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.
"Yeah. It's not much, but it's cheap." I shuffle toward my dresser, keeping my back to him.
"This isn't a room," he admonishes, "it's a hallway."
"Actually, it's a back entrance." I point to a door in the side wall. "That's the back door. Our communal bathroom is right beside you."
"Communal bathroom?" he splutters. "People have to walk through your bedroom to use the bathroom?"
My dresser is finally within reach and I yank a hoodie out of the drawer and pull it over my head. "I only pay half the rent the others pay. I volunteered to take the room because I couldn't afford to pay the full amount, and I'm the only one without a regular bed friend."
"How many people live here? I saw at least ten when I walked through the house." He stops in front of my bookshelf and studies my books: an eclectic collection of college texts, medical reference books, running logs, travel guides for all the places I dream of visiting, thrillers, and romance novels. Lots of romance novels.
"Officially five, but usually there are about nine or ten people around if you count boyfriends, girlfriends, cousins, friends, and the odd vagrant." Relaxed now that I am decently covered and no longer besieged by naughty thoughts, I turn around and lean against the dresser.
"But it's not safe," Torment's voice rises sharply. "And you need privacy. How can you live like this?"
Why does no one ever understand? I like having people wander in for a pee and a chat. I'm a sociable girl. "It took a while to get used to. The biggest downside is that I can't let my parents visit. My stepfather is a policeman. If he saw this place, he would drag me home."
Torment crosses the room in two strides and twists the handle on the back door. The lock gives way and the door creaks open. "Who's your landlord? Anyone could come in this door. The lock isn't secure."
I want to tell him his delightful protective streak is showing, but I don't want to embarrass him. "Some guy who's never around. Slumlord. We haven't had a working stove for the last six months, and the dishwasher broke on Tuesday, but we'll be lucky if he even stops by in the next year."
Torment scrubs his hand over his face. "You said you don't make much at the hospital, but isn't it enough for a decent place to live?"
My cheeks heat. "I have a few college debts to pay. I also haven't decided yet what I want to do with my life, so it's okay for now. It's got...character."
I finally spot my cell under the bed and get down on my hands and knees to retrieve it.
"I'm sorry." He sounds genuinely contrite. "It's just...a woman should feel safe—" He cuts himself off and makes a choking sound. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Getting my phone. It must have fallen under the bed when you suddenly materialized in my room." Looking up over my shoulder, I follow his gaze to my bottom, waving around in the air, my panties partially exposed by the tears in my gym pants. Can this day get any worse?
There is just no elegant way to extract myself from this situation, so I don't even try. I grab my phone and back into the center of the room, delivery truck style but without the beeps.
"I'm guessing you don't have to share a bathroom at your house," I say with the casual tone of someone who isn't waving her half-naked bottom in the air in front of a hunky, semi-stranger and soon-to-be-boss. I push myself to my feet and edge my way back to the dresser, this time keeping my back to the wall.
He snorts a laugh. "No. Nor do I have a back door in my bedroom or a collection of random people walking around my house."
"Sounds lonely." I grab a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from the top drawer and shuffle over to the bathroom.
"I'm too busy working to be lonely."
I toss him my phone. "You can do the number exchange while I get ready. No long distance calls. I don't have many minutes left on it."
He stares at my cheap plastic cell with a puzzled look on his face. "Is this real?"
"Of course it's real," I snort. "It's a basic prepaid cell phone. It comes with a set number of minutes and I buy phone cards to top it up when I need to. Why? What do you use?"
The sleek, silver and glass device he pulls from his pocket is like nothing I've ever seen before. Slightly bigger than an iPhone but half as thick, it has an incredible, crystal clear screen that sparkles under the naked bulb overhead.
"What is it?" I breathe a gasp of longing.
He shrugs. "Prototype. Can't really talk about it."
"It has multiple windows. You could display all your social media at once. You wouldn't miss anything."
"I don't do social media." He calls himself with my phone and his device quivers in his hand.
"No Facebook? No Twitter? No Pinterest?" My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline.
"What's Pinterest?" He finishes the number exchange and hands me my cell.
"Seriously? You haven't heard about it? It's like a bulletin board. You post pictures on it. You could put up all sorts of pictures of yourself in various fighting poses." Curling up my forearms, I drop my spare clothes and mock up a few fighting stances.
Torment stares at me, his face devoid of expression.
I freeze. What am I doing? This is exactly why guys never take me seriously.
His laugh takes me by surprise. A deep, rumbling roar of a chuckle. I can't help but smile.
He bends down to pick up my clothes. "You are quite the package, Makayla. I'm surprised your doctor friend didn't snap you up sooner."
My mouth drops open. Maybe tonight won't be a write-off after all.
"How do you run your business without social media? How do you advertise? How do you let people know when there's an event?"
"We're already at capacity in the gym and training center. As for the events, Jake's the promoter. He handles that side of things. And we don't advertise. The invitations are sent by text a few hours before the match starts so it's almost impossible for CSAC to regulate us or shut us down."
He hands me my jeans, but when I reach for my shirt he frowns. "Is this the shirt you wore last week?" He holds the shirt up, and I grimace when the bright, white "FCUK Me" lettering shines under the overhead light.
"You aren't wearing this."
"Why?"
"I don't want the men at the club thinking what they think when they see you in this shirt."
"What do they think?" My hand finds my hip and my eyebrow finds the ceiling.
"Makayla." He purrs out my name in a warning tone. "Not at the club. The men there—do you have anything less provocative?"
My face heats up. "My shirt is provocative?"
"The words are provocative. The shirt is flattering."
A grin spreads across my face. Provocative and flattering. Quite the package. I have died and gone to heaven.
Torment balls the shirt in his fist. "Find something else."
I laugh and hold out my hand. "You do realize I have to wear the shirt now. Hand it over."
Torment gives me a slow, sexy smile as he tucks my shirt into his leather jacket. "No."
"Give me my shirt...please." I'm not sure what kind of game he is playing, if it is a game, but damned if I am leaving here without that shirt on.
"Come and get it," he rasps.
Something shifts in the air between us. As I walk over to him, no more able to resist his challenge than I can stop from breathing, his face wavers, changes, reveals the predator behind the sculpted cheekbones and the warm, sparkling eyes. I glimpse power, barely restrained and a force of will that takes my breath away. He draws me to him with the intensity of his gaze and the dangerous rumble of his deep, dark voice.
God, he's hot.
By the time I am close enough to feel the heat from his body, my heart is racing at double speed. His eyes lock on mine, and I grasp the edge of my shirt. He smells of leather and a citrus scent that is at once sharp and sensual.
I draw my shirt away from his chest, inch by slow, thick inch. His dark eyes smolder, and his gaze drops to my mouth. I lick my lips and the tangy taste of Bubblegum Blast lip gloss bursts over my tongue. Need unfurls in my belly.
And then the shirt is in my hand, drooping with disappointment toward the floor. My breath leaves me in a rush of unfulfilled desire.
"It actually needs a wash." I toss it into the laundry bin. "I'll wear something else."
His approving smile melts me inside. I want to see that smile again. But more than that, I want to hear him laugh.
Pulling an identical shirt from the drawer, I saunter into the bathroom and slam the door, mentally thanking my big sister for her habit of never buying one of anything when she can buy two.
After I've dressed, brushed my hair, and applied my makeup, I take a deep breath and fling open the door to the bathroom. Torment is staring out the window, lost in thought.
"Ahem."
He spins around and his eyes widen. A grin spreads across his face and his deep, soft chuckle warms me to my toes.
***
Two hours, two pieces of pizza, and one exhilarating motorcycle ride around San Francisco later, we arrive outside the club. Torment glides his motorcycle to a stop and turns off the ignition.
For a moment we just sit. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to memorize the heady, erotic sensation of having my arms around his waist, my breasts against his back, and his ass tucked tight against the juncture of my thighs.
Finally, he pulls off his helmet and twists in his seat to help me. "Was that too fast?" He slides the helmet off my head and clips it under the seat.
"Are you kidding?" I squeal, bouncing on the seat like a little kid. "I think I might forget about buying a car and get one of these. What did you call it?"
His lips curve into a smile. "It's a custom MV-Agusta F4CC, but you might want to feign a little concern for the fact we were going almost one hundred and fifty miles an hour down the freeway. I might start to think you want to live dangerously."
My smile broadens. Maybe I do. Maybe that is what has been missing from my life—a little excitement and a whole lot of danger.
"What should I do with this?" I pat the stiff, leather jacket Torment gave me when he picked me up. Just my size.
"Keep it. You'll need it for the ride home." He helps me off the motorcycle and props it up on its kickstand. Although I don't know much about motorcycles, I can appreciate the sleek lines, shiny chrome, and death-defying speed of his Agusta. My hand rests on the seat, still warm from our ride. When I look up, Torment is watching me and the intensity of his gaze makes my heart pound.
"Come." He holds out his hand. "I have a surprise for you inside."
As if he hasn't given me enough surprises today. The only thing missing is the tiniest personal detail about him. I've never met anyone who didn't like to talk about themselves—even a little bit.
We walk through the brightly lit parking lot, and Torment gives me a warning lecture about the dangers of Ghost Town and being alone outside the club at night—as if I haven't lived in Oaktown all my life and been immersed in the daily reports of muggings and shootings in the Foster Hoover Historic District.
Once we are inside the club, he sends me to inventory the first aid room while he unlocks the doors and turns on the lights.
The room is cool and quiet and smells faintly of antiseptic. I rifle through the drawers and cupboards. Someone has taken the time to think about the types of injuries that might occur in a fight club. Since my last visit, the room has been restocked, and everything is organized and labeled.
"You'll need this." Torment appears in the doorway with a cooler in his hand.
"Another picnic?"
He places the cooler on the counter and waggles his crooked finger, motioning for me to open it. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips and his eyes sparkle with an almost palpable excitement. I can't resist happy Torment. I open the lid.
"Ice cream? You bought me five pints of ice cream?" I pull out a container of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey and lick my lips.
"Is that the right one?"
An idiotic grin splits my face. "Yes. This is the right one. The only one. But why did you buy it? And why so many?"
"Welcome present for new staff." His brow wrinkles and then he spins around and walks out the door.
First pizza, then a motorcycle ride, and now my favorite ice cream. The night is just getting better and better.
My mouth waters and I pull the lid off the carton. The ice cream is at its optimal state—partially melted. Unable to resist, I dip in a finger and pop it in my mouth, closing my eyes at the first, creamy, rich, chocolaty banana burst of flavor. Ahhh. Heaven.
"I brought you a—"
My eyes fly open. Torment is standing in front of me with a bowl and a spoon and eyes as wide as the ice cream lid.
"Spoon." He chokes out the last word, and his eyes lock on the finger in my mouth. I pull it out with a loud, elegant pop.
"Looks like you don't need it," he chuckles.
"I...it's so good...I couldn't wait." My face heats. "Usually I use a spoon. Always, actually. I always use a spoon." I hold my breath and pray for a natural disaster—earthquake, flood, hurricane, even a plague of locusts. Anything to save me from death by mortification.
"I think I would prefer to watch you eat it the other way." His low, husky growl sends a shiver down my spine.
"Spoon...please," I whisper. Why can't I be like normal people and lose my appetite in times of stress or profound embarrassment?
He hands me the spoon and leans against the bed, thick arms folded. Although I don't look up, I can feel his eyes on me. Maybe he's hungry.
"Would you like some?"
"I don't eat ice cream. It's full of chemicals and unnecessary fats." The soft, velvety texture of his voice is almost a match for the smooth, creamy ice cream on my tongue. What a combination: Torment, ice cream, unnecessary fats, and me.
"It's very unhealthy," he continues. "Any nutritional value is canceled out by the high sugar content."
"Have you actually ever tried it?" I scoop out some ice cream and lick it off the cold metal spoon with slow, careful, little flicks of my tongue. When I lift my eyes, Torment's lips have parted and his eyes burn with sensual fire.
"No."
"Here, try it."
Torment looks from the spoon to me and back to the spoon. "I'll try it if you'll watch us sparring tonight. I think it would help you get a feel for the potential injuries you might face in the ring if you saw the different strikes, grapples, and submissions the fighters use. It's just training. No serious injuries. Rarely any blood or broken bones."
Anything to gain a convert to the cult of Chunky Monkey.
"Okay." I waggle the spoon in front of his lips. "I'll come, but you have to hold up your end of the bargain."
"Your way." He pushes the spoon to the side.
Everything below my waist tightens. "My finger?"
His sinful smile makes my pulse throb in unexpected parts of my anatomy.
"This one." Lifting my hand, he strokes along the finger I just pulled out my mouth.
How damn erotic is that? I dip my finger into the soft ice cream and hold it out. Torment leans forward and takes it in his mouth, sucking gently. His lips are soft and warm. His mouth is wet and oh so hot.
A soft sigh escapes my parted lips and the endorphin rush almost knocks me off my feet. Desire sings its way through my veins straight to my core. My eyes lock on his lips as they glide gently over my skin and then pull away, leaving me bereft.
Torment gives me a heart-stopping, sensual, self-satisfied smile.
"You like?" I lean in toward him as if I might miss his answer.
"I like."
Is he still talking about the ice cream, or is he talking about me? Please be talking about me. Please be talking about me.
"More?"
"Later." He cups my cheek and his thumb presses my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I'll be looking for you in the training ring."
My legs melt, and I am swept up in the warmth of his gaze. "I'll be the one staring at the floor."
"And I'll be the one thinking about dessert." His mouth curves up in a wicked smile, and he presses my forefinger, still sticky with ice cream, to his lips. "Your way."
they're so adorable.