Against the Ropes (8 page)

“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 immediately 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 belongings 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 Academy Awards. 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 almost 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.

I take a deep breath and step into the limo. “Maybe I could.”

Where’s my muffin top?

“Good morning, Ms. Delaney.”

“Sergio, it is exactly one minute past eight o’clock on a Monday morning. Surely you have better things to do than call me at work, especially since you promised to give me an extra week.” A weekend of Internet research about student loan collection and a brief chat with Amanda have made me cocky. I lean back in my chair and wave the next patient over to Charlie’s desk.

Sergio laughs. “Calling you
is
my job and since you are the most pleasant of all my debtors, who better to call first on a Monday morning. I just wanted to remind you about your payment."

“And I wanted to remind you that you cannot enforce a minimum payment without first assessing my financial position. I’ve also filed an online complaint with the Education Commission. I understand collections have to be frozen until the complaint is resolved.”

Sergio’s voice turns cold. “I haven’t received any notice of your complaint, and until I do, you must make the payments as they fall due. Otherwise, sneaky debtors like yourself could claim to have filed a complaint to avoid making their payments. I know all the tricks, Ms. Delaney. All the tricks.”

My confidence wavers. “Well, you still have to do a financial analysis. I’ll send you my financial statement and you will see there is no way I can make the minimum payment.”

“I know that trick too.” Sergio sighs. “You spend weeks pretending to look for the documents. Then you pretend to have sent them. After a few weeks, you suggest they are lost in the post, and we have to go through the whole process again.”

“I wouldn’t do that. I spent all weekend getting them together and I can send the statement to you today.”

Sergio laughs. “How refreshing. Please do send it to me. I would be delighted to read it. You have my details in the letter I sent. But I will tell you now the minimum payment will not change. That is our final number.” He emphasizes the last two words in a voice so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

I do some quick mental calculations. I have the paychecks from Redemption. If I work another weekend at the club, and stick to my noodle diet, I just might be able to make the first payment. And maybe lose some weight. Helllooo, skinny jeans. Surely by then the Education Commission will have acknowledged my complaint and realized their mistake.

“Okay. I’ll do my best.”

“Do you hate me now? Are you going to hang up? Swear at me? Everyone does.” The slightly needy tone in his voice makes the skin on my neck prickle.

“No. I don’t hate you. You’re doing your job and I’m trying to understand that.”

Sergio sighs. “You seem like a nice person, Ms. Delaney. Honest, trustworthy, and from your file photo, very pretty. I enjoy talking to you. I can’t say that about my other debtors. Please don’t disappoint me. I would hate to have to get heavy-handed with you.”

I suck in a sharp breath. “Is that a threat?”

“Of course not. By law, I’m not allowed to make threats, and I would
never
do something I’m not allowed to do.” Sergio’s tone lightens. “Now, how about a joke?”

“A joke?”

“You brightened my day last week with your amusing story. I was able to return the favor in my own way. My personal circumstances are such that I don’t have many opportunities to smile. Perhaps you might wish to build up some more goodwill. You never know when you might need it.”

My jaw tightens. The last thing I want to do right now is tell a joke, but the tone of his voice suggests it is not really a request. I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “A debt collector walked into a bar…”

***

How’s my girl today?

I’m not ur girl

Max frowns

Silly. Learn to text. Frown like this **frowns**

**frowns**

That’s a lot of frowning

Your fault

Sorry. Bad day

Will cheer you up. What r u doing for lunch?

Eating with a friend

Lascivious doctor friend?

No

Crazy black hair friend?

No

Amanda?

No

Male friend?

Yes

**frowns**

Stop frowning. U saw him. Works beside me

Lunch with male friend approved

Gee, tx

Please seek prior approval for all lunches with male friends

Ha ha **rolls eyes**

No ha ha **frowns**

Gotta run. Male friend is here **winks**

***

“So, how was your weekend?” Charlie beats a rhythm on his Justin Bieber lunch kit while I grab my brown paper lunch bag and purse from my desk drawer.

“Same old. Same old.” My lips quiver with a repressed smile. “How was your course this morning?”

“Same old. Same old.” Charlie shrugs. “I think that’s the fifth time I’ve had to take Customer Relations 101. This time, I’ve learned to smile. Imagine that! People like people who smile. No wonder I haven’t been able to get a date.”

“I had a sort-of date.” I give Charlie a wink and then vacate the cubicle for Jenny, our new temp trainee. Charlie and I walk down the corridor toward the cafeteria.

“No!” Charlie clutches his chest in mock horror and staggers backward. “You had a date? Was he breathing?”

I punch him in the shoulder. “You’re just jealous.”

“I have to admit I do have an itch to punch the as-yet-unidentified bastard in the face for moving in on my territory. I should have marked you—maybe pissed on your feet.”

“I meant you’re jealous I had a date.”

“I had a date too.”

Charlie drops hints about his mystery date, but I’m only half listening. I see Torment in every shadow. I hear his husky voice in every corridor. I smell the fresh, citrus scent of his cologne. I imagine his arms wrapped around me. I wish he hadn’t just dropped me off on Saturday night but Colton had insisted on having him checked out by his private doctor.

“Mac. There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Good afternoon, Doctor Drake.” Charlie spares me the embarrassment of being totally unaware of my surroundings by being overly genial and shaking Dr. Drake’s hand.

Dr. Drake frowns and turns to me. “I’ve been looking for you.”

My heart sinks in my chest. Did Big Doris file a complaint after handing me two green slips in the space of an hour? How was I to know two chair casters have to be under the desk at all times?

“Ready for our lunch date?” He winks and flashes his pearly whites.

Oh God. I totally forgot. “Um. Actually, I…I brought my lunch. Maybe we could do it another day.”

Dr. Drake plucks my lunch bag from my hand with this thumb and index finger. Without even looking over his shoulder, he tosses it backward and into the garbage can.

“Score!” Charlie shouts. “Good shot, Doctor Drake. You missed your calling in the NBA.”

Dr. Drake’s cheeks flush ever so slightly and he gives Charlie a bemused smile. “Actually, wrestling was my thing in college, but I’ve always enjoyed handling balls.”

Don’t look at Charlie. Don’t look at Charlie. DON’T LOOK AT CHARLIE.

“I’m sure you do.” Charlie’s voice shakes with repressed laughter. “As does Mac. We were just discussing how much she enjoys—”

“Charlie! Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Three’s a crowd. I get it. And look, I see the lovely Doris watching us from the entrance to the cafeteria.” Charlie gives me a wink and walks briskly toward the glaring woman in the lime green suit, his every step punctuated with a little squeak from his Crocs.

“He’s quite a character,” Dr. Drake muses.

“He’s got a good sense of humor.”

Dr. Drake studies me for a long moment. “You two seem quite close.”

“We’re good friends.” I twist my school ring around my finger—round and round and round.

“And that’s all?” He puts a hand on my lower back and steers me away from the cafeteria.

“Just friends.”

Dr. Drake smiles and his hand slides around me to squeeze my hip. “Good to hear.”

“Um…the cafeteria is the other way.” I slide out of his grasp and spin around.

Dr. Drake motions to an exit door at the end of the hallway. “I’m taking you to the Surgeon’s Club. It’s a new private club just down the block run by a few friends of mine. You and I have some business to discuss and I thought we could do so without the distraction of all your male friends vying for your attention in the cafeteria. I’ve already talked to Jenny and she has agreed to cover for you.”

Um…what male friends? Who’s vying for my attention? Charlie?

I swallow hard and follow him outside. The door slams closed, and I catch a glimpse of my faded Tweety Bird scrubs in the glass. “I’m not really dressed for a private club.”

“Nonsense. It’s run by medical professionals and a favorite with the hospital lunch crowd. There are always a few people in scrubs.”

We walk down the block to a tall, brick building with a heavy oak door. Dr. Drake slides his card through the card reader and heaves the door open. I freeze, poised on the threshold of the ultimate masculine man cave, scented with the fragrant odor of bloody meat. The dark wood details, worn Persian carpets, and leather furniture imbue the room with an air of exclusivity. The white walls covered with taxidermy remind me of the zoo. A deer looks balefully down at me as I follow Dr. Drake to a table by the window.

“I’m the only person wearing scrubs.” I take my seat and glance around the room. I recognize almost everyone from the hospital. “I’m also the only woman, and the only person who is not a doctor.”

He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Relax. You’re with me. No one is going to say anything.”

Maybe not, but they’ll be wondering why Dr. Drake is slumming it with the staff.

Dr. Drake smiles at the waiter, waiting patiently by the table. “We’ll have the Chateaubriand, medium rare, baby potatoes, and spring vegetables. No wine. We’re on duty. Just water.” The waiter scratches everything down on his pad and, before I can say anything, he is gone.

“I like my meat cooked.” My voice rises in pitch. “Well cooked. Charred to a crisp. If it’s pink and squishy with blood oozing out of it—”

Doctor Drake cuts me off. “It would taste even better. The chef here is extraordinary. I promise you’re going to love it.”

I imagine Dr. Drake tearing into a raw steak, bloody juices dripping down his chin. Bile rises in my throat. If anyone should be eating raw steak, it’s Max, not the capital
C
conservative doctor. Does Max like his steak rare? I would guess he does. Predators usually like fresh meat.

“We should get down to business before the food arrives.” Dr. Drake steeples his fingers and his normal, genial expression turns serious. “I’ve been reviewing personnel files in anticipation of the upcoming annual reviews. I must admit I had forgotten you were in pre-med, but I never knew you were near the top of your class. Why didn’t you apply to medical school?”

I shrug. “I didn’t know if it was what I really wanted to do, and I didn’t have the money.”

Dr. Drake shakes his head. “You have a healing gift, Mac. You have a responsibility to share it. I want to help.”

“How?”

“I know people on the scholarship committees. I can direct you to the scholarships you have the best chance of winning. I can help you fill out the forms. I can put in a good word for you with my friends on various admissions committees. I’ll even tutor you when you get in.”

My mouth drops open. “That’s very kind of you, but why do you want to help me?”

He beams. “I think you would be a great doctor, and we need more doctors. You have compassion, intelligence, and empathy. Your EMT coworkers and your coworkers in the hospital have had nothing but praise for you.”

My cheeks flame and I stare at the table. “I don’t know. I just…I need time to decide what I really want in life.”

“It’s been almost three years since you graduated,” Dr. Drake says. “You’re spinning your wheels. You can’t stay on the admissions desk forever. You need to move forward. I’m giving you a chance to grab the brass ring. Don’t let it go.”

Thankfully, the waiter arrives with our food. As specified, the meat is barely cooked. Bloody juices seep into the two minuscule potatoes and three steamed green beans artfully arranged on my plate. Already tense from our conversation, my stomach gurgles, threatening rebellion. The elk above Dr. Drake’s head glares at me, and I give my excuses and beat a hasty retreat to the luxurious, wood-paneled washroom.

After I splash water on my face and reapply my makeup, I take a few deep breaths and prepare to return to the menagerie. My phone buzzes in my purse and I check the Caller ID. Max. Is he checking up on me already?

How is lunch?

Bad

What’s wrong?

Change of plans. Different lunch companion

Male companion?

Yes

Black hair?

No

Brown hair?

No

Blond hair?

Yes

Doctor?

Yes

Lascivious doctor?

Actually, he’s being quite nice

Not approved

Too late

Not approved

We’re already in the middle of lunch

Not approved

I see someone figured out how to use his Repeat button

I’m coming to the hospital

I’m not at the hospital

Where are you?

Not telling. Chill

Chill?

I’m a big girl. I can handle myself

You’re a sexy girl. I want to handle you

Naughty Max

You need me, I’m there

Sweet Max

Maybe I should come and find you

No Max

Yes Max

BAD MAX

***

Anticipation ratchets through me after I end the conversation. Is he just teasing or is he seriously going to try and find me? I tuck my phone into the pocket of my scrubs and make my way back to the table. Dr. Drake has finished his meal. My steak has stopped bleeding, but now it is floating in a congealed puddle of pink fat. Yummy.

“I’m not feeling very well.” I put my fork and knife at four o’clock on the plate. “I think I might have a touch of stomach flu. I’ve lost my appetite.”

The elk smiles and nods approvingly. I pick up my water glass and take a sip.