Strong Hold

by Sarah Castille

  “Sounds lonely.” I grab a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the top drawer and shuffle over to the bathroom.

  “I’m too busy working to be lonely.”

  I toss him my phone. “You can do the number exchange while I get ready. No long distance calls. I don’t have many minutes left on it.”

  He stares at my cheap plastic cell with a puzzled look on his face. “Is this real?”

  “Of course it’s real,” I snort. “It’s a basic prepaid cell phone. It comes with a set number of minutes and I buy phone cards to top it up when I need to. Why? What do you use?”

  The sleek, silver and glass device he pulls from his pocket is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Slightly bigger than an iPhone but half as thick, it has an incredible, crystal clear screen that sparkles under the naked bulb overhead.

  “What is it?” I breathe a gasp of longing.

  He shrugs. “Prototype. Can’t really talk about it.”

  “It has multiple windows. You could display all your social media at once. You wouldn’t miss anything.”

  “I don’t do social media.” He calls himself with my phone and his device quivers in his hand.

  “No Facebook? No Twitter? No Pinterest?” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.

  “What’s Pinterest?” He finishes the number exchange and hands me my cell.

  “Seriously? You haven’t heard about it? It’s like a bulletin board. You post pictures on it. You could put up all sorts of pictures of yourself in various fighting poses.” Curling up my forearms, I drop my spare clothes and mock up a few fighting stances.

  Torment stares at me, his face devoid of expression.

  I freeze. What am I doing? This is exactly why guys never take me seriously.

  His laugh takes me by surprise. A deep, rumbling roar of a chuckle. I can’t help but smile.

  He bends down to pick up my clothes. “You are quite the package, Makayla. I’m surprised your doctor friend didn’t snap you up sooner.”

  My mouth drops open. Maybe tonight won’t be a write-off after all.

  “How do you run your business without social media? How do you advertise? How do you let people know when there’s an event?”

  “We’re already at capacity in the gym and training center. As for the events, Jake’s the promoter. He handles that side of things. And we don’t advertise. The invitations are sent by text a few hours before the match starts so it’s almost impossible for CSAC to regulate us or shut us down.”

  He hands me my jeans, but when I reach for my shirt he frowns. “Is this the shirt you wore last week?” He holds the shirt up, and I grimace when the bright, white “FCUK Me” lettering shines under the overhead light.

  “You aren’t wearing this.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want the men at the club thinking what they think when they see you in this shirt.”

  “What do they think?” My hand finds my hip and my eyebrow finds the ceiling.

  “Makayla.” He purrs out my name in a warning tone. “Not at the club. The men there—do you have anything less provocative?”

  My face heats up. “My shirt is provocative?”

  “The words are provocative. The shirt is flattering.”

  A grin spreads across my face. Provocative and flattering. Quite the package. I have died and gone to heaven.

  Torment balls the shirt in his fist. “Find something else.”

  I laugh and hold out my hand. “You do realize I have to wear the shirt now. Hand it over.”

  Torment gives me a slow, sexy smile as he tucks my shirt into his leather jacket. “No.”

  “Give me my shirt…please.” I’m not sure what kind of game he is playing, if it is a game, but damned if I am leaving here without that shirt on.

  “Come and get it,” he rasps.

  Something shifts in the air between us. As I walk over to him, no more able to resist his challenge than I can stop from breathing, his face wavers, changes, reveals the predator behind the sculpted cheekbones and the warm, sparkling eyes. I glimpse power, barely restrained and a force of will that takes my breath away. He draws me to him with the intensity of his gaze and the dangerous rumble of his deep, dark voice.

  God, he’s hot.

  By the time I am close enough to feel the heat from his body, my heart is racing at double speed. His eyes lock on mine, and I grasp the edge of my shirt. He smells of leather and a citrus scent that is at once sharp and sensual.

  I draw my shirt away from his chest, inch by slow, thick inch. His dark eyes smolder, and his gaze drops to my mouth. I lick my lips and the tangy taste of Bubblegum Blast lip gloss bursts over my tongue. Need unfurls in my belly.

  And then the shirt is in my hand, drooping with disappointment toward the floor. My breath leaves me in a rush of unfulfilled desire.

  “It actually needs a wash.” I toss it into the laundry bin. “I’ll wear something else.”

  His approving smile melts me inside. I want to see that smile again. But more than that, I want to hear him laugh.

  Pulling an identical shirt from the drawer, I saunter into the bathroom and slam the door, mentally thanking my big sister for her habit of never buying one of anything when she can buy two.

  After I’ve dressed, brushed my hair, and applied my makeup, I take a deep breath and fling open the door to the bathroom. Torment is staring out the window, lost in thought.

  “Ahem.”

  He spins around and his eyes widen. A grin spreads across his face and his deep, soft chuckle warms me to my toes.

  * * *

  Two hours, two pieces of pizza, and one exhilarating motorcycle ride around San Francisco later, we arrive outside the club. Torment glides his motorcycle to a stop and turns off the ignition.

  For a moment we just sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to memorize the heady, erotic sensation of having my arms around his waist, my breasts against his back, and his ass tucked tight against the juncture of my thighs.

  Finally, he pulls off his helmet and twists in his seat to help me. “Was that too fast?” He slides the helmet off my head and clips it under the seat.

  “Are you kidding?” I squeal, bouncing on the seat like a little kid. “I think I might forget about buying a car and get one of these. What did you call it?”

  His lips curve into a smile. “It’s a custom MV-Agusta F4CC, but you might want to feign a little concern for the fact we were going almost one hundred and fifty miles an hour down the freeway. I might start to think you want to live dangerously.”

  My smile broadens. Maybe I do. Maybe that is what has been missing from my life—a little excitement and a whole lot of danger.

  “What should I do with this?” I pat the stiff, leather jacket Torment gave me when he picked me up. Just my size.

  “Keep it. You’ll need it for the ride home.” He helps me off the motorcycle and props it up on its kickstand. Although I don’t know much about motorcycles, I can appreciate the sleek lines, shiny chrome, and death-defying speed of his Agusta. My hand rests on the seat, still warm from our ride. When I look up, Torment is watching me and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart pound.

  “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.”

  Chapter 5

  It has nothing to do with sex

  Wedged between Rampage and a thick, heavyset Mexican named Jimmy “Blade Saw” Sanchez, 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.r />
  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.”