view of the ring, which consists of a few ropes strung between metal
pillars. The EMT in me approves of the fighters’ protective gear—wire
catcher masks and body armor, but is horrified at the sight of weapons.
I blink several times. Not ordinary weapons—keyboards.
Yes, the weapon of choice in this fight club appears to be a key-
board. I should have guessed. We are in Silicon Valley, after all.
One of the fighters smashes his keyboard over the head of his much
smaller, but stockier opponent. A letter detaches itself from the cracked
plastic and lands at my feet. S for sick. S for stomach.
I might need a bucket after all.
My arrival in the war zone is met with suspicion, but when I unwrap
the first aid kit and commandeer a big bucket of ice, my patients warm
to me. Or, it might be my low-cut shirt.
While I ice a swollen knee, two new fighters enter the ring. The
taller of the two is wearing a metal head mask resembling an upside-
down trashcan with eye and mouth cutouts. I stare. It is a trashcan. He
bangs two trashcan lids together like cymbals. I nickname him Oscar.
The other fighter adjusts his goalie mask and spins a vacuum
cleaner hose over his head like a lasso. Somebody’s carpets won’t be
cleaned tonight.
“Mac, what are you doing here?”
I spin around, my tension easing when Jake squats down beside me.
“First aid.” I hold up the partially bandaged hand of my current
patient, a short, pudgy blond who can’t be over twenty-five. He looks
familiar but I can’t quite place him.
Jake frowns. “Does Torment know you’re here? I can’t believe he
let you step foot in this club. It’s too dangerous. If you couldn’t handle
the events at Redemption, you won’t be able to handle this.”
I use my patient as an excuse to ignore Jake, and busy myself taping
his fingers together. “Why is Torment fighting here?”
Jake shrugs. “He challenged Iron Fist, the fourth-ranked fighter on
the underground circuit, but with Redemption closed, they decided to
do a tag team match here instead. It doesn’t count toward the rankings,
but he’ll get a feel for Iron Fist’s style.”
The crowd cheers and I glance over at the ring. The goalie whips his
vacuum cleaner hose around his head multiple times before smacking
his opponent on the legs. Oscar goes down in a cloud of dust, and his
trash can helmet bangs on the concrete floor with such force it dents.
Nausea grips my gut and I focus on keeping down my supper. “I
thought Torment didn’t use weapons.”
Jake doesn’t take his eyes off the fight. “He does here. It’s expected,
and he likes the challenge.”
Torment uses weapons? Bile rises in my throat and my head spins.
I stagger back and into the wall.
“Mac? Are you okay?” Jake grips my arm and leads me over to a
chair beside the door. He pushes me down and thrusts my head between
my legs. “Breathe.”
After I take a few deep breaths, the dizziness begins to fade. I try
to sit up, but Jake forces my head down. “Don’t move until I say,” he
orders. “Torment is in the ring.”
“I want to see.”
“From what I’ve seen of your inability to cope with violence, you
would be flat on the ground in ten seconds.”
“Please, Jake.” I try to push up, but he holds me immobile.
“I don’t like you very much at this moment,” I grate through
clenched teeth.
Jake chuckles. “Is that the best you can do? I was expecting a few
swear words. Amanda sure knows a lot of them.”
“She’s here. She came to see you.”
Jake snatches his hand away. “Fucking hell. Does she think I’m
going to play her game? She’s the last person I want to see.”
I suck in a breath. I need to find Amanda. This is not going to play
out the way she thinks. She’s going to get hurt.
The clang of metal hitting concrete rings through the garage and
my heart begins to pound. What if Max gets hurt? Who will look after
him? Amanda or Max? Amanda or Max?
“What weapon did the other guy choose?” I jump up and down but
I can’t see over the sea of heads. “It sounds like a metal pipe. Oh, God.
Someone’s going to hit Max with a metal pipe.”
Something whistles in the air and thuds against bare flesh with a
sickening smack. The crowd murmurs in appreciation. My vision blurs
and my lungs seize up. Jake grabs me and spins me into his chest. “Don’t
look. He’ll be fine.”
Another clang. A crack. A soft thud. A moan.
Jake sucks in a breath. “Oh Jeez. That’s gotta hurt.”
Using every ounce of strength I possess, I push myself away from
Jake and grab my first aid kit. I launch myself through the crowd until
I have a clear view of the ring. Max’s opponent is indeed armed with
a long, thick metal pipe. He is also wearing a mask, helmet, and body
armor all emblazoned with the name Iron Fist. He does not, however,
have an iron fist. Max has a baseball bat. He is wearing body armor and
a helmet without a mask. It seems inadequate protection against a huge,
metal pipe. Blood trickles down his temple and his forearms are bright
red and swollen twice their normal size. I press my fist to my lips to stifle
my distressed squeak.
Two men stand in opposing corners of the ring, both wearing body
armor. Tag team. At least Max is not alone.
Iron Fist swings his pipe and hits Max in the ribs with a bone-
crunching thwack. Max grabs his side and holds up his other hand in
a defensive gesture. The other fighter hesitates and in that split second
Max grabs the pipe, twists it out his hand, and tosses it to his teammate.
They switch positions and relief trickles through me. Safe. For now.
Iron Fist’s teammate hands him a printer. From the size and shape,
it appears to be a multifunction unit that prints, scans, and faxes. I sure
could use one of those. Maybe he wants to get rid of it because the
cartridges are so expensive.
Max’s partner swings his pipe and Iron Fist uses his printer as a
shield. He swings the printer in a wide arc and knocks the pipe to the
ground. Max’s partner trips backward over the pipe. Iron Fist smashes
the printer over his head. Max’s partner drops to his knees. My stomach
clenches so violently I double over.
“I told you not to watch,” Jake barks from behind me, shocking
me with his deep, commanding tone. Holy smokes. Amanda misjudged
him. He may appear easygoing, but underneath he has a core of steel.
“I don’t always do what I’m told.” I force myself up and look over
my shoulder. Gone is his usual genial expression. Instead, his jaw is tight
and his lips are pressed into a thin, straight line. “Then you aren’t the
right girl for Torment, and he’s not the right guy for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He gives me an enigmatic smile. “It means there’s a lot you
don’t know.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Not my place.”
I turn to the ring. Max’s p
artner is still on his knees. His opponent
has stepped back and is tossing the broken printer from hand to hand
like a football as if trying to decide whether to pass. Good thing he has
big hands.
“I don’t understand this place.” I scrub my hand over my face. “I
can sort of understand Redemption. There are a few rules. There seems
to be some code of honor. But this place is just violence for the sake
of violence.”
Jake shrugs. “It means a lot to the people here. It fills a need. For
some, it gives them the sense of control they otherwise feel they lack in
their lives. For others, it provides an outlet for aggression that might
otherwise be used in destructive ways.”
“And for Torment?”
“Fighting is part of who he is. Unlike most of the guys here, he’ll
never be able to walk away.”
The fighter slumps to the ground. He taps the floor twice and then
goes limp. Only Max goes to his aid. I grab my first aid kit and climb
into the ring. The look of shock on Max’s face when he sees me is almost
worth the nausea.
“Take off his helmet,” I snap.
Max carefully removes his partner’s helmet. The fighters around us
grumble about delaying the next fight. Someone suggests we drag the
injured man into the corner and attend to him there.
“Ignore them,” Max says. “Do what you have to do.”
“What’s his name?”
“Frank.”
Adrenaline surges through me and my pulse races. The rush I
got treating Homicide in Redemption was nothing compared to this.
Everything comes into sharp focus: Frank’s gray pallor, his soft moans,
and his shallow breathing. I register the loose threads on his body armor,
the tiny cut on his finger, the wedding ring on his left hand and the
faded word “Daddy” written in pen on the underside of his wrist. Oh,
no. He’s somebody’s father and husband.
“Frank, can you hear me? My name is Makayla. I’m an EMT. Can
I take a look at you?”
Frank moans. I check his pupils and run my hands over his head—
huge lump and growing fast.
“Call an ambulance.”
Max’s eyes widen. “Usually the guys are a bit shaken after a hit like
that, but after a few minutes they’re fine. He was wearing a helmet.”
“He’s not fine. Either his helmet was damaged or the force of the
blow was more than it could withstand. If we don’t get him to a hospital,
he’ll sustain brain damage at best. At worst, he’ll die. Call 911. NOW.”
For the next ten minutes, I try to stabilize Frank, but his condition
deteriorates quickly. His pulse slows and his breathing becomes shallow.
“He shouldn’t be going down this fast.” My voice wavers and rises
to a high pitch. “Something else is wrong and I don’t know what it is.
Where is the ambulance?”
“It’s coming, baby. You’re doing great.”
“I don’t have any equipment, Max, and even if I did I don’t have
the training for this. He’s going to die and I can’t save him.” My hands
shake so hard I can barely record Frank’s vitals.
Max strokes my back and talks in a low, encouraging voice. “You’re
giving him a chance he never would have had. He’s lucky you are here.”
The ambulance arrives a few minutes later. I brief the paramedic,
Ray, while his EMTs strap Frank to the stretcher and rush him out to
the ambulance.
“You did a really great job of stabilizing him,” Ray says. “You should
think about taking that next step and qualifying as a paramedic. We
need good people. People who can think on their feet and can handle a
job where you never know what’s coming next.”
I am barely listening. I can’t get the visual image of the “Daddy”
penned on Frank’s wrist out of my mind. “He’s not going to make it,
is he?”
Ray’s eyes soften. “That’s not our call. We do the best we can and
then we move on. You did everything I would have done and then
some. Rest easy.” He slams the door and the ambulance disappears
down the street.
Max strokes his hand down my hair. His gentle touch undoes me.
Tears trickle down my cheeks and the tail end of my adrenaline rush
sends a shudder through my body. Max pulls me into his arms and I
sob into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I won’t let you go.”
When I open my eyes, it is still dark. My clock reads three a.m. A soft
breeze blows through my window, and my curtains flap gently against
the glass. I am warm and relaxed, and I am not alone.
A strong arm is wrapped around me, nestled between my breasts.
A hard body is curled up against my back, holding me safe. I catch the
scent of leather and soap and the faintest hint of citrusy cologne.
Max.
He breaths the slow, regular rhythm of sleep and yet his arm is
locked tight around me. Not that I want to leave. Even though we are
still in our clothes, I am almost giddy with the pleasure of being envel-
oped by his body.
“Go back to sleep, baby,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
So he does. He’s had me since I cried in his arms. He took care of
everything. Amanda is safe at her home and I am safe at mine.
“I thought you were asleep.”
He kisses my neck. “Not with your sweet body tucked up against me.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I whisper. “I’m okay now. It’s late—”
“You’re hurting. I’m staying. Now go to sleep.” He tightens his grip
and pulls me closer to his chest. My body quivers at the sensation of his
arm locked around me and the press of his belt buckle against my spine.
As if I could sleep with Max in my bed. “I thought you were angry
with me.”
“I could never be angry with you.” He brushes my hair over my
shoulder and peppers my neck with tiny kisses. “However, I am frustrat-
ed by your continual disregard for your own safety. Unreliable prepaid
phone. Walking alone at night. Going to one of the most dangerous
fight clubs in the city—”
I turn slightly and look back over my shoulder. “Is it that danger-
ous? For spectators I mean. I didn’t see any fighting happening outside
the ring.”
Max sighs. “More goes on at the Geek Club than just fighting. I
want you to promise you will never go there again.” There is an unmis-
takable edge to his voice, bordering on fear.
Well, that’s a no-brainer. I don’t want to watch the mindless de-
struction of good printers again. “Okay. I promise never to go again.”
Max grunts and rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. He ar-
ranges me against his body with my head on his shoulder, and my body
plastered against his side. One arm snakes around my waist and the
other rests on my hip. “Time to sleep.”
“Don’t want to sleep.” I rest my hand on his chest and slide it over
his T-shirt. My fingers encounter something soft—a bandage. I bolt
upright. “I forgot. You were hurt. Let me take a look.”
“I’m okay. I just need to rest and I need you to rest beside me.�
�� He
tugs my arm, but I shake him away.
“I have medical supplies in the kitchen. I’ll—”
He yanks my supporting arm and I fall down onto his chest. “I’m
okay, baby. Relax.”
“Max, please.”
“Baby. Last time. Relax. Feeling you beside me is worth a
hundred bandages.”
I exhale my annoyance and snuggle into his chest. My body softens
against him and he gives my head a chaste kiss. Not really what I want,
but he’s made it clear this is all I’m going to get.
A cuddle.
I’ve never dated a man who liked to cuddle, but I like it.
A lot.
.......
Sorry I had to leave so early. Had to let maintenance crew into Redemption. Will be here all day.
Thank u 4 staying with me
Pleasure
I liked Max in my bed
I liked Makayla in my arms
I called the hospital. Frank is unconscious, but they think he’s going 2 b ok
Because of you
I didn’t do anything
Because of you
**blushes**
Dinner tonight?
Yes
My place?
Yes
Seven?
Yes
Lewis pick you up?
Yes
Agreeable today
Yes
Max likes yes
I know **winks**
Chapter 12
I Didn't Bring You Here For the View
“Wow. This is…modern.”
A freshly showered Max, his damp hair slightly tousled, beams when
Colton closes the door behind me. His dark pants and blue button-
down shirt are very businesslike. Is this what he wears to relax at home?
Maybe I should have worn something dressier. My flirty black skirt and
gold silk tank, Christmas gifts from my fashion-conscious mom, seemed
plenty dressy at home. At least I’m wearing heels.
Colton takes my jacket and I walk into the open plan living area.
Holy cow. Why does he need all this space? The living room alone could
hold fifteen or twenty people.
For the first few minutes, I can only stand and stare. The three
separate seating areas are all decorated with casual, comfortable-
looking sofas in muted shades of gray and beige, dark wood coffee
tables and industrial lamps. Wide brown leather chairs and soft
Berber area rugs unite each separate space. A granite-topped bar with
Against the Ropes Page 16
