Against the Ropes (5 page)

“Come.” He holds out his hand. “I have a surprise for you inside.”

As if he hasn’t given me enough surprises today. The only thing missing is the tiniest personal detail about him. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like to talk about themselves—even a little bit.

We walk through the brightly lit parking lot, and Torment gives me a warning lecture about the dangers of Ghost Town and being alone outside the club at night—as if I haven’t lived in Oaktown all my life and been immersed in the daily reports of muggings and shootings in the Foster Hoover Historic District.

Once we are inside the club, he sends me to inventory the first aid room while he unlocks the doors and turns on the lights.

The room is cool and quiet and smells faintly of antiseptic. I rifle through the drawers and cupboards. Someone has taken the time to think about the types of injuries that might occur in a fight club. Since my last visit, the room has been restocked, and everything is organized and labeled.

“You’ll need this.” Torment appears in the doorway with a cooler in his hand.

“Another picnic?”

He places the cooler on the counter and waggles his crooked finger, motioning for me to open it. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips and his eyes sparkle with an almost palpable excitement. I can’t resist happy Torment. I open the lid.

“Ice cream? You bought me five pints of ice cream?” I pull out a container of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and lick my lips.

“Is that the right one?”

An idiotic grin splits my face. “Yes. This is the right one. The only one. But why did you buy it? And why so many?”

“Welcome present for new staff.” His brow wrinkles and then he spins around and walks out the door.

First pizza, then a motorcycle ride, and now my favorite ice cream. The night is just getting better and better.

My mouth waters and I pull the lid off the carton. The ice cream is at its optimal state—partially melted. Unable to resist, I dip in a finger and pop it in my mouth, closing my eyes at the first, creamy, rich, chocolaty banana burst of flavor. Ahhh. Heaven.

“I brought you a—”

My eyes fly open. Torment is standing in front of me with a bowl and a spoon and eyes as wide as the ice cream lid.

“Spoon.” He chokes out the last word, and his eyes lock on the finger in my mouth. I pull it out with a loud, elegant pop.

“Looks like you don’t need it,” he chuckles.

“I…it’s so good…I couldn’t wait.” My face heats. “Usually I use a spoon. Always, actually. I always use a spoon.” I hold my breath and pray for a natural disaster—earthquake, flood, hurricane, even a plague of locusts. Anything to save me from death by mortification.

“I think I would prefer to watch you eat it the other way.” His low, husky growl sends a shiver down my spine.

“Spoon…please,” I whisper. Why can’t I be like normal people and lose my appetite in times of stress or profound embarrassment?

He hands me the spoon and leans against the bed, thick arms folded. Although I don’t look up, I can feel his eyes on me. Maybe he’s hungry.

“Would you like some?”

“I don’t eat ice cream. It’s full of chemicals and unnecessary fats.” The soft, velvety texture of his voice is almost a match for the smooth, creamy ice cream on my tongue. What a combination: Torment, ice cream, unnecessary fats, and me.

“It’s very unhealthy,” he continues. “Any nutritional value is canceled out by the high sugar content.”

“Have you actually ever tried it?” I scoop out some ice cream and lick it off the cold metal spoon with slow, careful, little flicks of my tongue. When I lift my eyes, Torment’s lips have parted and his eyes burn with sensual fire.

“No.”

“Here, try it.”

Torment looks from the spoon to me and back to the spoon. “I’ll try it if you’ll watch us sparring tonight. I think it would help you get a feel for the potential injuries you might face in the ring if you saw the different strikes, grapples, and submissions the fighters use. It’s just training. No serious injuries. Rarely any blood or broken bones.”

Anything to gain a convert to the cult of Chunky Monkey.

“Okay.” I waggle the spoon in front of his lips. “I’ll come, but you have to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Your way.” He pushes the spoon to the side.

Everything below my waist tightens. “My finger?”

His sinful smile makes my pulse throb in unexpected parts of my anatomy.

“This one.” Lifting my hand, he strokes along the finger I just pulled out my mouth.

How damn erotic is that? I dip my finger into the soft ice cream and hold it out. Torment leans forward and takes it in his mouth, sucking gently. His lips are soft and warm. His mouth is wet and oh so hot.

A soft sigh escapes my parted lips and the endorphin rush almost knocks me off my feet. Desire sings its way through my veins straight to my core. My eyes lock on his lips as they glide gently over my skin and then pull away, leaving me bereft.

Torment gives me a heart-stopping, sensual, self-satisfied smile.

“You like?” I lean in toward him as if I might miss his answer.

“I like.”

Is he still talking about the ice cream, or is he talking about me? Please be talking about me. Please be talking about me.

“More?”

“Later.” He cups my cheek and his thumb presses my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I’ll be looking for you in the training ring.”

My legs melt, and I am swept up in the warmth of his gaze. “I’ll be the one staring at the floor.”

“And I’ll be the one thinking about dessert.” His mouth curves up in a wicked smile, and he presses my forefinger, still sticky with ice cream, to his lips. “Your way.”

It has nothing to do with sex

Wedged between Rampage and a thick, heavyset Mexican named Jimmy “Blade Saw” Ramirez, I turn my attention to the ground-level practice ring in the training area. A few fighters join us on the bench to watch and learn as Torment spars with Homicide Hank.

Torment warms up in the corner, and Homicide Hank beats on the punching bag, stopping every few strikes to scream at the ceiling for no apparent reason.

“They don’t seem to be a good match,” I say to Jimmy. Unable to refer to him as “Blade Saw”—either in my head or out loud—without convulsing into fits of laughter, I don’t use his name at all. Rampage has still not apologized for his ill-conceived practical joke, and relations between us remain cool.

My first impression is that physically, Torment has the edge. His height will give him a better reach and his long legs will let him cover more ground. He is also broader, heavier, and more muscular. By contrast, Homicide is small, wiry, and highly strung. He jumps up and down in the corner, punctuating every bounce with a scream.

“Homicide is tougher than he looks,” Jimmy says. “He’s quick and an expert on submission. He won’t win, but he’ll get a chance to practice a few new moves.”

Torment’s abs flex as he twists and stretches. He has changed into a pair of red fight shorts with stylized dragons down each leg, and the deep cuts of his hip bones are clearly visible above his waistband. The fabric clings to every curve of his tight, muscular ass. At least I know where to look if I can’t watch them spar.

Torment turns to talk to Jake, and the light reflects off the tattoos covering his back. Larger and more intricate than the designs on his front, the tattoos cover every inch of his right side down to his waist, including his arm. I remember the feel of soft skin over hard muscle when I traced my finger along the dragon’s tail. My cheeks heat. I should have kept going.

Jake calls the start of the fight. For the first few seconds, Torment and Homicide dance around, feeling each other out, throwing occasional kicks and punches. Finally, Homicide breaks the pattern and lunges at Torment. Reacting quickly, Torment hits him in the jaw. Homicide’s head snaps to the side. My stomach clenches and I bend over and take a few deep breaths. So much for no one getting hurt.

“Did you see that, Makayla?” Jimmy asks. “Torment pulled his punch. He could have really done some damage, but he held back.”

“Yeah. Lucky Homicide.”

Torment calls a time-out. He explains to the crowd what Homicide did wrong. His explanations are clear enough even I understand. He is a good teacher. Authoritative. Patient. Encouraging. Attentive. And damn sexy.

They return to the center of the ring. Torment doesn’t waste any time. He rushes forward and knees Homicide in the stomach. Homicide staggers back into the ropes. He springs forward and into Torment’s chest. I wince, expecting Torment to fall over backward, but his massive body absorbs the blow and he doesn’t move.

Rampage wasn’t the only one who set me up last week. Cheeky Torment pulled me down on purpose when we were in the ring. At least now I know I won’t have to go on a liquid diet.

Homicide feints to one side and then dodges around Torment. He grabs Torment around the waist from the back and crouches down low. I tug on Jimmy’s sleeve.

“He’s going for a double leg takedown,” I say, my voice filled with pride as I reference the only move I know.

“Won’t happen.”

Torment grabs Homicide’s arm, pivots, and spins. He drops to his seat on the mat and sweeps Homicide’s legs out from under him in a move worthy of any professional dancer. Homicide goes down hard and lands on his back. Torment throws himself across Homicide’s throat. Homicide taps the mat, and Torment releases him.

“Nice rolling kimura,” Jimmy mutters.

Torment explains the kimura hold to the assembled group and then he and Homicide show a few variations. I tune out and look around the gym. Despite the crowd gathered around the training ring, almost all the equipment is in use—treadmills, cross trainers, steppers, free weights, punch bags, a second training ring, and black human-shaped grapple dummies. Kinda like blow-up sex toys without the naughty parts.

“Most of serious fighters train every day,” Jimmy says, following my gaze. “In addition to learning all the submissions, strikes, kicks, grapple techniques, and defenses, they also need to build strength, speed, and endurance if they want to have a chance in the ring. Most of them also take classes in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, Muay Thai, boxing, and wrestling, which are the dominant fighting arts in MMA right now.”

“I didn’t realize it was so involved,” I say. “The fighters must be super fit.”

Like Torment.

I turn my attention back to the ring. Torment is still talking. Homicide Hank is kneeling on the floor with his back to Torment’s knees.

“So from this position,” Torment says, “I can move to mount, transition to back, and then get a submission by rear naked choke.”

Sounds dirty to me. From what I’ve heard so far, fighting seems to have a lot in common with sex. I like sex. Maybe I’ll grow to like fighting too.

Torment flips Homicide onto his back and lies flat on top of him. He talks about being dominant for a ground and pound.

I imagine him lying flat on top of me, grounding and pounding. Fight terms skitter through my brain. Naked. Back. Rear. Mount. Submission. Dominant. Pound. My body heats. I cross my legs and feel the slip of arousal between my thighs.

I am so caught up in my daydream, it takes a second for my brain to register Torment is watching me. The mischievous sparkle in his eyes suggests he knows what I’m thinking. But he can’t. How could he possibly know how filthy I really am?

Homicide takes advantage of Torment’s momentary lack of focus and breaks the hold. He flips Torment onto his back, jumps to his feet, and before Torment can get away, he leaps. Torment lifts a knee and thrusts upward, catching Homicide in the diaphragm. Homicide falls to his side clutching his chest.

Then he moans and rolls on the floor.

Torment drops to his knees beside Homicide and waves me over. I race to the ring and climb through the ropes.

“I thought I’d just knocked the wind out of him, but he’s turning blue,” Torment says. Worry creases his face and he rakes his hand through his hair.

I straighten Homicide’s body just enough to allow me to run my hands over his chest and abdomen. His eyes are wide, panicked, but his pupils are stable. My hands find a hard knot of muscle just below his ribs.

“I don’t think he’s ruptured any tissue,” I say. “I think he’s compressed his diaphragm and the lower lobes of his lungs, and it has forced out all his residual air. He might also have pulled the muscle in his diaphragm. I’ll need a wide ACE bandage and some ice before we can move him.”

“Jake. You heard her. Ice. Bandages.” Torment barks the order and Jake tosses a bag of ice into the ring from a cooler on the floor before racing out the door. Torment catches the ice with one hand and holds it over Homicide’s stomach.

“You need to breathe deeply,” I tell Homicide. “Fight real hard for that first, real deep breath. It will release the spasm and you’ll be able to breathe normally again.”

Homicide grips my hand and locks his frightened eyes on mine. His muscles tense. I give him an encouraging nod as he struggles and strains. Finally, he sucks in a deep breath and collapses back on the mat.

Torment lets out a long, slow sigh. He catches my gaze and gives me the most devastating smile.

Jake arrives with the bandages. We tape up Homicide’s chest, and Torment and Rampage walk him to the first aid room and help him onto the bed.

“Fuck.” Homicide pounds his fist on the bed and wheezes in a breath. “I should have seen that knee coming a mile away. I’m such an idiot. Damn stupid newbie mistake.”

I pat Homicide’s shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We all make mistakes. If we didn’t, no fight would ever have a winner. We just need to learn from them and move on. And I was pretty damn impressed with your moves.”

Homicide’s lips quiver. He looks over at Torment and something passes between them that brings out Homicide’s smile in all its toothy glory.

My cheeks heat and I look away. “Is there someone you want me to call? I don’t think you should drive.”

Homicide coughs. “Nah. I’ll just catch a ride with one of the guys. My wife, Sally, wouldn’t be caught dead here. I’ve invited her so many times, and she never shows.”

His face crumples, and I give his hand a squeeze. “Were you expecting her to come alone?”

“I thought she’d get bored during the warm-up so I just told her to come when the show started.” He coughs again, and I warn him to breathe slow and easy.

“Maybe she’s afraid to come here by herself. It’s a pretty dangerous area of town. I sure wouldn’t come alone. And if she was afraid, she’d probably think you knew that and you were only asking her to be polite but not expecting her to come.”

Homicide, Rampage, and Torment stare at me as if I’ve suddenly grown a second head.

“Women don’t think the same as you.” I use small, simple words so they can understand. “I’ll bet if you asked her to come with you and showed her around, she would love to watch you fight.”

Homicide scratches his head. Rampage grunts. Torment studies me like I’m a delightful curiosity in a zoo.

“Maybe you
should
ask her to pick you up,” I continue. “People like to know they are needed.”

***

By the time Homicide’s wife arrives to take him home, the gym is almost empty. Rampage and Jake wash down the mats and equipment and then head to the kitchen to have a drink with an impatient Pinkaluscious and her friend, Shayla, otherwise known as Shilla the Killa.

I lock up the first aid room and find Torment and Jimmy on the mats practicing grappling holds. Torment is lying on top of a stuffed leather grapple dummy. Unlike the dummies that resemble a man standing straight, this one has legs curved into a bow shape and arms bent up and over its head. Torment’s hips are between the dummy’s legs, his pelvis pressed against the juncture of the dummy’s thighs.

I have never seen anything as titillating in my life.

“It’s a submission dummy,” Torment says, looking up. “We just got it in. The arms and legs are flexible. It’s very useful for practicing arm bars, chokes, side mounts, and submissions.”

“I’m sure it is,” I murmur. Sweat trickles down my back. I berate myself for my dirty mind. He is practicing a fight position using fight equipment. This is NOT sexual. Not in the least.

Torment talks Jimmy through the position and then slides down the dummy’s body until his head is where his hips used to be.

My breath catches in my throat. My head spins. I grasp one of the ring poles and hold on for dear life.

“Hmmm. It’s not working,” he says to Jimmy.

Really? It’s working pretty good for me. So good, in fact, I need to get home right away.

Jimmy joins him on the mat and they practice a few holds. For some reason watching Torment lie on top of Jimmy isn’t quite as arousing.

Torment wraps his arms around Jimmy’s head and pulls him down. Jimmy struggles and finally slaps the mat. Torment rolls off him.

“I can’t get it,” Jimmy says. “It seemed easy when you had the dummy, but I can’t break that triangle. I need to see it with a real person.” He looks up and catches my gaze. “Hey, Makayla. Can you give us a hand?”

I stiffen and shake my head. “I don’t know anything about grappling. I wouldn’t be any use.”

Torment gives me a wicked grin. “We just need a warm body.”

Oh God, so do I.

He holds out his hand. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

Maybe not. But if he lies on top of me in my current state of arousal, I just might. I make an effort to feign modesty when, really, all I want to do is throw myself into the fray. “No, I don’t think—”

“Please.”

I study his impassive face. He has to know how suggestive the positions are. How he isn’t constantly aroused I don’t know. If I had to spend my evenings sliding over a grapple dummy, I wouldn’t need my Rabbit. Maybe I’ve been single too long.

“You’ll learn something,” he says. His voice takes on the authoritative teaching tone he used with Homicide. “If you understand the positions, you can better understand the injuries.”

Hmmm. Do I want to roll around on the mat with two half-naked, super-fit men? Yes, please!

“Okay, if it will help you out.” I slip off my shoes and kneel on the mat while Torment and Jimmy discuss what to do with me. My pulse pounds so hard I can barely hear them over the rush of blood through my veins. This is sports. It has nothing to do with sex. Sports. Sports. Sports.

Torment puts his hand on my shoulder. “Lie on your back, hands over your head, legs apart.”

Sex.

I lay on the mat just as he explained, and he kneels between my legs. The position leaves me vulnerable, exposed. Shivers of need course down my spine.

Jimmy sits to the side and Torment talks us through the move. He is so damn sexy when he’s teaching. Confident, assured, knowledgeable, and patient. He explains he is going to mount me.
Yes!
And take a dominant position.
Oh, yes!
Then, once I have him in a triangle, he’ll show Jimmy how to defend.

My brain fuzzes with lust.

His gaze catches mine. My cheeks flame. For the longest time, he studies me and then his eyes widen, as if he had just seen into my hidden depths—the pounding of my heart, the sheen of sweat on my skin, the wetness between my thighs. His eyes shutter and his jaw tightens.

“Are you okay there?”

Words fail me. “Mmmhmm.”

“Right then. I’m going to mount you now.”

Oh
God.

He mounts me.

I bite right through my lip. The sharp tang of blood flows over my tongue.

Torment lies on top of me, his knees pressed tight against my hips, his elbows snug against my ears. I lock his head between my arms the way he explained, tilting it and pressing his face down to my breasts. His warm, heavy body covers me, holds me, encloses me. His breath is hot on my neck. His hair is soft between my fingers. It is the most erotic experience I have ever had, and from the state of affairs pressed up against my sex, I would venture to say it might rank with Torment’s top experiences too.