***

An hour has passed. The pizzas have been eaten. Misery and Pig debate what to do with us. Pig wants to kill us. Misery thinks this is a bad plan. Body disposal is not easy, and he just had his Jeep cleaned. He also has a slipped disc. My wrists and ankles are raw from trying to get out of the ropes. My head aches. My jaw throbs. I wish I could have seen my parents one last time. I wish I could have given Max one last kiss. I wish Misery would have given us some pizza. I’m starving.

The cellar door creaks and everyone looks up. Misery sends Curly to check it out. Curly doesn’t return. Red goes next. We wait. No Red. As if we were in a bad horror film, Misery decides to send the blond. The blond doesn’t want to go. He knows the score. Dark night plus disappearing friends usually equals axe in the head. I suggest he put on some sexy lingerie and run out screaming like a co-ed. Misery tells me to shut my mouth or he’ll shut it for me with something so big I’ll never be able to talk again. I hope it’s a big slice of pizza.

Brave Pig goes up the stairs. He returns head first. No axe. All body parts intact. He is followed down the stairs by Max, Jake, Rampage, and Homicide. Yay!

Everyone not tied to a chair jumps up. For a moment, the room is still and quiet. Relief wells up in my chest and explodes in a sob. Max’s head jerks around and his eyes rake over my swollen, bleeding face and then travel over the ropes on my hands and feet. His nostrils flare and his lips pull back, baring his teeth. The air around him ripples and changes. His body tenses and swells; his muscles and veins strain against his skin. I almost expect him to change form—maybe a werewolf or werebeast. I have seen his anger and it scared me. This is not anger. This is rage.

Max explodes into motion. He barrels toward Misery, tossing chairs and crates and the blond out of his way. One of them hits the wall with a sickening crunch—a chair, not the blond.

Jake throws a punch at a recovered Pig. He squeals, as pigs do. Rampage and Homicide untie Amanda and me and usher us into the corner. They tell us there are more men fighting outside and we are safer in a small, confined space with four raging, out-of-control giants attacking each other. I disagree. I am outvoted.

Max attacks Misery with the kind of vigor only reserved for really dirty ovens. Fists fly. Bones crunch. He does not hold back. My stomach clenches tighter and tighter. This is nothing like the club. This is real. Forget the werebeast; Max is violence with a capital
V
.

Misery pulls out a knife. Not just a knife. A dagger.

“Oh God. Max is going to be killed.”

Rampage laughs. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Yo. Torment. Misery’s the one who beat on your girl.”

Max stills, and for a heartbeat, I imagine fear flickers across Misery’s face, or maybe it was just a muscle twitch. In a blur of motion, Max closes the distance between them and lets loose. My body convulses and I grab the wastepaper basket, retching over and over again. Amanda holds my hair and rubs my back. Rampage hands me a bottle of water. By the time I can sit up again, the fight is over. Misery is down and groaning on the floor.

Max surveys the room. His eyes skim over me, pausing briefly on the basket. Then he stalks across the room, grabs my hand, and yanks me up the stairs.

Sirens sound in the distance, drawing near. Someone must have called the police.

“How did you find me?”

“Tracking device in your phone.”

Max drags me across the lawn to a garden shed surrounded by trees. With one kick, he breaks down the door and pulls me inside. He slams the door closed and my eyes adjust to the dark. Thin, wavering filaments of light from houses and streetlights find their way through cracks in the wood. Enough to see the fury in Max’s face. His eyes are wide, the pupils almost black. His neck is corded with tension. His face is all hard planes and angles, dark with shadows. I barely recognize him.

“You promised you would never come here.” His body shakes so violently, I am afraid to touch him. He is barely in control, and a shiver of fear winds its way up my spine.

“I couldn’t let Amanda come here alone.”

“You promised you would never put yourself in danger.”

“I had no choice. She’s my best friend.”

His nostrils flare, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Take off your clothes.”

My heart pounds frantically against my ribs. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but in this tiny, dark shed smelling of gasoline and grass clippings, and with Max looming large in front of me, I can barely breathe.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Take off your clothes.” He forces every word through clenched teeth as if speaking is an effort.

“Why?” My voice is thin and high, almost a whine.

“Goddamn it, Makayla. For once, just do what I say. Take. Off. Your. Clothes.”

I step backward until I hit the safety of the wall. My eyes flick to the door behind him. He catches the direction of my gaze.

“You aren’t leaving until you take off your clothes.”

I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to stop trembling. “No.”

“Fuck.” He closes the distance between us in two long strides, and grabs my shoulders. He slants his mouth over mine and kisses me hard, crushing my lips, banging my teeth. Fierce kiss. Frightening kiss. The smell of his rage fills my nostrils, thick and suffocating like wood smoke. The world tilts. He grabs my top and yanks it over my head. Cold air blasts against my skin. Fear and confusion freeze my brain.

“Max,” I whisper. “Please. No.” Instinct screams for me to run. He is out of control. But part of me still believes he won’t hurt me.

His hands drop to my waist, and he jerks my yoga pants over my hips and shoves them down to my ankles. He steps back, and his eyes rake over my body, cold and detached. Not the look of a lover, but of a stranger.

Although I am still wearing my bra and panties, I instinctively try to cover up. I wrap one arm around my breasts and the other over my hip. My hand fans over the juncture of my thighs.

“Don’t cover yourself from me.” He enunciates each word, shooting them at me like arrows.

A sob wells up in my throat. I drop my arms and look away. I cannot bear to look at him or to see this stranger looking at me through Max’s eyes.

Max grasps my shoulders and pulls me away from the wall. His hands slide over my body, his touch rough, perfunctory, and impersonal. His hands linger over my belly. I bite my lip and tears trickle down my cheeks. He spins me around, and his cold assessment continues over my back, my buttocks, and my legs. By the time he is finished, I am sobbing out loud. A black hole has formed inside me. I have never felt so alone or, disconcertingly, so ashamed.

He steps away and his hands fall to his belt. He undoes the buckle and yanks the belt off his jeans with a loud crack. He motions me toward him with an abrupt wave of his fingers. “Come here.”

I back away.

“Come here now.” The undercurrent of barely controlled anger in his voice sends me scrambling back into a shelf. I stumble over my yoga pants and fall to the floor. Flower pots and water cans tumble to the ground around me. Max strides across the shed. I hold my hands up and turn away. “Please, Max. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”

He stops short and looks at me aghast. “Is that what you think?”

I look from him to the belt and back to him. Tears stream down my cheeks. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

With a roar, he throws his belt across the room, and then sweeps the workbench clean with his hand. Tools clatter over the concrete floor. “What can I do, Makayla?” he shouts. “What can I do to get you to trust me?”

“Not this.”

He pushes open the door. Pausing, he looks back over his shoulder, and breathes slowly, in and out, as if trying to calm himself. “When I got your call, I thought…then I saw you in the cellar…tied up…your face—” His voice breaks and he scrubs his hand over his face. “It was too much. I couldn’t think…talk.” He takes another deep breath and grips the frame of the door so hard, his knuckles whiten. “I needed to see if you were hurt anywhere else. I needed to hold you. But when I saw the bruises on your stomach and your back, I took off the belt so the buckle wouldn’t hurt you.”