Strong Hold

by Sarah Castille

  “Why would he challenge Torment?”

  Homicide shrugs. “He thinks he’s something special because he was an enforcer in a street gang in San Diego. In this club you can challenge whoever you want, regardless of weight or experience. We never turn down a challenge. But in the ring, skill usually wins out over strength, speed, and aggression. Flash doesn’t have a chance.”

  Even I can tell Torment is highly skilled. There is stark beauty in the precision with which his body moves. He keeps to a tight circle near the center of the ring, moving back and forth only to strike or defend. If he wasn’t wearing gloves, I might think he was dancing.

  Suddenly Torment lunges forward and grabs Flash’s left leg. Flash keeps his balance. Torment grabs the other leg and slams Flash to the floor, falling on top of him.

  “Nice double leg takedown,” Homicide calls.

  But Flash is quick. He rolls to his side and gets up on one knee. Torment tries to push him back. He flattens Flash but just for a moment. Like a jack-in-the-box, Flash pops back up. Torment grabs him around the waist and falls back and to the side, pulling Flash on top of him.

  “Oh no.” My hand flies to my mouth.

  “Don’t worry. He’s nasty off his back.” Rampage says, as if that means something to me.

  A few seconds later it does. Flash lifts his right arm to throw a punch. Still on his back, Torment grabs Flash’s right wrist and pulls Flash toward him. Then he wraps his right leg over Flash’s neck, hooking his foot into his left leg, which he has just wrapped around Flash’s midsection. He pulls Flash’s head down against his chest with two hands. Flash flails, trying desperately to escape, but he’s obviously in pain.

  “He’s locked him in a quick triangle.” Homicide says. “Match over.”

  My heart thuds in my chest. “He’s putting pressure on the carotid artery. Flash will lose consciousness. Stop him.”

  Homicide gives me a sideways glance. “That’s the point. It’s a submission hold. Flash knows what will happen if he doesn’t tap out or break the hold.”

  “How did you know about the artery?” Rampage asks. “I thought you weren’t into fighting.”

  “She’s an intermediate-level EMT and a pre-med grad.” Amanda ruffles my hair. “And she’s damn good. She’s just figuring out what to do with her life, but I already know she’s meant to be healing people. She’s got a gift.”

  “Stop it.” Tears well up in my eyes, and I bat Amanda’s hand away. She’s the big sister Susie never was and the mother I always wanted all wrapped up in one golden, best friend package.

  I turn my attention back to the ring. Flash’s legs are no longer flailing.

  “If he loses consciousness, I will consider it as ‘someone getting hurt.’” I grumble quietly but Homicide hears me.

  “He’ll tap out,” Homicide says. “If he doesn’t, the referee will stop the match.”

  As if on cue, Flash taps the mat twice. Torment releases his grip and Flash rolls off him and lies spread eagle on the mat. The crowd is a frenzy of cheers and clapping. The retro bass of “Eye of the Tiger” pounds through the warehouse. The ring girls run a circle outside the ring, bosoms bouncing, miniskirts flapping, high heels clacking as they cheer, “Torment. Torment. Torment.”

  My God. If this is what happens after every fight, his ego must be blimp size.

  The referee holds up Torment’s hand and announces a win by submission in forty-six seconds. Flash staggers to his feet and wavers. He takes a step forward, then back, then sideways. He blinks several times and reaches for the ropes.

  “Something’s wrong with him.” I tug on Homicide’s sleeve. “Where’s the doctor?”

  “We don’t have a ring doctor.” His face tightens. “After the CSAC decided to sanction amateur MMA events, the ring doctors became afraid to work the underground circuit. The penalty for working an unsanctioned event is a license suspension. No doctor wants to take that risk.”

  “You must have someone here to look after injuries.”

  “It’s every man for himself,” Rampage answers. “Torment always takes the seriously injured guys to the hospital, but other than that, it’s the luck of the draw if we’ve got a medical professional at a match.”

  I glance over at the ring. Torment is watching Flash and frowning. He calls out and Flash spins around then crumples and falls limp through the ropes. He lands on the concrete floor with a thud.

  I jump up, knocking over my barf bucket. Protein bars spill across the floor. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

  “Down by the ring. I’ll get it for you.” Rampage bulldozes a path through the crowd, and I race over to Flash.

  Torment and the referee are already with him. His cornermen hover uselessly in the background.

  “Makayla, you shouldn’t be here,” Torment snaps when I kneel beside Flash. I ignore him. He broke his promise. Someone got hurt after all.

  Flash is conscious but moaning. He rubs his head and lets loose a string of swear words that would put a fifth grader to shame.

  “Flash, I’m an EMT. Can I examine you?”

  Flash’s eyes focus on me and his lascivious smile makes my skin crawl. “Yeah, FCUK. I knew you’d come lookin’ for Daddy Flash. You’re wanting what I promised you. Don’t worry, baby. A little injury isn’t gonna stop me from putting my—”

  A low growl startles us both. I look up. Torment’s jaw is clenched and his eyes have narrowed to slits.

  “Calm.” I place my hand over his. “Although rude and obnoxious, he is my patient. I won’t be very happy if you hurt him…yet.”

  Other than a bump on the head and the telltale signs of drug abuse around his nostrils, Flash seems fine. His cut man—the cornerman responsible for tending injuries—helps him to a folding chair near the training area. While the next fight gets underway, I check his vitals and ice his head. Torment hovers beside me. Although I don’t look at him, I feel his presence like a protective cloak over my body.

  I warn Flash about the possibility of a concussion. I tell him I think he blacked out because of the combination of restricted blood flow to his brain and drug abuse. His lips tighten and I know I’ve hit the mark.

  After ten minutes, Flash starts to come down from his high. He apologizes for his behavior. He moans about his defeat and his humiliating fall from the ring. A tear trickles down his cheek. I try to console him as best I can. I pat his back and tell him he was brave to challenge one of the best fighters in the league and he isn’t the first person to fall through the ropes.

  I glance up at Torment. He is watching me, his brown eyes darkened by intense emotion. For the briefest second, he lets me in, and the need and longing I see behind his mask take my breath away. Suddenly his eyes shutter and the moment is gone. Maybe I imagined it.

  Flash’s friends arrive to take him home. Torment helps me tidy up. He tells me Flash will be banned from the club for life. Drugs are prohibited even on the underground circuit. He bends down to pick up the last ice pack and winces.

  “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”

  He gives a manly I-could-be-bleeding-to-death-but-I’ll-never-complain shrug. “It’s fine.”

  “That’s the shoulder you landed on when he threw you. It could be injured. Let me take a look.”

  “I’ll deal with it later.”

  “Torment.” I grip his elbow and turn him to face me. “I have my Intermediate EMT certificate, and I volunteered for the last four years with the ambulance service. If it’s not serious, I can treat it.”

  He studies me for a long moment and then his gaze drifts to my hand on his arm. When he looks up again, I catch a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Not here. The next fight is about to begin. We have a first aid room out by the front office. You can examine me there to your heart’s content.”

  “My heart isn’t so easy to please.”

 
He laughs, a chuckle as deep and warm as a vat of melted chocolate.

  “I’ll consider it a challenge.”

  I make a quick detour to let Amanda know where I’ll be. She is in a lip-lock with Jake and gives me a nod. When I catch up with Torment, he is in the training area shaking hands and chatting with his fighters. He has a personal comment or a piece of advice for everyone who comes to congratulate him. Through the frenzy of fighters clamoring for his attention, I catch his gaze. He gives me a wink that sends a sizzle of delicious heat darting through me, and I cannot help but smile.

  “Everyone gets nervous before a fight,” he explains when he returns to my side a few minutes later. “Even the most seasoned fighters. Sometimes all it takes is a little encouragement to ease that tension.”

  So considerate. He can ease my tension any time.

  With his hand on my lower back, he escorts me through the rest of the club. I could definitely get used to this kind of courtesy. Maybe after I’ve found a real job, paid down my student loan, and figured out what to do with my life, I’ll move to the Southern States.

  We cross the red line and enter the only part of the building benefitting from proper interior construction. Shower rooms, bathrooms, and changing rooms for both men and women are on the right, as well as a kitchen and a small lounge area. The walls are covered with floor-to-ceiling chalkboards setting out the daily class schedules and work out regimes. I catch the words “Boot Camp,” “Kick and Lick,” and “Punch Fest.” Definitely not the gym for me.

  Torment leads me to the left and past a few offices with closed doors. Our shadows blend together, his magnificent body beside my small, curvy one. Even his shadow is sexy, dominating my other self as we weave our way through the loitering crowds to a door marked with a red cross.

  Torment pushes open the door and turns on the lights. The small, whitewashed room is bare except for an examination table, chair, and a small cabinet with a sink and cupboards.

  “Door open or closed?”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I head over to the sink to wash my hands. “Open is fine unless you’re concerned about showing any sign of weakness to the rest of the pride. Someone might deem you unworthy to lead and take you down.”

  Torment chuckles and his eyes sparkle, amused. He closes the door with a bang. My heart skips a beat.

  “Up on the bed.” I choke on the last word and my cheeks flame. Really. Flaming cheeks. How unprofessional. What if he had a groin injury? My body heats and sweat trickles down between my breasts. Well, there’s my answer.

  Torment eases himself onto the examination table. I open the cupboards and root around, pretending to search for supplies as I try to slow my racing heart. Deep, slow breaths. Unclench the jaw. Swallow the drool. Focus on the sharp scent of antiseptic.

  “Okay, then.” I spin around and give him my best fake smile. Torment lifts his eyes from where my bottom used to be. He licks his lips. I almost melt under the heat of his gaze.

  Swallowing hard, I walk over to the bed. “I’m…just going to examine you. I’ll be gentle.”

  He gives me a curt nod, and I place my hands on his shoulder. His skin is hot, his muscles tight. His raw, primal scent of sweat and musk sends my already heightened state of arousal into overdrive.

  Taking a deep breath, I clear my mind and focus on the task at hand. My training finally kicks in and I rule out a dislocation, not just because there are no physical signs, but because he does not appear to be in pain. I lean closer, pressing gently as I check for localized tenderness. My hair slides over my shoulder and brushes across his chest. He sucks in a breath and his muscles tense.

  “Sorry.” I glance at his face to assess how much pain I caused. His eyes are closed and his jaw is tight.

  “Did I…hurt you?”

  “No. It’s…your hair…it’s—”

  My hair? Did I hurt him with my hair? Or maybe he’s shocked by the color.

  “Auburn?” I say, as he opens his eyes. “Most people think it’s a bad dye job because there’s so much red mixed in with the brown, but it’s real.”

  Torment twists a strand of my hair around his fingers. “So soft,” he murmurs.

  My lips curve into a smile. He likes my hair. He likes my name. He thinks I’m beautiful. My ego hasn’t had such a boost since…well, ever.

  I trace my finger over three smallish scars on his shoulder. “You’ve had surgery on this shoulder.”

  He shrugs. “It takes my weight when I fall. It’s seen a lot of misuse.”

  “Poor little shoulder.” I brush my lips over the scars.

  Torment’s body stiffens and he chokes. “Makayla.”

  Oh God. What did I just do? After four years with the ambulance crew, I thought I had the empathy problem under control.

  “Sorry.” I give myself a mental smack and rein my body in.

  “Don’t ever be sorry for who you are,” he rumbles softly. From the way the phrase glides of his tongue, I sense it is something he also tells himself.

  The rest of the examination proceeds uneventfully. I poke. I twist. I prod. I am the epitome of a clinical, detached, very horny professional.

  By the time I finish running my hands over his sculpted body, I am wound tight with need. My breasts ache. My panties are damp. But I am in control.

  “I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I say. “Probably a mild ligament sprain or a light tear. Pain killers and ice packs for twenty minutes every two hours should help. You might want to get someone to strap it down if it gets worse.”

  I pull an ice pack from the freezer and hold it against his shoulder. Unable to resist, I close my eyes and inhale deeply, breathing him in. I had forgotten how heady the raw, natural scent of a man can be.

  “Makayla? Everything okay?”

  “You smell so good,” I blurt out, then clap my hand across my mouth. Did I just say that?

  Grimacing, I force myself to look up. His warm, brown eyes lock on mine and he gives me a heart-stopping grin.

  “So do you. Like flowers in the sunshine.” The soft, velvety texture of his voice takes my breath away.

  “You can take ibuprofen for the pain.” My words tumble over each other as I try to maintain the rapidly diminishing facade of professionalism. “Although I find a tub of Ben & Jerry’s works just as well.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Not just ice cream. Amazing ice cream. So rich you can only buy it in pints. They keep changing the flavors, but my current favorite is Chunky Monkey.”

  “Sounds…unhealthy.”

  “That’s the point. It’s an indulgence. It’s not supposed to be healthy.”

  Torment traces a finger over my lips. “I can think of several indulgences that are very healthy.”

  I inhale a sharp breath. Oh. My. God. Is he coming on to me? What should I say? What should I do? I freeze and stare straight ahead.

  “What did you think of the fight?” He drops his hand and I lick my lips, tasting his salty deliciousness on my tongue.

  “It wasn’t what I expected. I thought there would be more punching and kicking people in the face. Lots of blood. Bones breaking. I didn’t know about the whole grapple and submission aspect.”

  “You asked me not to hurt him.”

  I twist my lips to the side. “So…it is how I imagined?”

  “Probably worse.”

  I slide the ice pack to a better position. “Well, then my first instinct to stay outside was a good one. I’ll remember that the next time I’m tempted to sell tickets at a fight club to make a little extra cash.”

  He frowns. “Do you need work?”

  “I have a job at the admissions desk at the County Hospital, but the occasional odd job helps make ends meet.”

  He tucks an errant strand of hair behind my ear, and the gentle, casual gesture makes my toes
curl.

  “I’ve been looking for someone with emergency medical experience to handle first aid at the club.” His hand lingers on my shoulder and my stomach does a backflip.

  “This was just a one-off for me,” I say. “I couldn’t work here permanently because of the whole violence aspect.”

  He cups my chin in his warm palm and strokes my cheek with his thumb. My heart flutters and desire sends shivers through my body.

  “Is it just the violence, or do you have a boyfriend who doesn’t like the idea of you working here?” He drops his hand, and his tattoos undulate across his chest. The longer I stare at them, the more the center line begins to resemble a dragon, twisting its way down his sternum and over his abdomen, only to disappear under the waistband of his shorts. Oh, to be that dragon!

  “No boyfriend.” I manage a hoarse whisper. “I mean not right at this very moment. I had one. Well, three, actually. In my life. Serious boyfriends. But not all at once and never for longer than a month or two. It just didn’t work out with any of them. It never does.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” The caress in his voice turns my bones to mush.

  Scrambling to orient myself, I focus again on his tattoos. So many. So intricate. But why only on the right side of his body? Maybe it was too painful. I remember the night Amanda and I foolishly decided to get matching tattoos to celebrate our high school graduation and how I screamed and ran the minute the needle touched my skin.

  Unthinking, I stroke my finger down the dragon, stopping just before it disappears below his waistband.

  Torment hisses in a breath.

  I gasp. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I wasn’t thinking…I know it hurts to get a tattoo and I was imagining your pain, and they are so beautiful and scary at the same time.”

  This is mortifying. I am on the verge of running away when the door opens and Amanda steps inside. “All ready to go?”

  Oh, thank God.

  “Yup.” I hand the ice pack to Torment. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer, but Amanda is my ride home.”