Where are you?
Safe in Redemption’s first aid room, I stare at Torment’s text message. Crowds snake past my open door and into the club. Torment versus Misery is a big match and with only a few minutes to go before the club is locked down for the show, people are pushing and shoving to make sure they get inside.
My hand shakes as I type in my answer.
Hiding
I am fighting in ten minutes
Torment is such a slow texter. Maybe I should buy him a book of text language and make him do some thumb exercises.
My fingers fly over the keys, and I type my answer. Why couldn’t he have a different hobby? Something with a low level of risk—like golf. The image of Torment playing golf makes me giggle. He would probably destroy any ball that dared not make it into the hole.
I know
I want you to watch
I can’t
I need you to watch
I’m in the club. Isn’t that enough?
No. I need to see you when I’m fighting
I need 2 c u not fighting
I’ll send Rampage to get you
I’ll run away
He’ll catch you
Only if I’m crawling
That’s not nice
Neither is fighting
How does he have time for all this texting? Isn’t he supposed to be warming up? From the snippets of conversation I’ve heard about Misery’s previous fights, Torment will need every advantage he’s got.
My cell vibrates yet again. He is nothing if not persistent.
Did you watch me last time?
Yes
What did you think?
U r good
What if Misery is better?
My hand flies to my mouth at this tiny glimpse into Torment’s psyche. He is human after all and in need of reassurance. I text him back.
U’ll be fine
Only if you are here
How can I make a difference?
You will
U hardly know me
I know I need you here
Wish I knew more about u **sighs**
Ask me something
What’s your real name? **bites fingernails**
If I tell you, will you watch?
Ah. Ha. The urge to jump up and down and pump my fist in the air is tempting but very unladylike. However, I can choke back another match to get Torment’s real name, especially now I know he’s worried about the fight.
Yes
He responds a few seconds later.
Max
Max. Max. Max. The name doesn’t stick. He is still Torment to me.
I push my way through the crowded hallway, race through the gym and training area, and head toward the ring. Rampage sees me coming and clears a path with a few swings of his mighty arms. Maybe one day I’ll forgive him.
Torment is already in the ring, his back to me. Jake is talking to him, but he is looking down. I type my message.
Nice 2 meet u Max **smiles** **waves**
Now will you come and watch?
Right behind u
He turns around and gives me the most brilliant smile, all crinkled eyes and boyish charm. Good thing I have no socks to knock off. He points at my phone.
I read the message, and my heart stutters.
XX
Did you just kiss me? **blushes**
I look up. He is looking down at me. His sensual lips part and he mouths his answer.
“Yes.”
* * *
Misery is one of California’s top-ranked amateur heavyweight fighters. At six feet two inches tall and weighing two hundred and sixty pounds, he towers over the fans and cornermen clustered around him. Torment is tall, but Misery is taller. Torment is broad, but Misery is broader. The only advantage Torment appears to have over Misery is his breathtaking good looks. From the size of Misery’s fists, I suspect Torment won’t have that advantage for long.
My official first aid attendant status gives me a front-row seat. I breathe in the aroma of lemon disinfectant with just a hint of stale sweat. Nice. At least Torment keeps the ring clean.
“Torment said this was a good match.” I tug on Jimmy’s sleeve, but he is too busy sticking his tongue in Pinkaluscious’s ear to talk. I look over at Rampage beside me. He is watching Jimmy and Pinkaluscious, and the pain on his face tells me everything I need to know. Love triangle.
“Hey,” I say softly. I nudge him with my elbow and he tears his gaze away and glares.
“Don’t torture yourself. Sometimes these things don’t work out.”
His cheeks redden, and he tightens his lips and looks away.
“Think about something else. Tell me about the fight. How long is it going to last?”
He looks sideways at me and sighs. “Three rounds of three minutes each. Professionals go three rounds of five.”
“Does Torment have a chance? He’s a lot smaller and lighter than Misery.”
Rampage shakes his head. “Misery is incredibly tough and hard to finish. In sanctioned fights, Torment would be classed as a light heavyweight, two classes down from Misery. That weight will make a difference, especially if Misery gets him to the ground. Torment is also at a disadvantage because he’s dominant in boxing. That’s his background. Misery is more well-rounded.”
Homicide Hank steps into the ring and warms up the crowd with flavorful details of past unsanctioned fights. He announces the money collected at the door will be donated to the County Hospital. I glance up at Torment. Jake is helping him with his gloves. Torment winks. I smile. How sweet is that?
I check beneath my feet for my first aid kit. I am prepared for everything—cuts, bruises, fractures, and head trauma.
At a nod from Homicide, Pinkaluscious tears herself away from Jimmy and climbs into the ring. The crowd roars in approval as she goes through her routine. She revs them up with her fake smiles and jiggle wiggles, before waving her pink flag to start the match. Rampage stares at her with naked longing. How could any man not want her?
The energy in the crowd is almost palpable. Every seat is taken and it is standing room only for the last few stragglers. The gym and training equipment sit idle. No one wants to miss a second of this fight.
The bell rings and the match starts with wild punching exchanges. Torment takes a hard shot to the head and his eye swells almost instantly. I have to force myself to stay in my seat instead of running down to the ring.
Torment recovers quickly and settles into a rhythm, peppering Misery with a frenzy of kicks and punches that seem to frustrate and exhaust the bigger fighter. By the end of the round, Misery is on the defensive, swinging tired arms to bat away Torment’s fists.
Misery gets his second wind in the second round. A solid right punch opens a deep gash under Torment’s swollen right eye. Blood streams down Torment’s face and the referee calls a break.
Nausea roils in my belly. Too real. Too visceral. On television, I can’t smell the tang of blood or the pungent scents of sweat, smoke, and stale beer; bile doesn’t burn my tongue, and I can’t hear the sickening, live smack of bones hitting flesh. And I’ve never known anyone who voluntarily stood in harm’s way. Except me. But that was a long time ago.
A sob wells up in my chest and I put my head between my legs and take deep breaths. A warm hand strokes down my back.
“He’ll be okay,” Rampage says, his voice uncharacteristically warm and soothing. He rubs my back until I sit up and then puts a comforting arm around me. “He’s seen worse. I’ll tell you when not to look.”
Overwhelmed with gratitude, I instantly forgive Rampage all his sins.
Jake cleans up Torment’s face and patches the cut. The referee signals a restart. Torment is still the fresher fighter. He dances around and throws a few kicks and punches. Misery deflects them, but his blocks are slow and his feet drag on the mat. Misery’s bulk must be working against him.
In what seems like a last-ditch effort to win, he shoots in on Torment and knocks him to the ground. They grapple for a few seconds and then Torment, in an incredible display of flexibility, tucks one shin under Misery’s neck and swings his other leg over Misery’s back. He pulls Misery’s head down, applying pressure to his trachea with his shin and effectively choking him.
The crowd goes wild. People jump, scream, and cheer.
Rampage leaps to his feet and pumps his fist in the air. “No way. No fucking way. Torment locked him in a gogoplata.” He high-fives Jimmy and Pinkaluscious and then pulls me up to my feet.
“Gogoplata?” Sounds like a dance from the fifties.
“It’s one of rarest submissions in Jiu Jitsu. I’ve only ever seen it done once, and I’ve been doing MMA for fifteen years.”
The crowd draws a collective breath, waiting for Misery’s submission. Instead, we get three short blasts of whistle and a wild-eyed Homicide running toward the ring screaming, “Evacuate. Evacuate.”
The warehouse erupts into chaos.
Lights go on. Doors are thrown open. People storm outside in a frenzy of shouts and stomping feet.
Homicide joins us, gasping for breath. “I just got a text from Flash that he reported us to the CSAC. He was pissed off about being kicked out. We gotta get everyone out and lock down before they get here.”
I grab the first aid kit and look up at the ring. Torment has released Misery and is standing at the ropes. He points me to the door and mouths “Go.”
Behind him, Misery has climbed to his feet. He stalks across the mat, his intent clear on his face.
“No!” I scream and point at Misery. “Torment, behind you!”
Torment spins around. Too late. Misery lets loose what must be his knockout punch. Torment’s head snaps to the side. He staggers back into the corner, whacks his skull on the post, and slides to the ground.
“Why did he do that?” I scream my outrage. “The fight was over.” I push chairs aside, trying to clear a path to the ring.
Jimmy grabs my hand and pulls me back. “Technically, the fight wasn’t over. Misery didn’t tap out or go limp.”
“But the club is being evacuated. Torment clearly thought the fight was done. He was just trying to make sure I was safe. Surely that’s against the rules, aside from being just plain unsportsmanlike.”
Jimmy shook his head. “No one will criticize Misery for wanting to finish the match. Torment knows better than to turn his back on an opponent before the fight is done.”
Torment moans and rolls to his back. His hand twitches, and then he is still. Warm tears slip from my eyes and drip onto my cheeks.
“We have to go,” Jimmy says, his voice urgent. “They’ll question anyone they find. We don’t want to give them the ammunition they need to shut us down.”
“But…Torment.”
“Don’t worry. His people will come for him.”
Shaking off Jimmy’s hand, I turn back to the ring. Misery is standing in his corner, massive arms folded. Torment is still lying dazed on the mat. Vulnerable. Hurt.
“We can’t leave him like that,” I say, aghast.
“I can’t risk getting caught. I haven’t told anyone but I’m applying for the amateurs. Being caught at an unsanctioned event might destroy any chance I have of getting in. Sandy and I will wait outside for you as long as we can.” Jimmy pivots and disappears into the dwindling crowd.
My heart pounds against my ribs and I climb into the ring beside Torment.
“Torment? Max?” I turn his face toward me. “Are you okay? Talk to me.”
His eyes open and he gives me a weak smile.
“Stay with me,” I urge him. “Keep your eyes open. Focus on me.” My hands are already running over his body, checking for breaks and injuries. He has a bump on his head and a cut on his temple. Possibly a concussion.
“You didn’t kiss me back.” His voice is so soft I barely hear him.
My eyes widen. “This isn’t the time. You’re hurt.”
“Kiss me better, Makayla,” he whispers.
Cupping his face in my hands, I lean over and brush my lips against his cheek. Electricity shoots through me like a bolt of white, hot lightning.
“A real kiss,” he grumbles as I pull away.
“That’s all you get,” I snap. “I’m not going to ignore your medical needs so I can indulge myself.”
He gives me a half smile. “I thought you were all about indulgence.”
The platform shakes. Misery pounds his way across the ring toward us.
“Enough. He’s talking, so the fight’s not done. Get out, bitch.”
My blood runs cold and I position myself between Torment and Misery. “He’s hurt. The regulators are coming. The fight is over.”
Misery’s face darkens. “I don’t take backtalk from bitches, especially not when their mouths should be doing something else. Looks like you need a lesson in respect.” He stalks toward me, a bald, sweaty Goliath with murder in his eyes.
My knees shake, my pulse races, and my mouth goes dry. Fragments of memories burst from my subconscious. Long buried. Another night. A man stalking toward me in the darkness. I hold up tiny hands, terrified I won’t be able to protect myself or the person on the floor. I scream.
Misery stops short. His eyes focus on something behind me and widen to the size of tea cups. Torment steps in front of me and throws a punch and then another. His fists fly, hitting Misery in the head and face, over and over and over again. Misery staggers backward into the ropes. He bounces forward and into Torment’s waiting knee before crumpling to the floor with a groan.
My heart thumps in my chest while my mind spins backward, desperately trying to fill in the missing pieces to a nightmare I haven’t had since I was a child. What happened when he reached me? How did we escape? The fight ring blurs, and I grab the ropes to steady myself.
“I’ve got you.”
Strong arms lift me and slide me under the ropes. My dizziness subsides. My vision clears. Torment jumps down to the floor and carries me easily in his arms. I frown at his concerned expression. “What happened?”
“I thought you were going to faint. You were a little…unfocused.” His arms are warm around me and his footsteps echo in the near-empty warehouse.
Oh God. He’s carrying me. “Put me down. I can walk.”
“No. You’ve caused enough problems for one night. Taking on Misery wasn’t the wisest of moves, especially for a girl who professes to abhor violence.” He ducks under the bleachers and heads toward an exit door hidden in the corner.
“Sorry. I was just trying to help.”
“You did help. You gave me enough time to clear my head and get to my feet.” He pauses and his voice takes on a more serious tone. “But next time don’t put yourself in danger. You’re the healer. I’m the fighter.”
“I’m not a healer.”
Torment frowns. “You have a gift—a passion—for healing people. Don’t downplay it. You don’t just heal bodies, you heal people inside. Somehow you can see what people need—”
My cheeks heat and I manage to wiggle my way out of his arms. “Okay. You got me. I like to help people. I like to make them feel better. But it doesn’t make me a healer.” If it did, I would heal myself.
“You’re wrong.” He pushes open the door and I follow him out into the cool, still night air.
“Mr. Huntington, sir, the limo is over here. You’d best hurry.”
A cut-glass English accent is not something one hears often in Oakland. My head whips around just as a tall, broad-shouldered man emerges from the shadows. He is shorter than Torment by about three inches, and heavier. He has a shaved head, rounded body, and a cheerful countenance. From the slight sag to his skin and the wrinkles creasing his brow, he might be in his early forties—older than Torment, and much older than me. His suit—a stiff white shirt, striped blue tie, long gray suit jacket, and matching gray dress trousers—is more appropriate for an office or a wedding and not a Ghost Town alley reeking of stale beer and rotting garbage.
“Makayla, this is Colton. Colton, Makayla.”
Colton nods. “How do you do, Miss Makayla. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Finally? How does he know about me? Why does he know about me?
Instinctively, I thrust out my hand. “Hi.”
Amusement glitters in Colton’s clear, sparkling blue eyes, and he gives my hand a gentle shake. Then, he snaps his fingers and a sleek, black Bentley limo purrs out of the alley and stops beside us.
My eyes widen. “What is this? What’s going on?”
“Why did you bring that?” Torment grumbles.
“I thought it might be more comfortable if you were unconscious again, sir. We had difficulty keeping you upright last time in the Lexus.”
A door slams and a man in a black suit and flat-brimmed hat races around the limo and pulls open the passenger door.
Torment sighs. “Makayla, this is Lewis. He insists on wearing a uniform despite my preference for casual attire. Lewis, this is Makayla.”
Lewis narrows his eyes and gives me a tight-lipped smile. I immediately don’t like Lewis in his fancy uniform. I also don’t like limos appearing out of nowhere in dark alleys and men in suits who call Torment “sir.” I especially don’t like not understanding what the hell is going on.
Torment places his hand on my lower back and urges me forward. “After you.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I stare at the vast expanse of polished chrome, the uniformed chauffeur, and…Colton. Words fail me and I shake my head.
His jaw tightens. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me.”
My voice, when it returns, is soft and hoarse. “But what about your motorcycle?”
“Mr. Huntington’s motorcycle is already on a truck and on its way home,” Colton answers.
Everyone stares at me. Waiting. Expectant. But my brain is still playing catch-up and my feet refuse to move. “Why are you riding around in a limo with a chauffeur and a—”
“Butler, Miss Makayla.” Colton is quick to fill in the gap in my knowledge.
“Butler. You have a butler. Who are you?”
Torment tugs off his bandana and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “We can talk in the limo. We don’t have time to discuss it here. The regulators are coming, and we need to clear the area before they get here. Jake is inside getting rid of the last stragglers and shutting things down. He’ll help Misery’s cornermen get him out. We’re free to go.”
Something inside me tightens. He isn’t who I thought he was. I don’t know him at all. But I do know not to get into a car—or a limo—with a stranger.
He reaches for my hand, but I back away.
His face falls. “Makayla—”
“Who. Are. You?” Raising my voice, I enunciate each word no longer caring if the regulators find us.
“You haven’t told her?” Colton asks.
Torment shakes his head.
Colton’s eyes flick to me and his blue eyes soften before his gaze returns to Torment. “Might I suggest you give her your phone and let her look you up on the Internet, sir? I retrieved your personal belongings when the whistle blew. I suspect in your current state, you will be unable to do justice to yourself and given our time constraints it is best if she receives her information from a reliable source. She might then be able to assure herself of her safety in your company.”
Torment’s shoulders slump and he nods. Colton reaches into the limo and retrieves Torment’s phone.
“You can just speak to it.” He hands the futuristic gadget to me. “Tell it to search for Max Huntington.”
“I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” Hands trembling, I type “Max Huntington” into the search engine and get dozens of hits.
My mouth drops open when I read about Max Huntington, one of America’s youngest leading venture capitalists and partner of IMM Ventures. I scroll through article after article about him in the business newspapers and financial magazines. His name also appears in society and gossip columns as one of California’s most eligible bachelors. Here he is at a charity event with a woman I recognize from the movies. And here he is looking breathtaking in a tux with a beautiful model clinging to his arm on a luxury yacht. My eyes drink in pictures of him at lavish parties, gala openings, media events, and even the Academy Awards. But none of him fighting in Ghost Town.
I exhale slowly and my heart thuds into the ground. For a moment I can only stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Torment shrugs. “You liked me as Torment. Except for Sandy, the women I’ve been with couldn’t see past the money and would have been horrified to know I was on the underground fight club circuit.”
Sirens wail in the background. Lewis sniffs.
Colton tenses. “It sounds like they’ve brought the police with them this time, sir. It would be a PR nightmare if you were caught here.”
My hands clench into fists. “You lied to me. You made me think you were a regular guy.”
A pained look crosses Torment’s face. “I never lied to you. I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“Sir. We have to go.” The urgency in Colton’s tone makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
“Come with me. Please, Makayla.”
My head spins. Too much. Too many things to process. Torment coming to my house. The fight. Our almost kiss. The rebirth of an unwanted memory. And this. My beast turned into a prince. Or is it the other way around?
Tears well up in my eyes. “I know Torment. I know pizza and picnics and motorcycles. I don’t know you, Max, with your fancy limo and your staff and your movie star girlfriends. I don’t know what kind of man you are. All I know is that you’re incredibly rich and I’m…well, me. I buy my shoes at Handi-Mart. I eat cereal for breakfast and, recently, for dinner too. I have had to sacrifice my principles to make money to pay my…rent. And I don’t know what will happen to me if I jump into your rabbit hole.”
His steady gaze falters, almost as if I’ve hurt him, and guilt crawls through me.
“I’m the same man,” he rasps. He pauses, and the disappointment in his voice is almost palpable. “But I understand. Colton can call for a taxi and he’ll wait with you until it arrives.”
Colton nods and speaks into a headset I didn’t even notice he was wearing. He gives me a sad, guilt-inducing smile. “Taxi will be here in two minutes.”
Torment brushes a kiss across my cheek then turns and steps into the limo, leaving me with a sense of loss deep in my stomach and a hole in my chest.
“Wait.”
He pauses, one foot in the limo and one foot on the street.
I close the distance between us and take his face between my hands. I search his eyes, looking for Max. Instead, I see Torment.
Torment in pain. Torment in need.
Blood trickles down his cheek. His eye is badly swollen. His jaw is cut and bruised. I stand on tiptoe and run my hand through his hair. He winces when I touch the lump where he hit his head on the metal post and again when my hand runs over the slight swelling where Misery hit him.
He is rich, successful, and until the fight, breathtakingly gorgeous. He has everything. Why does he need the fight club? Why does he need me?
“You’ll need a stitch here,” I whisper, brushing my thumb over his cheek. “And maybe here too.” I run my hand over his chin, rough with stubble.
His eyes darken and he takes my hand, pressing his lips to the underside of my wrist. “Maybe you could just kiss it better.” The deep rumble of his voice sets my nerve endings on fire.
I take a deep breath and step into the limo. “Maybe I could.”