Strong Hold

by Sarah Castille

  “I am not an animal,” I mumble as the gate slams shut. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Maybe he doesn’t go to the movies.

  I walk to the back of the pen for a good view of the ring and instantly recognize the man with the black bandana, despite the fact he has changed into a pleasantly tight pair of white board shorts with black winged skulls emblazoned on the sides. “That’s him,” I shriek. “That’s the guy who didn’t buy a ticket.”

  Amusement flashes in Rampage’s beady black eyes. He stalks over to the pen and throws open the gate. “You get that guy to buy a ticket, and we’ll call everything off. I won’t make you face the ring.”

  My brow crinkles. “Isn’t he a fighter? Does he even need a ticket?”

  “I made you an offer. You gonna stand around talking or are you gonna take it?”

  I lean up against the gate. “This has got to be a joke. And guess what? I’m not playing anymore. Just let me find Amanda and I’ll get out of here.”

  Rampage glowers at me and his voice drops to a menacing growl. “You get up those stairs or I’ll take you up myself and I can guarantee it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  I sigh an exasperated sigh.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” What the hell. Even if this is some kind of joke, the guy in the ring has mouth-watering shoulders and a great ass. I can also make out some tattoos on his back. It can’t hurt to get a closer look. Maybe make a new friend.

  Stiffening my spine, I climb the stairs and slide between the ropes and onto the spongy canvas mat. Hesitating, I take one last look over my shoulder. Rampage smirks and waves me forward.

  My target is leaning over the ropes on the other side of the ring talking to an excessively curvy blonde wearing a one-piece, pink Lycra bodysuit. Her mountain of platinum hair is cinched on top of her head in a tight ponytail. Her huge, brown doe eyes are enhanced by her orange, spray-on tan and a slash of hot pink lipstick. She is pink and she is luscious. She is Pinkaluscious.

  She rests a dainty, pink-tipped hand on Torment’s foot and gazes up at him until he slides his foot back and away. Ah. Unrequited love. My heart goes out to Pinkaluscious, but really, she could do better than some two-bit, cheapskate fighter.

  “Hey, Torment. I brought you a treat.” Rampage’s voice booms over the excited murmur of the crowd.

  In one smooth, quick movement, Torment spins around to face me. My eyes are slow to react. No doubt he caught me staring at his ass, and now I am staring at something even more enticing. Something big. My cheeks burn, and I study the worn vinyl under my feet. Someone needs to make a few repairs.

  Footsteps thud across the mat. The platform vibrates under my bare feet sending tremors through my body.

  Swallowing hard, I look up. My eyes widen as well over six feet of lean, hard muscle stalks toward me.

  Run. I should run. But all I can do is stare.

  His fight shorts are slung deliciously low on his narrow hips, hugging his powerful thighs. Hard, thick muscles ripple across the broad expanse of his chest, tapering down to a taut, corrugated abdomen. But most striking are the tattoos covering over half of his upper body—a hypnotizing cocktail of curving, flowing, tribal designs that just beg to be touched.

  He stops only a foot away and I crane my neck up to look at his face.

  God is he gorgeous.

  His high cheekbones are sharply cut, his jaw square, and his eyes dark brown and flecked with gold. His aquiline nose is slightly off-center, as if it had been broken and not properly reset, but instead of detracting from his breathtaking good looks, it gives him a dangerous appeal. His hair is hidden beneath a black bandana, but a few tawny, brown tufts have escaped from the edges and curl down past the base of his neck.

  His full lips quirk into a faint smile as he studies me. A lithe and powerful animal assessing its prey.

  My finely tuned instinct of self-preservation forces me back against the ropes and away from his intoxicating scent of soap and leather and the faintest kiss of the ocean.

  “Excuse me…Torment. I…thought you forgot to buy a ticket, but…um…I don’t think you really need one. Do you?”

  “A ticket?” His low-pitched, husky, sensual voice could seduce a saint. Or a young college grad trying to supplement her meager salary by selling tickets at a fight club.

  My heart thunders in my chest and I lick my lips. His eyes lock on my mouth, and my tongue freezes mid-stroke before beating a hasty retreat behind my Pink Innocence glossed lips.

  He steps forward and I press myself harder against the springy ropes, wincing as they bite into my skin through my thin T-shirt.

  “Are you Amanda?”

  With herculean effort, I manage to pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth. “I’m the best friend.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Does the best friend have a name?”

  “Mac.”

  “Doesn’t suit you. Do you have a different name?”

  “What do you mean a different name? That’s my name. Well, it’s my nickname. But that’s what people call me. I’m not going to choose another name just because you don’t like it.” My hands find my hips, and I give him my second-best scowl—my best scowl being reserved for less handsome irritating men.

  His gaze drifts down to the bright white “FCUK Me” lettering now stretched tight across my overly generous breasts. With my every breath, the letters expand and retract like a flashing neon sign. I hate my sister.

  He leans so close I can see every contour of bone and sinew in his chest and the more intricate patterns in his tribal tattoos. The flexible ropes accommodate my last retreat, and I brace myself, trembling, against them.

  “What’s your real name?” he rumbles.

  “Makayla.” Oh, betraying lips.

  He smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Makayla is a beautiful name. I’ll call you Makayla.”

  Heat roars through me like a tidal wave. He likes my name. “So…about that ticket—”

  He snorts a laugh. “I don’t need to buy a ticket.”

  Why is he standing so close? Has he not heard of personal space? My body trembles from the exertion of pressing back against the ropes, and my brain clicks into babble mode. “I guess the joke’s on me. Rampage said I would have to fight you if I didn’t get you to buy a ticket. Not that I believed for a second I would have to fight. Well, maybe I did until we got here and I saw the ring and the blood spots on the concrete and I remembered my stepdad is a policeman. I mean I’m a girl and you’re a guy—”

  He looks at me aghast and cuts me off. “Shhh. It’s okay, Makayla. I’m not—” He takes a step toward me. In my effort to dodge away, I lose my footing and the ropes propel me right into Torment’s chest. He steps backward and falls to the floor pulling me on top of him.

  No way. I am not that heavy. Sure, I enjoy my desserts, but not enough to send a two-hundred-pound man tumbling to the ground.

  For a long moment, neither of us moves. One of my legs is tucked between his muscular thighs. My breasts are pressed against the warm, bare skin of his hard chest. My head is nestled on his shoulder and my hands rest lightly on his thick biceps. We breathe together. Our hearts pound together. I melt into him, not wanting what should be a humiliating moment to end.

  Torment snakes an arm around my waist and I hold my breath, daring to hope he will pull me closer, but instead he rolls us so we are each on our side and rests one hand in the curve of my waist, propping his head up with the other.

  “Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Is this what you plan to do to every person who doesn’t buy a ticket?” he murmurs. “If so, I might have to offer you a permanent position.”

  “You…own the club?” My eyes find yet another tiny tear in the mat. Really, he should keep his equipment in better repair.

  “Yes, I do.�
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  “But Rampage—”

  “Set you up.” He finishes my sentence for me. “I’ll deal with him when we’re done here. I don’t allow mixed fighting at the club, and I don’t force people to fight who have not already agreed to do so. I also have a zero-tolerance policy for hazing beautiful new staff members.”

  He thinks I’m beautiful. Or maybe it’s just a figure of speech.

  His warm hand strokes the dip of my waist and the curve of my hip, back and forth, up and down—a seemingly absent and casual caress. And yet, he appears to be a man very much in control of his body. A solid, heavy, muscular body.

  “I didn’t really knock you down, did I?” My mouth blurts out my thoughts before they make it through the filtering process. As usual.

  He gives me a slow, sexy, devilish smile but his sensual lips remain firmly closed.

  Well, I’m not going to complain. He can pull me on top of him any day.

  “Hey, Torment. Thirty minutes. Time to wrap.” Rampage’s voice cuts through my perfect moment like scissors.

  In one swift, easy movement, Torment rolls to his front and pushes himself to standing. He easily pulls me to my feet. “I’ve got to go and get ready for my fight.”

  A sliver of disappointment slices through me. “Sure. I’ve got to get back to the door, anyway. My boss might be upset if he knew I was rolling around on the mats with one of his fighters.”

  Torment chuckles. “Your boss wants you to stay and watch the fight.”

  “No can do, Boss.” I can’t help wrinkling my nose even though it isn’t my best look. “I’ve got a serious aversion to violence. Unless you’ve got a mop and a bucket handy, you do not want me anywhere near that ring.”

  “If you don’t like violence, why are you working here?”

  I shrug and my cheeks heat. “I needed the money. Amanda promised I wouldn’t have to go inside. I was planning to go home when you guys locked down for the big event.”

  He studies me intently for a moment and then lowers his head until his lips are so close I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek.

  “Stay.”

  Yes! God, I want to stay. So hot. So sexy. I could watch him all night. But no. I can’t. One punch. One drop of blood. One vomit bag, please.

  “No. I can’t. Really can’t. Not a made-up can’t. It’s a physical thing. Basically, I can only stomach violence if I know no one is actually getting hurt. Boxing, wrestling, even karate or judo, all fall into my no-watch zone. Just not me.”

  He stokes a finger along my jaw. Blazing heat shoots straight to my core, and my breath catches in my throat.

  “Have you ever seen an entire fight?” He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and strokes his hand over my head.

  Oh, lovely hand petting me. So gentle. If I had a tail, I would thump it.

  “No. Not even on TV.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay. You can’t sell tickets to an event you know nothing about. I would be remiss in my duty as your employer if I didn’t ensure you were familiar with the services we are offering, especially if I needed you to come back and help out again.”

  Again? I thought this was a one-shot deal to cover for the regular ticket girls who couldn’t make it tonight. “I was doing okay.”

  His hand drops to my shoulder and tightens. “Dressed like that, I can imagine you were.”

  Jeez. Again with the shirt. Doesn’t anyone understand it’s a joke and not an invitation? “Amanda will be waiting for me. She’s taking me home.”

  “She and Jake went into my office as soon as ticket sales ended. I don’t think you’ll be seeing her anytime soon.”

  I knew it. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. No wonder she needed a wingman tonight. She didn’t want help on the door. She wanted full coverage.

  He tucks a warm finger under my chin, tilting my head back so he can mesmerize me with the chestnut depths of his beautiful eyes.

  “One fight. My fight. I promise it won’t last long.”

  Mesmerized, I say, “How long is not long?”

  Triumph flares in his eyes, but in an instant it is gone, replaced by concern. “How long can you last?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of minutes, maybe, if no one gets hurt.”

  A rough sound erupts from his throat. “You don’t want me to hurt my opponent?”

  “And I don’t want him to hurt you,” I say softly.

  Burn cheeks burn.

  His eyes widen and the look he gives me is speculative, thoughtful, considered. “One minute and I’ll win by submission. No one gets hurt.”

  “Cocky.”

  His smile sears me to the core. “You have no idea.”

  Chapter 2

  My heart isn’t so easy to please

  Twenty minutes later, I am seated in the front row between a thoroughly chastised Rampage and a “submission artist” named Homicide Hank. Wiry thin and lanky, with overly long arms and a shock of wildly unkempt red hair, Homicide claims to have been sent by Torment to translate the fight into Makayla-understandable terms. More likely, Torment needed someone to keep me from screaming and running away as I am now persona non grata in Rampage’s books for getting him in trouble.

  Courtesy of Torment, I have a protein shake, a protein bar, an energy drink, a bucket, and a wet cloth. He sure knows how to treat a girl.

  While we wait for the fight to start, five ring girls warm up the crowd cheerleader style. Rampage puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, “Go, Sandy,” at Pinkaluscious.

  Homicide shakes his head. “Torment doesn’t like all the pre-show hype, but it distracts people from the lockdown. We secure the doors in case of a raid by the California State Athletic Commission.”

  “Why doesn’t Torment just get a license and have his events sanctioned?” I ask.

  “He won’t do it,” Rampage says. “He wants to be able to fight when and how and who he wants to fight. He wants to be able to take on a two-hundred-sixty-pound judoka or a Five Animal kung fu master without some big ass government official telling him he’s in the wrong weight class, or he doesn’t have enough fights under his belt. He wants to keep it real. He’s not in it for the money or the glory. And he doesn’t want to follow a whole lot of rules. Most of us think the same. That’s how we all found our way here.”

  “No rules?” What would stop someone from bringing in a weapon or causing a fatal injury?

  “Four rules,” Rampage says. “No eye gouging, no groin shots, no biting, and no fish hooking—that’s when a guy sticks his fingers in his opponent’s mouth or nose and tries to tear the tissue.”

  My stomach clenches and I reach for the bucket. “Please don’t tell me any more.”

  Rampage frowns. “If you can’t even hear about it, how are you going to watch the fight?”

  Bucket on head. Face cloth over eyes. Torment has given me lots of options.

  “Torment said it would only last a minute, and he would win by submission. I’m not sure what that means but it didn’t sound so bad.”

  Homicide chuckles. “It means he’s gonna put Flash in a bone-breaking arm lock or leg lock or a choke that can put him out cold. If Flash doesn’t submit—” He makes a disgusting cracking sound with his throat.

  I dry heave into the bucket.

  “I’m not sitting next to her.” Rampage gets to his feet. “She’s gonna spew all over me.”

  But it’s too late for him to leave. The crowd suddenly comes to life, cheering and clapping as Torment and his opponent, Flash, climb into the ring.

  My breath catches in my throat. Flash is none other than Mr. Psycho Eyes and supposedly my post-fight date for a little FCUK.

  Jake joins Torment in his corner. Jake’s blond hair is mussed and his T-shirt is inside out. Nice. Amanda must have pulled out all the stops in Torment’s offic
e. At least his fly is closed.

  “Jake is Torment’s cornerman,” Homicide explains. “He’ll coach him and tend to his cuts.”

  “Why does Flash have three guys in his corner?”

  “He’s a show-off. Likes to pretend he’s a sanctioned amateur.”

  Jake checks Torment’s gloves and helps him with his mouthpiece. Beside each other, they are a tableau of masculine perfection, all broad shoulders, tight muscles, tattoos, and slim hips. They are almost the same height, but Jake is slightly leaner and his muscles less defined. Still, with that chiseled jaw, deep voice, and those dazzling baby blues, I can totally understand how Amanda fell under his spell.

  And where is Amanda?

  “Thanks for covering for me.” A poke in my back and a clipped, sarcastic tone reveal the location of my missing friend.

  I look over my shoulder and glare as she settles herself on the chair behind me.

  “You left me and now look what’s happened,” I say. “I’m sitting in a fight club about to throw up into a bucket of protein bars.”

  “You left me to chase after a guy.” Amanda crosses her arms under her ample and perfectly-formed breasts, drawing the attention of every male in the vicinity.

  “I thought he was a ticket dodger. You know I would never just run off.”

  Rampage and Homicide insist on introductions. Of course they would. Amanda in a burlap sack could make any man drool. Amanda in a simple, fitted, green sheath dress and gold kitten-heel pumps, her soft golden curls cascading down her back, her perfect features glowing from an hour of doing the nasty with Jake, will bring them to their knees. If I am a desert on the dating front, Amanda is a monsoon.

  The bell rings. The cornermen step out of the ring. My pulse races. How is Torment going to win a fight without anyone getting hurt?

  Torment wastes no time. He throws a right hook and catches Flash a glancing blow to the jaw. He follows it with a one-two punch and then a kick. Flash backs away and dances around.

  “He’s just playing with Flash,” Homicide says. “Torment is one of the top underground fighters on the circuit. He is only a few fights away from the underground championship belt. Flash only has about ten fights on his card.”