Against the Ropes (9 page)

“Maybe you should come to my office,” Dr. Drake suggests. “I can give you a thorough examination. We wouldn’t want anything spreading through the staff.”

I choke and splutter water over the plate. “Actually, I’m suddenly feeling a lot better. Maybe I was just dehydrated.” I pick up my fork and knife and slice into the unroasted beast with the zeal of my housemate, Rob, on a bar crawl. It quivers. I put a tiny piece of steak in my mouth, press my lips together and chew. Soft. Squishy. Like flesh.

No
. Chicken. It tastes like chicken. It tastes like chicken.

I gag.

“Mac!” Dr. Drake leaps from his seat.

I force the meat down and put my utensils on my plate. “I’m fine. You were right. It was delicious, and very filling.”

“Well then, we’ll have to come back another day. If you liked that, you’ll love the raw lamb. They serve warmed lamb blood on the side. Delicious and full of iron.”

My stomach heaves. “You’re kidding.”

“Yes, I am.” Dr. Drake chortles. “They don’t warm the blood.”

I slap my hand over my mouth in case I lose what little I ate all over Dr. Drake’s shoes. “Can I go back to work now?”

Dr. Drake gives me a wink. “Off you go. Next time we’ll just have salad and you can tell me if you’ve thought about my offer.”

He dismisses me with a casual wave of his hand and I flee the man cave under the disapproving glare of the assorted forest animals. How can I turn him down? He is almost guaranteeing me a scholarship and my student loan payments would be put on hold until I finish medical school. Problem solved.

So why does it feel so wrong?

***

Five hours, no Max and no answers later, I sling my pack over my back and head into the parking lot. Thank God the day of horribleness is over. Now I can go home, have a bath, and cry. Not necessarily in that order.

“Makayla.”

Squinting into the sun, I catch the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit standing in front of a sleek, black limo. Familiar. He closes the distance between us, and holds out a hand. Broad palm, elegant fingers. I know those fingers.

Max.

Max in clothes.

My heart pounds in my chest. Max in his leathers is hot. Max in his fight shorts is scorching. Max in an elegant black suit, blue shirt, and striped silk tie sets my blood on fire. The tailored cut of his jacket molds to his broad shoulders and emphasizes his narrow waist and lean hips. He looks mature, sophisticated, and powerful. I can imagine him hammering out deals in boardrooms, escorting movie stars to parties, and running his successful company.

What the hell does he want with me?

My mouth goes dry and my feet refuse to move. Max stops only a foot away. He smells of citrus cologne and ever so faintly of coffee.

“What’s wrong?” He frowns and wipes away a tear I didn’t even know was on my cheek.

“Wow.” I try for a light, joking tone, but in my depressed state, my voice comes out flat. “You clean up well. I’ve never seen you in…well, clothes. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

His face tightens. “You aren’t going to distract me. Why were you crying?”

The sympathy in his voice makes me want to lean into him and bare my soul. But I don’t want him to think I’m asking for anything, especially after what he told me outside the club. I don’t need his help. I’ll figure it out on my own.

“Nothing. Just a bad day at work. It happens.”

His eyes darken, and he wipes another tear from my cheek. “Did someone bother you?” His chest puffs up and his biceps twitch. “Tell me who it is and—”

“It’s okay, Max.” I pat his arm. “I’m just going home to wallow in self-pity. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Max shakes his head. “You have to eat first. Self-pity is better on a full stomach. Let me take you for dinner.”

Hmmm. Instant noodles alone in my apartment or a hot, cooked meal with GQ model Max in a restaurant? Not really a choice. More like a foregone conclusion.

I take his hand. “Lead the way.”

We climb into the air-conditioned interior and my mood immediately improves. “Same limo as before?” I run my hand over the butter soft, beige leather seat and check out the situation: television, small bar fridge, seating for eight, laptop, privacy glass, Internet port. All looks the same.

Max chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint. I only need one.” He presses the button on the intercom. “Lewis, we’re going to Bianco Nero, but first we’ll visit Eva.”

“Bianco Nero? The ritzy Michelin-starred restaurant?” My voice rises and trembles. “I can’t go there in jeans and a T-shirt. Do you know the kind of people who go there? Certainly not the likes of me. I was thinking of something more casual.”

Max cups my face in his hands and turns me to face him. “Yes, the likes of you. Exactly the likes of you. With me. And I would never put you in a situation where you would feel uncomfortable. I have the dress-code issue all sorted out.”

“What does that mean?”

Max’s lips quirk into a smile and he takes my hand and twines his fingers through mine. “You’ll see. Now relax.”

Relax? In a limo beside a man who now looks so far out of my league I shouldn’t be able to see him?

We sit in silence while Lewis expertly navigates the traffic. I sigh and twist my ring around my finger as I anticipate yet another humiliating inappropriate clothing experience. Max lets my hand go and puts his arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his chest.

“Relax, baby. Trust me.”

Baby
. He called me baby. Warmth ripples through my body and I drift on happiness clouds until the limo pulls to a stop.

Lewis dashes out of the vehicle and holds open the door as we step onto the sidewalk outside an exclusive boutique in Rockridge. My contentment vanishes like a thief in the night.

Max clasps my hand and leads me to the door. My tension flares to life. “I can’t buy anything here. I can tell just by looking at the six items of clothing in the window. I probably can’t even afford to buy a tissue in this place.”

Max presses a buzzer and the door is opened by an exquisite, darkly exotic woman with long, black hair.

“Eva.”

“Max.” She doesn’t even wait for us to step inside before she throws her arms around him. Her expensively clothed, toned body presses up against him. Long, dark lashes flutter down over her perfectly smooth, honey-colored cheeks.

“It’s been so long,” she breathes through plump, rouged lips.

Jeez. Not again. He’s really pushing his “I’m a one-woman man” promise to its limits.

“Ahem.”

Max pulls away. “Makayla this is Eva. She’s an old friend.”

We exchange greetings and Eva excuses herself to get things ready. I sigh and walk over to the rack as I contemplate how Eva can run a business with only six items of stock.

“What’s wrong?”

“She’s very…friendly. And she appears to be more your type. She could probably afford to buy the clothes she sells. I can’t.”

“You are my type,” he says, emphasizing each word. He cups my jaw and strokes my cheek with his thumb. “And I want to buy you something you would feel comfortable wearing to Bianco Nero. You don’t have to worry about the cost.” His voice drops to a soothing murmur and I lean in to the touch of his hand.

“I don’t need you to buy my clothes, Max. If you take me home, I’m sure I have something I can wear.”

He pulls me close and kisses me lightly on the forehead. “You are a beautiful woman and I want to buy you something beautiful to wear. Let me have that small pleasure.”

Am I so heartless I would deny a man the small pleasures in his life? Of course not. I’m altruistic to the core. “Okay. You win.”

Max settles himself in a gilded throne-like chair and pulls out his fancy phone. Eva hands me a tiny piece of green, sparkly material. “It will be perfect,” she breathes. “It matches your eyes and will highlight your beautiful curves.”

I give her a tight smile. “I’m not really a scarf person.”

Eva laughs, a light, musical sound, so unlike my snorts and guffaws when I really get going. “It’s not a scarf. It’s a dress.”

I unfold the flimsy material. No way is this going over my rolls. Even if I do find a way to get it on, no doubt I will immediately shred it with the jagged edge of my freshly chewed fingernails. My eyes flick to Eva and back to the dress. “Do you have anything more…substantial?”

Eva trills another laugh and leads me to a tiny, curtained alcove. Clearly, normal people do not shop at this store. I cannot move without brushing open the soft, beige cotton curtains, much less strip off and slide on the handkerchief without revealing things best kept hidden.

“He’s not watching,” she whispers. “Take off your clothes and I’ll help you put it on.”

Still doubtful, I close my eyes and prepare for a snicker when I pull off my shirt.

Nothing. I crack open an eye. Eva is staring at my jeans. Or maybe she’s contemplating my muffin top and how many scarves will be needed to hide it.

“Jeans too,” she says without a hint of humor.

Maybe she’s seen worse. Taking a breath, I strip down to my bra and panties. At least they match and it isn’t my granny pants time of the month. “Do you have any foundation or support garments? Maybe a Spanx bodystocking?” I whisper. “I don’t think this dress is going to adequately hide my…whole self.”

Eva slides the dress over my head. “You don’t need any. You have a beautiful body. You should show off your curves, not hide them.”

Like she would know. Whenever she turns sideways, she almost disappears. “I don’t want to hide them, just smooth them out. I’m going for the loaf look instead of the muffin top.”

Ignoring me, Eva makes a few adjustments and hands me a death-defying pair of matching stilettos. I don’t know much about shoes, but the simple, elegant, emerald encrusted stilts do something miraculous to my legs. Suddenly, I have some. She pulls out my ponytail holder, fluffs my hair, and gives me the fastest makeover I’ve ever had. Then she pulls back the curtain and I step out into the arena.

I bite my lip and hold my breath. Max is focused on his space-age communicator, no doubt sending secret messages to galactic emperors with thin and sophisticated daughters. Eva clears her throat and he looks up. His eyes rake over my body and his mouth curls into a smile. “You look beautiful.”

My cheeks flame, but it is a pleasant burn.

“Turn around.” His low, husky voice sends a tremor through my body.

I spin and catch sight of myself in the mirror beside the changing room. What the hell? Where’s my muffin top? The woman in the mirror is tall and elegant. The sheer, sparkly dress gives her curves to rival even Pinkaluscious. Dark, thick eyelashes frame rich, emerald green eyes, and the rosy tinge on her cheeks brings out the color of her ripe, pink lips. And her legs take no prisoners.

“Look at me,” I breathe. I twist and turn in front of the mirror. Even my bottom looks succulent. No wonder rich people always look so good.

“I’m looking, baby, and I like what I see.” He turns to Eva, who has the self-satisfied smile of a woman who is just about to make a whole lot of money. “Do you have something she can wear if she gets cold?”

Eva hands him a matching piece of material and Max stands behind me and wraps it around my shoulders. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” he murmurs. “I’ll be too distracted beating off your admirers to talk.”

I smile and look up at us in the mirror—his tall broad body enveloping me like a blanket. “I guess I’ll have to go myself then. I wouldn’t want to waste all Eva’s effort.”

The low rumble of Max’s voice carries through the confined space. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”

You’re different

An hour later, we arrive at Bianco Nero. Still reeling over the price of the dress and shoes, I ease myself carefully out of the car and allow Max to assist me across the sidewalk. One brush against the wrong surface or one misstep, and five thousand dollars will be down the drain. I should have told him I have a tendency to be less than coordinated.

The manager races out to fawn over Max and ushers us inside. My eyes dart from side to side seeking a flash of color in the cavernous room, but everything is decorated in white—even the staff. I am a brilliant green paint smudge in the middle of an otherwise perfect canvas.

“Are you sure this is a restaurant?” With only twenty tables in a space that could easily accommodate one hundred, and no one speaking above a hushed whisper, the place has the feel of a modern art gallery, and we are the art.

Max laughs. “It was designed that way. The idea is to keep the focus on the food.”

Food sounds good. After the disaster of a lunch, my stomach is protesting the lack of sustenance at an increasingly loud volume.

Our waiter for the evening is small, thin, and blond with a narrow face and the tiniest mouth I have ever seen. He introduces himself as Brad, and his dark, cold eyes flick over me dismissively as if he knows I don’t belong. Brad plods through the fixed price menu in a nasal monotone. After two minutes, Max interrupts him and excuses himself to take a call. The second Max is out of earshot, Brad stops his monologue and stares at me with sudden intensity.

I swallow hard. “Is there a problem, Brad?”

“You’re different.”

“Different as in I’ve got two heads, or different as in I’ve changed since we last met, which I’m sure was never?”

“Definitely different.” He purses his tiny lips and tilts his head to the side.

I can’t tell if Brad’s comment is an insult or a compliment. Maybe I should let Max know that Brad thinks I’m different and ask him what he thinks. I suspect Max wouldn’t give Brad the benefit of the doubt. Wouldn’t that be fun? For me. Not for Brad.

Max takes his seat and Brad finishes his menu monologue with a smile. He has such a tiny smile. I’m not sure if he even has teeth.

I excuse myself and go to the restroom. I can’t get Brad’s comment out of mind. I’m pretty sure he means I clearly don’t belong. My eyes water and I dab them with a tissue. Maybe I could pretend I’m ill and ask Max to take me home. No. Damn it. I won’t give Brad the satisfaction. I redo my makeup, but I can’t hide my red eyes.

“Something wrong?” Max asks when I return to the table.

“No. I’m good.”

Max frowns, but before he can question me further, Brad returns with a tiny shot glass filled with pink froth.

Dear
God, please don’t let this be the appetizer or I will pass out from hunger.
“What is this?”

Max takes a sip. “Salmon mousseline. It’s an amuse-bouche. A taster. Something to tease your taste buds and get your palate ready for the meal.”

I down my amuse-bouche like a shot of tequila. Bitter, fishy, and frothy. My mouth is not amused.

The sommelier arrives. I am at a restaurant with a sommelier. My mom, the wine buff, would think she had died and gone to heaven. Good thing Max seems to know a thing or two about wine. I suspect there is no “House White” at Bianco Nero.

Our first wine, a Meursault, is soft, smooth, and buttery and totally unlike any white wine I’ve ever had. An orgasm for my tongue. Every sip makes me shiver. I sip. I sip. I sip some more. I have heard about multiple orgasms but never experienced them. If the wine is any indicator, I’ve been missing out.

Max excuses himself again to make a call. He leaves his phone on the table. As I contemplate what he might be doing, I guzzle down the rest of my wine. I’m ruined for house whites forever.

A few minutes later, Max returns and takes his seat. Brad reappears. Disappointingly, he doesn’t have any wine in his hand. His face is white, and his dark eyes are wide. He blends in perfectly with the decor.

“I apologize if I offended you Ms. Delaney. That wasn’t my intention.” He looks at Max. Max gives him a curt nod.

My stomach clenches. “Thanks Brad. I wasn’t offended. Just suffering from a bad case of self-doubt and an overprotective dining companion.”

Brad gives me a weak smile and races back to the kitchen.

My lips press into a thin line. I raise an eyebrow and glare at Max. “If I wanted you involved, I would have asked. I had it under control.”

Max glides his thumb along my bottom lip and my mouth opens to his touch. “He upset you. He’s lucky to be standing. No one will hurt you when I’m around…in any way.”

Tiny, warm quivers race through my body. Mmm. I like a protective alpha-male, but his actions were a bit over the top. No way am I going down that road. I know where it leads.

“You can’t strong-arm everyone who ruffles my feathers,” I say. “Sometimes it’s a misunderstanding. Sometimes a person is having a bad day. Only rarely are people purposely nasty. I get hurt. I try to understand. I move on.”

Max’s eyes darken with emotion. “You’re wrong, baby. The world is filled with cruel, nasty people. They think nothing of taking a life, destroying a family, or breaking a heart. If you don’t protect yourself, you’ll get hurt—maybe so bad you’ll never recover.”

His impassioned speech makes my heart ache. I can almost feel the pain behind his words. I reach out and cover his hand with my own. “Max–”

He cuts me off, as if he knows he has revealed too much, and yet his words have revealed nothing at all.

“I want to know about you. Where were you born?”

I startle at the abrupt change in conversation, and my brain scrambles to shift gears. “What?”

“Where were you born?” Max repeats.

With my wineglass refilled again by a now-silent Brad, I can give Max my full attention. Big mistake. The questions come thick and fast starting at birth, which I don’t remember, and moving to the childhood, which I do. I skip the bad stuff and tell him Dad died when Susie and I were young and how hard it was for my mom to raise us alone. I tell him about Amanda and how she was my surrogate sister and how she practically lived at our house to get away from her cold, distant parents. I tell him about my stepdad, Steve, and how he changed our lives and made Mom smile again.

“I’m sorry about your dad.” He takes my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles.

Brad returns with our first course, oysters with cabbage and some kind of foamy jelly.
No
to the most disgusting vegetable ever created.
No
to the foamy jelly.
Yes
to the oysters simply because they are supposed to be an aphrodisiac. The cold, slimy blob slithers down my throat. My gag reflex kicks in. Twice in one day. Good to know it works. I manage to control it with a sip of orgasmic wine. However, I am not overcome with the need to have sex right now. I cross oysters off my list of aphrodisiacs.

Max’s questions continue. Brad removes the remnants of the oysters and replaces our plates with sea scallops (yum) and fancy deviled eggs (double yum).
How
did
I
meet
Amanda?
I stole her boyfriend in kindergarten and she stole him back.
Did
I
like
school?
Yes.
Did
I
do
extracurricular
activities?
Soccer, volleyball, golf, tennis, archery (Amanda made me do it), volunteer stuff, and lots of social activities.
What
were
my
favorite
subjects?
Biology and gym.
Least
favorite?
Physics and history.

Brad tops off my glass. Is that a smile or is he about to whistle? His tiny mouth is kind of cute. Not so much his bony ass.

Although the little bites of food are delicious, my stomach is growling for something more substantial. My heart sinks when Brad arrives with two more miniscule dishes. Disappointingly, the frilled cod is not dressed in a tutu. I hit my fish threshold and dive into the asparagus instead.

Max doesn’t let up. His questions narrow in on college, my EMT work, my courses, and my boyfriends. What guy wants to know about the competition? Finally, I’ve had enough. “Max, please stop.” My wineglass wobbles when I put it down. The problem with having Brad constantly refilling my glass reveals itself as my head spins. Or maybe it’s lack of sustenance.

“I feel like I’m going through an Amanda-style inquisition. I want to have a conversation. I want to know about you.”

Max frowns. “I’m not done.”

“You are done.”

“I’m not done, baby. I have more questions.” Can a man look petulant? I’m leaning toward a big yes on that question.

“You are done because you aren’t getting more answers until you answer some questions about yourself.”

He raises an eyebrow. “One question. What do you want to know?”

“Why do you fight?”

“I enjoy it.”

I groan and let my head fall back on the seat. “Work with me here. Why do you enjoy it? What is the appeal in hurting people?”

Max swirls the wine in his glass with an expert flick of his wrist. So cool. I want to learn how to do that.

“I don’t do it to hurt people.” He takes a sip and puts down the glass. “I enjoy the physical challenge and I enjoy the total mental focus it requires. My father was a professional boxer and he had me in the ring as soon as I could walk. He taught me the beauty of boxing. He called it the sweet science. He said it is more about focus and technique than outright violence. When I took up MMA as a teenager, I saw the same beauty in combining so many martial arts into one sport.

“Oh come on.” I give an elegant snort. “You can’t deny fighting is violent.”

Brad places a bread basket between us. At least, I think it is bread. I grab a long white finger and shove it into my mouth. Not bread. Unidentifiable substance with a Styrofoam texture and no taste. I smile and wash it down with an elegant glug of wine.

Max leans forward and clasps my hand. His thumb rubs gently over my knuckles, soothing the savage Makayla beast. “We are all fighters. It is basic human nature. We strive to get ahead in life or we fight for survival.”

What have I ever strived for in my life? What have I ever wanted enough to pursue? A long time ago, I had a chance to fight for survival, and I threw it away. I gave up. I’m a quitter. “I’m not a fighter,” I whisper.

As if he can sense my resignation, Max brings my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss over my palm. “Violence is part of you, baby, whether you admit it or not. You might have repressed it, but the instinct is still there. So why not embrace it and enjoy the rush?”

I give a noncommittal grunt and wallow in self-loathing. “If you’re fighting just because you like to fight, why are you going for the underground championship belt? Why not enjoy each fight for what it is and move on to the next?”

He scrubs his hands over his face and shrugs. “I want to be the best. I want to know if anyone tried to hurt the people I care about, I could defend them.”

“The best are not in the underground circuit, Max. The best are in the professional leagues. Everyone says you’re good. Why don’t you go pro and fight them?”

He picks up his wine and swirls it around the glass. “What if I’m not good enough?”

The mouth-watering aroma of lamb draws my gaze away from Max’s earnest face. Brad places our dishes on the table. I search through the foliage on my plate and locate the tiny morsel of lamb shivering behind a baby carrot. Three huge slices of beetroot are artfully arranged in one corner. Maybe the carbs are served separately. I put down my knife and fork and wait.

“Something wrong?”

“I was waiting for the…carbohydrate part of the meal.”

Max flags down Brad. Not difficult to do since Brad’s job appears to involve hovering near our table. “Ms. Delaney would like a carbohydrate side dish.”

“No. No.” I shake my head and motion Brad away. “I just thought it would come with the meal because…well, usually there is rice or potatoes or pasta, but I don’t need anything. Really. This is good. Protein and vegetables. Very healthy.”

“We don’t do carbohydrates.” Brad’s lips pinch together so tight it is a wonder he can breathe.

Max fixes Brad with a cold stare. “We’ll have a side order of mashed potatoes with extra butter.”

Brad shudders and scurries away. Does he even know what a potato is? From the size of the women in the restaurant, I believe him when he says carbs aren’t part of the menu.

“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you. I didn’t have any lunch.”

“I know.” He slices his lamb into paper thin strips. I dismiss my plan to stick the thumb-size morsel in my mouth all at once.

“How do you know? You weren’t there.”

Max winks. “Secret.”

Buzzed from too many glasses of orgasmic wine, I fix him with a mock glare and spear a slice of cooked beetroot. “Tell me.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” Max chuckles. “It makes him seem more mysterious.”

“You are very mysterious,” I agree, and then switch to a fake German accent. “But vee haf ways ov making you talk.” I cackle and jerk my hand in the air. The beet flies off my fork and lands on the floor. I reach down to pick it up, just as Brad arrives with the mashed potatoes. He slips. The potatoes go up. He goes down. The elegant diners look over and snicker. Brad’s face is as red as the squished beet on the floor.

Death cannot come too soon for me.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I kneel beside Brad and brush mashed potatoes off his pants.

“Carbs,” he moans. “I’m going to gain at least ten pounds.”

A hushed murmur ripples through the restaurant. The forbidden word is on everyone’s lips. For a moment I fear I will be forced to wear a giant scarlet letter
C
on my dress for the rest of the meal.

“Can you stand?”

Brad shakes his head. “My ankle. I think it’s broken.”

“I’m an EMT. Can I take a look?”