Fighting Attraction

by Sarah Castille

  “Sounds like my kinda guy.” He turns into Rockridge, and I direct him to a quiet street off Claremont Avenue and up to a small Southwestern-style duplex, brightly painted in cream and ochre.

  Jack parks in my little garage and then follows me outside and up the steps, where my giant ball of white fluff, Clarice, is waiting impatiently.

  “Didn’t think you were a cat person,” he says.

  “I didn’t think I was either because I wasn’t allowed to have a pet growing up, but then I met Clarice.” I bend down to give her a pat. “I found her on my driveway just after I moved in. She’d been abused and abandoned and looked like she’d had a rough time on the street. She’s got a bit of a temper, and she gets annoyed when I’m late, so watch yourself.”

  Clarice arches and hisses when Jack reaches for her, and he backs off while I open the door.

  “Oh, and she doesn’t like men,” I add.

  “Yeah, picked that up.” Jack waits for Clarice to saunter into the house before he steps inside. “I always had dogs,” he says. “We had a lot of land, so they had lots of room to run. Wanted a dog when I came to California, but I didn’t think it was fair when I was living in an apartment. One day, I’m gonna have a house with a big yard, and then I’ll get my dogs. Big ones. But good with kids.”

  “You want kids?” I close the door, and Clarice rubs up against me and purrs.

  “I used to. Thought about it a lot when I was with Avery. Now I don’t think I’d be able to make that kind of commitment to someone.”

  “She burned you really bad, didn’t she?” I reach around him to hang up my gym bag, bringing us so close I get heated all over again.

  “Yeah, she did.”

  Jack follows me into the kitchen. Clarice noses her dish, and I avoid the awkward silence by chastising her for her bad behavior. I feed her and turn to see Jack leaning against the door, watching me.

  “You help everyone.” His face softens. “Serve documents for Amanda, save an ornery cat, fix Cora and Blade Saw up, help out the newbies in jiu-jitsu class by giving them tips. Who helps you?”

  “I don’t need help.” I turn away, avoiding his scrutiny. “I learned early on to look after myself. But I like to help out people when I can because I know what it’s like to need help and have no one there to give it.”

  “Everyone needs help.” His gaze drops to my thighs, and I cringe inside. He thinks I need help to stop the cutting. Is that why he’s here? He thinks I’m going to hurt myself tonight?

  “I totally lucked out with this place.” I lead him into the living room as an excuse to change the topic. “They had just renovated, and I was driving by when they were putting out the for-sale sign. I had a bit of money left over from my grandpa’s estate, and the money from the lawsuit against Vetch Retch, so I took it on the spot.”

  I love my little place with its small corner kitchen, dark wood cabinets, white granite counters, and polished wood floors. A small dining table surrounded by four red plastic chairs takes up the space by the window. The rest of the open-plan area is dominated by a giant gray sectional that I have positioned in front of the television and decorated with accent cushions and a thick, red rug.

  “The red is very you.” He gestures to the bright red lights hanging in the kitchen, which match the three cherry-red chairs at the counter.

  “Yeah. The red sold me. I like color.”

  We talk about the gym and his training and his move into professional life while I make coffee, and then I turn on the television and excuse myself to take a quick shower, which proves to be a challenge because of the bandages. I slip into shorts and a T-shirt, comb my fingers through my damp hair, and join Jack on the couch.

  “What are we watching?”

  “Soccer.” He reaches past me for the remote, and his arm brushes against mine. I look up to see him staring at me, his eyes taking in every detail of my face, the damp tendrils of my hair, the V of my shirt…

  “You clean up nice.”

  “You mean I look better when I’m not soaked in sweat and covered in gravel, dirt, and blood?” I want to touch him, feel him against me. I want to curl into his body like I did in the first aid room and feel safe all over again.

  “I mean you’re a beautiful woman.” He strokes his fingers along my jaw, caressing my cheek. My eyes flutter closed, and I lean into the warmth of his palm. I don’t remember the last time I felt like this, like I’m alive, like I can be myself because he already knows my secret.

  “So beautiful,” he whispers.

  I melt into his touch, the deep, low rumble of his voice, and his hot, hard body on the couch beside me.

  He brushes the damp hair away from my face and dips his head, brushing his cheek against mine. His breath is warm on my ear, his five-o’clock shadow rough on my skin. I inch toward him, leaning up for more.

  “Beautiful lips.” His mouth brushes against mine, and he slides his tongue between the seam of my lips. I open for him, and he kisses me. Soft and sweet. Slow and gentle. So unlike the man from the club or the fighter from Redemption. This is Jack as I have never seen him before. He tastes of coffee and desire, and I want to drink him down.

  He sweeps my mouth, kisses me deeper, his hands cupping my face, holding me still. I slide my hands around his neck, burning, floating, desperate to be free.

  “Beautiful face,” he murmurs.

  I press myself closer, grip his massive shoulders. His hand drifts down to my waist, slips beneath the hem of my T-shirt. His warm touch on my bare skin sends my pulse skyrocketing, and I moan.

  He lowers me to the cushions, follows me down, never breaking the kiss. His body is deliciously hot and hard above me. I feel connected to him, protected, like we are one person, not two.

  “You’re so fucking soft,” he breathes. “So sweet.” He presses a kiss to my neck as his hands move over my body. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him down for more. I want his full weight on top of me. I want to feel crushed, smothered, enveloped in hot, musky male.

  Jack groans. His hips press into my stomach, his erection a delicious friction between my thighs. I part my legs wider, grind against him, seeking the delicious sensation of rough denim on my throbbing clit.

  “Shh. Slow down. I want to enjoy you.” He trails kisses down my neck, over my throat. Shifting to the side, he cups and squeezes my breasts through my bra, his touch solid and strong. I writhe and wriggle, unable to stay still. He is driving me crazy with his touches, making me so wet it’s all I can do not to rip off his clothes and make him give me what I want.

  His eyes darken, and he shoves my shirt up over my head, baring me to his heated gaze. “Ah, Pen.”

  My hands find his back and smooth over his muscles, feeling them ripple beneath his shirt as he slides one bra strap over my shoulder. His breathing is heavy, his gaze intense as his head dips down to press a soft kiss to my bare skin.

  He slides the other strap off, slowly, gently, carefully unwrapping me as if he is teasing himself. I arch my back, offer my breasts for the pleasure of his mouth. Beyond rational thought, I am lost in sensation, a seething, yearning mass of want.

  Jack traces his finger along the edge of my bra, leaving a burning trail across my skin. With painful slowness, he eases the cups down, releasing my breasts from their restraint. I gasp when my burning skin comes into contact with the cool air, and my nipples bead so hard they ache.

  I want his mouth on me, his lips, and his heat. But he doesn’t oblige. Instead, he traces a finger around my nipple. Around and around until I tangle my hands in his soft hair and pull him down to my breast. “Please.”

  “You’re making it very difficult to go slow.” He feathers hot kisses across the curve of one breast, moving down to draw my left nipple between his teeth. I moan as he licks and sucks, nips and bites, while his other hand squeezes and caresses my right breast. My thighs fall o
pen, inviting, and he lowers his hand to my leg and traces his finger slowly along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

  I have never known lust like this, want so fierce I burn, and need so intense I ache. He is a master of manipulation, a purveyor of pleasure. He knows just where to touch and how hard. He knows how to drive me up and take me down, when I can’t take any more and when it isn’t enough. I try not to think about where he gained all that knowledge, the countless women he’s been with, the things he has done to them in his room at the club. I pretend I am the only one he has caressed into a haze of lust, the only one he wants.

  I open my eyes to see him watching me, assessing my reaction to his touch. I feel at once stripped bare and treasured by the intensity of his focus. He moves to my other breast, pulling down my bra cup, teasing and torturing my nipple with his mouth. He trails his fingers up my thigh and then cups the curve of my sex, over my shorts. I let out a guttural moan and in seconds he’s on top of me, as if I’ve broken his self-control. He kisses me hard, rough, grinds his hips against me as he presses me into the couch. I reach for him, and he grabs my wrists with one hand and pins them over my head. He pushes my shorts and knickers aside and strokes a thick finger along my labia while he sucks and bites my nipple until I am writhing and groaning beneath him.

  “Please,” I moan. “Please. Please. Please.”

  “Tell me what you want.” He buries his face in my neck, bites down on the sensitive skin at the top of my shoulder.

  “Sex. I want to have sex. I want you inside me. Now. Take off my clothes.”

  His hand tightens on my wrists so hard it hurts. “I don’t have normal sex,” he growls. “If I take off your clothes, I’m going to hurt you. I need your pain, darlin’. It gives me pleasure.”

  My heart skips a beat. “You want to spank me?”

  He twists my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making me gasp. “I want to do more than spank you. I want to tease you until you need to come so bad it hurts. I want to hear you scream and cry. I want your tears. I want to hurt you so bad you never feel the need to hurt yourself. And I want to give you so much pleasure you can’t form a coherent thought.”

  My brain fuzzes with both fear and desire. “You can’t do it like this?”

  Jack’s phone vibrates on the coffee table, and he hisses in a breath.

  “I need you,” I whisper, rubbing my body against him. But the incessant vibrating of the phone has broken the spell. He pushes himself up and grabs the phone.

  “Jack here,” he says, holding the phone to his ear. He walks toward the bedroom, and I sink into the couch.

  He wants to hurt me. Not just in the club but here. Am I just going back down the road I was on before? Opening myself up to being abused again? How do I draw the line when I couldn’t draw it before? I thought Adam was my savior, and he turned out to be as bad as my dad. And yet I feel a connection with Jack that I’ve never felt with anyone before. We both find pleasure through pain; we both have suffered betrayal and loss. The only risk is if I fall so deep I can’t find my way out.

  Jack returns a few minutes later and sits on the edge of the couch. He sighs and scrubs his hand over his face. By the time he speaks, I already know what he’s going to say.

  “I can’t do this.”

  Hope shatters inside me. My dad was right. Adam was right. No wonder they didn’t want me. I am worthless. No good. Damaged. So damaged I can’t even give a sadist my pain.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling on my shirt. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”

  Jack frowns. “Don’t be sorry. It has nothing to do with you. It’s me. I’m fucked up. It’s why I don’t date. It’s why I don’t have relationships. I keep everything strictly in the club.”

  “I get it.”

  My stomach twists in knots, and I stare at the floor, unable to meet his gaze. “Thanks for looking after me tonight.”

  Silence weighs heavy in the air between us, but still he doesn’t leave. Finally I look up and I am startled at the softness in his face, the longing and regret. He really does think it’s him, and for some strange reason, it makes me want him all over again.

  “I think you should go.”

  He winces like I hurt him, but I need to be alone, and for some reason he isn’t taking the hint. Maybe because he senses we can’t be friends after this. We went too far, revealed too much, and now… We both feel the pain.

  “I guess I’ll see you at the gym.” He pulls open the door and looks back over his shoulder, questioning.

  “See you at the gym.”

  And then he disappears into the night.

  * * *

  My stomach floods with dread when I wake up the next morning feeling numb. After Jack left, I did everything I could think of to ease the pressure. I took a bath, ate a tub of ice cream, and watched some bad telly. But it wasn’t enough to deal with the stress of being rejected all over again.

  Worthless, no-good piece of shit. The monsters start chanting before I get out of bed, always in my father’s voice, their words—his words—pounding into my brain with the same rhythm as his fists when he decided to punish me yet again for being born. Of course Jack didn’t want me. Why did I think he would?

  My gaze flicks to my nightstand where I keep my blade case—six shiny razor blades, cleaned and sterilized, a surgical scalpel, cotton to mop up the blood, and disinfectant to clean the area before and after the big event. I could call in sick and cut myself this morning, which would give me almost the full day to treat the wounds and recover, but if the monsters have only just started chanting now, it is going to get a lot worse, and I don’t want to have to cut twice.

  Heaving myself out of bed, I pull on yesterday’s pale blue chiffon skirt from the floor and pair it with a sleeveless white tank from the laundry bin. I add a white sweater and finger-comb my hair before tying it back in a ponytail. A quick look in the mirror reveals a disheveled, exhausted, rumpled version of myself in all my dull, pale, curvy glory. But I don’t have the energy to fix myself up. The monsters are howling, and I need to get to work to drown out the noise.

  I show up at the office a few minutes early and thankfully before Ray arrives. After putting on the coffee, I head to my office and close the door. The building is quiet, and I lay my head on my desk and try to find the courage to make it through the day, even though I have learned that courage is overrated.

  When I turned seventeen, I met Adam. He made me feel loved and gave me the courage to stand up to my dad. But when I did, my dad said he never wanted to see me again. He told me he never wanted me and never loved me. He said that I was a worthless, no-good piece of shit and that I had made his life a living hell. Despite his hatred, I had always nurtured the tiniest hope that I could make him proud. That was the moment I knew I never would.

  I had failed. Just as I always fail.

  “Penny? You in here?” Ray pushes open the door, and I jerk up, rustle the papers on my desk, pretend to be busy although my computer is off and I have no pen.

  “Coffee’s on,” I say, forcing a smile.

  Ray stares at me. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a dark hoodie, which means he’ll be out on surveillance all day. This is a good thing. Ray is far too astute, and he has a way of seeing things people don’t want him to see. Like right now, he’s scowling, which means he knows something’s up and he’s not going to leave until he finds out what it is. Too bad I have practiced deception for years.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I turn on my computer, pull open my desk drawer, and hunt for a pen.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. You look like you just went a coupla rounds in the ring with Torment. You sick or something?”

  There is only one way to put a man like Ray off a line of questioning, and right now I’m sinking so fast I don’t give a damn if I’m betraying all of womankind. “It’s th
at time of the month.”

  “Whoa.” Ray’s hands fly up, and he backs up a step, as if I’ve just told him I have a communicable disease. “Right. Okay, then. Yeah. So, I’m gonna be out of the office until around four this afternoon. Maybe all day. You…uh…look after yourself. See you later.” His footsteps echo in reception, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the door slam.

  Nothing. Works. Better.

  Amanda keeps me busy for the rest of the day. I try to focus on the work and not on the taunting of the monsters in my head, but they shriek and yell every time I do something wrong. I drop a pen, stumble on a crack, miss a button, drop my papers, and all the time they chant that I’m worthless and no good and no one could ever love me.

  Cora stops by for lunch so we can talk about the double date she has planned for tomorrow night. I tell her I’m too busy for anything—lunch, the gym, the double date. From the way her lips purse, I know she doesn’t believe me, but good friend that she is, she doesn’t make a fuss.

  By the time I get home at the end of the day, my head is pounding, and I am desperate to feel something, anything except the emptiness inside me. I stumble to my bedroom and pull out my kit.

  Release is at hand.

  14

  I never claimed to be a gentleman

  RAMPAGE

  Thursday afternoon after training, I stop Cora on her way out of jiu-jitsu class. I haven’t seen Penny at the gym since Tuesday night when I broke every rule I made to keep me sane after Avery left me—no relationships, no intimacy, no vanilla anything. And yet I couldn’t stop myself. I had to touch her, kiss her, and when she let me know what she wanted, I lost control. Walking away wasn’t easy, but it was the right decision. For both of us. So why hasn’t she been at the gym?