Torment

chapter four

Torment

It is after six p.m. by the time I get home from work. Unable to face the cheery chatter of my housemates, I make my way to my bedroom, strip down to my panties, and throw on a tank top and a pair of faded, torn gym pants. All comfy for a round of "he likes me, he likes me not" with a wilted daisy from the garden, and if "not" then a sulk about hot, witty, charming guys who make me picnic lunches only to get into my first aid kit and not my pants.

Once I have arranged the purple cushions on my bed, I settle my laptop on my knees, and amuse myself by typing "Torment," "California," and "Redemption" into various search engines. Nothing of interest comes up. I read Redemption's web page and find no mention of the unsanctioned events. "Torment" yields all sorts of references to games, books, music, and torture, but no pictures of men with tattoos and warm, brown eyes.

A flash of black catches my eye, and I look up. My hands fly to my mouth when I glimpse the shadow of a man by the door. I drop my computer, a shriek ripping from my throat.

"Shhh. I'm not going to hurt you." Eyes wide, Torment holds up his hands, palms forward. He takes a step back just as my four housemates barrel into my room.

My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "What's he doing here?"

"He said you were expecting him." Rob's voice wavers with uncertainty as he glances over at the leather-clad giant dwarfing my tiny room.

"Yes, but not for a few hours." I draw in a ragged breath. "And you're not supposed to let strangers just walk into the house. You're supposed to ask them to wait at the door. What if I was changing? What if I didn't really know him?"

Rob grimaces. "I'm sorry, Mac. I didn't think." He runs a hand through his thick, black curls. "You want me to throw him out?"

With his slender frame and gentle manner, Rob is hardly in a position to throw me out, much less six feet two inches of hard, lean muscle. Laughter bubbles in my chest, and I shake my head. "You'll need both your arms to take over my garbage duty next week, which you will be doing by way of apology."

Rob gives me a wink and follows my disappointed housemates down the hallway. Fights are always good entertainment.

"When you said you would pick me up before Redemption opened, I didn't realize you meant two hours before it opened," I moan as soon as Rob's curly head disappears around the corner. "I just got home from work."

"You didn't give me your number," a bemused Torment retorts. "We have a lot of ground to cover to get you up to speed on the club's rules and operations. I wouldn't want to see you in the ring again." He scrubs his hand through his thick, chestnut hair. Without the bandana, it is longer than I imagined, falling well past his collar, and cut with apparent carelessness to follow the line of his jaw. Could he look any more breathtaking?

"Fine. We'll exchange numbers to avoid any future surprises. Just let me find my phone." I hunt around for my cell while Torment makes a slow, careful, inspection of my room. Not that there's much to see. Twin bed. Desk. Shelf. Wardrobe. Dresser. Purple walls, purple bedspread, purple area rug, purple curtains. A few dollar store prints. At least I keep it tidy.

I cross the room and catch sight of myself in the mirror. Dear Lord. I'm not wearing a bra. And worse, my interest in the tribute to testosterone planted in the middle of my floor is clearly evident in the hard buds of my nipples visible through my tank top.

A squeak escapes my lips and I slam my arms across my chest and turn to face the wall.

"Is this where you sleep?" The inflection in his voice betrays a lack of appreciation for my sanctuary. Or maybe he doesn't like purple.