Against the Ropes

by Sarah Castille

  Chapter 1

  Oh, Betraying Lips

  “You come in. You fight. It’s simple.”

  Me fight? He can’t be serious. Do I look like I pound on people for fun?

  “Sorry. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Forcing a tight

  laugh, I shuffle back to the red line marking the fighters’ entrance to

  Redemption, a full-service gym and training center that is home to one

  of Oakland’s few remaining unsanctioned, underground fight clubs.

  Maybe I should have read the rules posted at the door.

  “No, you don’t.” The hefty blond grabs my shoulders and pulls

  me toward him. My nose sinks into the yellow happy face tank top

  stretched tight over his keg-size belly. The pungent odor of unwashed

  gorilla invades my nostrils, bringing back memories of school trips to

  the San Diego Zoo. Lovely.

  Gasping for air, I glance up and flash my best fake smile. “I’m just

  here to sell tickets. One of your fighters, Jake, asked my friend Amanda

  to work the door and she asked me to help her. Why don’t we just

  pretend you didn’t see me cross the red line and I’ll get back to work?”

  If I were a different type of girl, wearing a different—and lower

  cut—shirt, I might try another kind of technique to get out of this

  predicament, but right now, a smile is all I’ve got.

  It backfires.

  “Mmm. Pretty.” He releases my shoulders and paws at my hair,

  mussing it from my crown to the middle of my back. What a waste of

  two hours with the flat iron.

  “I’m not too sure about pretty.” My voice goes from a low quiver to

  a thin whine as he strokes my jaw with a thick finger. “But I am small,

  fragile, delicate, easily frightened, and given to high-pitched screams in

  situations involving violence.” In an attempt to make my lies a reality, I

  suck in my stomach and tuck in my tush.

  He frowns, and for the first time I notice the missing teeth, jagged

  scar across his throat, and the skull and crossbones tattoos covering his

  arms like sleeves. Not quite the cuddly teddy bear I had thought he was.

  More like a Viking berserker.

  My heart kicks up a notch, and I hold up my hands in a defensive

  gesture. “Listen. I was chasing after some deadbeat who didn’t buy a

  ticket. He came in just before me. Tall, broad shoulders, black leather

  jacket, bandana—I only saw him from the back. He was in line talking

  to people, and then suddenly he breezed past the ticket counter and

  went through this entrance. Did you see him?”

  A smile ghosts his lips. “You’ll have to talk to Torment. He deals

  with all line crossers and ticket dodgers. Usually takes them into the

  ring for a lesson in following the rules. He likes to hear people scream.”

  His chuckle is as menacing as his breath. Maybe he ate a small child

  for lunch.

  “Let’s go. I’ll introduce you.” His hand clamps around my arm and

  he tugs me forward.

  A shiver of fear races down my spine. “You’re kidding, right? I mean,

  look at me. Do I look like I could take on someone named Torment?”

  My smile wavers so I add a few eyelash flutters and a desperate breast

  jiggle to the mix. Unfortunately, my ass decides to join the party, and

  my thighs aren’t far behind.

  Wrong message. His heated gaze rakes over my body, and a lascivious

  grin splits his wide face from ear to ear. “Torment likes the curvy ones.”

  Now there’s a slap in the face. But maybe I can use the curves to my

  advantage. If I can’t talk my way out of this mess, I’ll just wiggle.

  “Come on. He’ll decide what to do with you.”

  Heart pounding, I scramble behind the self-styled Cerberus deep

  into the belly of Hell. I wish I had written a will.

  Upon first glance, Hell disappoints.

  The giant sheet metal warehouse, probably around 20,000 square

  feet, boasts corrugated metal walls, concrete floors, and the stale sweat

  stench of one hundred high-school gym lockers. The ceiling is easily

  twenty-five feet above me. At the far end, a few freight containers

  are stacked in the corner, and a circular, metal staircase leads up to a

  second level.

  Our end of the warehouse has a dedicated training area and a fully

  equipped gym. Half-naked, sweaty, pumped up alpha-males grapple on

  scarred red mats and spar in the two practice rings. Fight posters and

  pennants are plastered on the walls. In one corner a man dressed as a

  drill sergeant is barking orders at a motley group of huffing, puffing

  fighter wannabes.

  My stomach clenches as the drumroll of speed bags, the slap of

  jump ropes, the whir of the treadmill, and the thud of gloves on flesh

  create a gut-churning symphony of violent sound.

  “Hey, Rampage, you get us a new ring girl?” A small, wiry, bald

  fighter with red-rimmed pupil-less psycho eyes points to the “FCUK

  Me” lettering on my T-shirt and makes an obscene gesture with his

  hips. “Answer is yes, honey. Find me after the show.”

  I berate myself for my poor choice of attire. But really, it is my sister

  Susie’s fault. She sends me the strangest gifts from London.

  Rampage leads me toward an enormous raised boxing ring in the

  center of the warehouse. Spiky-haired punkers, clean-cut jocks, hip-hop

  headers, businessmen in suits, and leather-vested bikers fill the metal

  bleachers and folding chairs surrounding the main attraction. I’ve never

  seen a more eclectic group. There must be at least two hundred people

  here with seating for probably two hundred more. But there’s no sign of

  Amanda. Some best friend.

  We stop in front of a small, roped-off area about ten feet square.

  Rampage opens a steel-framed gate and shoves me inside. “You can wait

  in the pen. It’s for your own safety. We can’t have people wandering too

  close to the ring.”

  “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 in-

  stantly 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 voic
e 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 pony tail. 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 canvas 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.

  A smile ghosts his full lips 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 flex-

  ible 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 beauti-

  ful 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 springy

  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 to our sides

  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 t
he

  mat. Really, he should keep his equipment in better repair.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “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 prom-

  ised 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.