Filthy Rich (27 page)

“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 promised 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.

“No. I can't. Really can't. Not a made-up can't. It's a physical thing. Basically, I can only stomach violence if I know no one is actually getting hurt. Boxing, wrestling, even karate or judo, all fall into my no-watch zone. Just not me.”

He stokes a finger along my jaw. Blazing heat shoots straight to my core, and my breath catches in my throat.

“Have you ever seen an entire fight?” He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and strokes his hand over my head.

Oh, lovely hand petting me. So gentle. If I had a tail, I would thump it.

“No. Not even on TV.”

“All the more reason for you to stay. You can't sell tickets to an event you know nothing about. I would be remiss in my duty as your employer if I didn't ensure you were familiar with the services we are offering, especially if I needed you to come back and help out again.”

Again? I thought this was a one-shot deal to cover for the regular ticket girls who couldn't make it tonight. “I was doing okay.”

His hand drops to my shoulder and tightens. “Dressed like that, I can imagine you were.”

Jeez. Again with the shirt. Doesn't anyone understand it's a joke and not an invitation? “Amanda will be waiting for me. She's taking me home.”

“She and Jake went into my office as soon as ticket sales ended. I don't think you'll be seeing her anytime soon.”

I knew it. She couldn't keep her hands off him. No wonder she needed a wingman tonight. She didn't want help on the door. She wanted full coverage.

He tucks a warm finger under my chin, tilting my head back so he can mesmerize me with the chestnut depths of his beautiful eyes.

“One fight. My fight. I promise it won't last long.”

Mesmerized, I say, “How long is not long?”

Triumph flares in his eyes, but in an instant it is gone, replaced by concern. “How long can you last?”

“I don't know. A couple of minutes, maybe, if no one gets hurt.”

A rough sound erupts from his throat. “You don't want me to hurt my opponent?”

“And I don't want him to hurt you,” I say softly.

Burn cheeks burn.

His eyes widen and the look he gives me is speculative, thoughtful, considered. “One minute and I'll win by submission. No one gets hurt.”

“Cocky.”

His smile sears me to the core. “You have no idea.”

Twenty minutes later, I am seated in the front row between a thoroughly chastised Rampage and a “submission artist” named Homicide Hank. Wiry thin and lanky, with overly long arms and a shock of wildly unkempt red hair, Homicide claims to have been sent by Torment to translate the fight into Makayla-understandable terms. More likely, Torment needed someone to keep me from screaming and running away as I am now
persona
non
grata
in Rampage's books for getting him in trouble.

Courtesy of Torment, I have a protein shake, a protein bar, an energy drink, a bucket, and a wet cloth. He sure knows how to treat a girl.

While we wait for the fight to start, five ring girls warm up the crowd cheerleader style. Rampage puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles, “Go, Sandy,” at Pinkaluscious.

Homicide shakes his head. “Torment doesn't like all the pre-show hype, but it distracts people from the lockdown. We secure the doors in case of a raid by the California State Athletic Commission.”

“Why doesn't Torment just get a license and have his events sanctioned?” I ask.

“He won't do it,” Rampage says. “He wants to be able to fight when and how and who he wants to fight. He wants to be able to take on a two-hundred-sixty-pound judoka or a Five Animal kung fu master without some big ass government official telling him he's in the wrong weight class, or he doesn't have enough fights under his belt. He wants to keep it real. He's not in it for the money or the glory. And he doesn't want to follow a whole lot of rules. Most of us think the same. That's how we all found our way here.”

“No rules?” What would stop someone from bringing in a weapon or causing a fatal injury?

“Four rules,” Rampage says. “No eye gouging, no groin shots, no biting, and no fish hooking—that's when a guy sticks his fingers in his opponent's mouth or nose and tries to tear the tissue.”

My stomach clenches and I reach for the bucket. “Please don't tell me any more.”

Rampage frowns. “If you can't even hear about it, how are you going to watch the fight?”

Bucket on head. Face cloth over eyes. Torment has given me lots of options.

“Torment said it would only last a minute, and he would win by submission. I'm not sure what that means but it didn't sound so bad.”

Homicide chuckles. “It means he's gonna put Flash in a bone-breaking arm lock or leg lock or a choke that can put him out cold. If Flash doesn't submit—” He makes a disgusting cracking sound with his throat.

I dry heave into the bucket.

“I'm not sitting next to her.” Rampage gets to his feet. “She's gonna spew all over me.”

But it's too late for him to leave. The crowd suddenly comes to life, cheering and clapping as Torment and his opponent, Flash, climb into the ring.

My breath catches in my throat. Flash is none other than Mr. Psycho Eyes and supposedly my post-fight date for a little FCUK.

Jake joins Torment in his corner. Jake's blond hair is mussed and his T-shirt is inside out. Nice. Amanda must have pulled out all the stops in Torment's office. At least his fly is closed.

“Jake is Torment's cornerman,” Homicide explains. “He'll coach him and tend to his cuts.”

“Why does Flash have three guys in his corner?”

“He's a show-off. Likes to pretend he's a sanctioned amateur.”

Jake checks Torment's gloves and helps him with his mouthpiece. Beside each other, they are a tableau of masculine perfection, all broad shoulders, tight muscles, tattoos, and slim hips. They are almost the same height, but Jake is slightly leaner and his muscles less defined. Still, with that chiseled jaw, deep voice, and those dazzling baby blues, I can totally understand how Amanda fell under his spell.

And where is Amanda?

“Thanks for covering for me.” A poke in my back and a clipped, sarcastic tone reveal the location of my missing friend.

I look over my shoulder and glare as she settles herself on the chair behind me.

“You left me and now look what's happened,” I say. “I'm sitting in a fight club about to throw up into a bucket of protein bars.”

“You left
me
to chase after a guy.” Amanda crosses her arms under her ample and perfectly-formed breasts, drawing the attention of every male in the vicinity.

“I thought he was a ticket dodger. You know I would never just run off.”

Rampage and Homicide insist on introductions. Of course they would. Amanda in a burlap sack could make any man drool. Amanda in a simple, fitted, green sheath dress and gold kitten-heel pumps, her soft golden curls cascading down her back, her perfect features glowing from an hour of doing the nasty with Jake, will bring them to their knees. If I am a desert on the dating front, Amanda is a monsoon.

The bell rings. The cornermen step out of the ring. My pulse races. How is Torment going to win a fight without anyone getting hurt?

Torment wastes no time. He throws a right hook and catches Flash a glancing blow to the jaw. He follows it with a one-two punch and then a kick. Flash backs away and dances around.

“He's just playing with Flash,” Homicide says. “Torment is one of the top underground fighters on the circuit. He is only a few fights away from the underground championship belt. Flash only has about ten fights on his card.”

“Why would he challenge Torment?”

Homicide shrugs. “He thinks he's something special because he was an enforcer in a street gang in San Diego. In this club you can challenge whoever you want, regardless of weight or experience. We never turn down a challenge. But in the ring, skill usually wins out over strength, speed, and aggression. Flash doesn't have a chance.”

Even I can tell Torment is highly skilled. There is stark beauty in the precision with which his body moves. He keeps to a tight circle near the center of the ring, moving back and forth only to strike or defend. If he wasn't wearing gloves, I might think he was dancing.

Suddenly Torment lunges forward and grabs Flash's left leg. Flash keeps his balance. Torment grabs the other leg and slams Flash to the floor, falling on top of him.

“Nice double leg takedown,” Homicide calls.

But Flash is quick. He rolls to his side and gets up on one knee. Torment tries to push him back. He flattens Flash but just for a moment. Like a jack-in-the-box, Flash pops back up. Torment grabs him around the waist and falls back and to the side, pulling Flash on top of him.

“Oh no.” My hand flies to my mouth.

“Don't worry. He's nasty off his back.” Rampage says, as if that means something to me.

A few seconds later it does. Flash lifts his right arm to throw a punch. Still on his back, Torment grabs Flash's right wrist and pulls Flash toward him. Then he wraps his right leg over Flash's neck, hooking his foot into his left leg, which he has just wrapped around Flash's midsection. He pulls Flash's head down against his chest with two hands. Flash flails, trying desperately to escape, but he's obviously in pain.

“He's locked him in a quick triangle.” Homicide says. “Match over.”

My heart thuds in my chest. “He's putting pressure on the carotid artery. Flash will lose consciousness. Stop him.”

Homicide gives me a sideways glance. “That's the point. It's a submission hold. Flash knows what will happen if he doesn't tap out or break the hold.”

“How did you know about the artery?” Rampage asks. “I thought you weren't into fighting.”

“She's an intermediate-level EMT and a pre-med grad.” Amanda ruffles my hair. “And she's damn good. She's just figuring out what to do with her life, but I already know she's meant to be healing people. She's got a gift.”

“Stop it.” Tears well up in my eyes, and I bat Amanda's hand away. She's the big sister Susie never was and the mother I always wanted all wrapped up in one golden, best friend package.

I turn my attention back to the ring. Flash's legs are no longer flailing.

“If he loses consciousness, I will consider it as ‘someone getting hurt.'” I grumble quietly but Homicide hears me.

“He'll tap out,” Homicide says. “If he doesn't, the referee will stop the match.”

As if on cue, Flash taps the mat twice. Torment releases his grip and Flash rolls off him and lies spread eagle on the mat. The crowd is a frenzy of cheers and clapping. The retro bass of “Eye of the Tiger” pounds through the warehouse. The ring girls run a circle outside the ring, bosoms bouncing, miniskirts flapping, high heels clacking as they cheer, “Torment. Torment. Torment.”

My God. If this is what happens after every fight, his ego must be blimp size.

The referee holds up Torment's hand and announces a win by submission in forty-six seconds. Flash staggers to his feet and wavers. He takes a step forward, then back, then sideways. He blinks several times and reaches for the ropes.

“Something's wrong with him.” I tug on Homicide's sleeve. “Where's the doctor?”

“We don't have a ring doctor.” His face tightens. “After the CSAC decided to sanction amateur MMA events, the ring doctors became afraid to work the underground circuit. The penalty for working an unsanctioned event is a license suspension. No doctor wants to take that risk.”

“You must have someone here to look after injuries.”

“It's every man for himself,” Rampage answers. “Torment always takes the seriously injured guys to the hospital, but other than that, it's the luck of the draw if we've got a medical professional at a match.”

I glance over at the ring. Torment is watching Flash and frowning. He calls out and Flash spins around then crumples and falls limp through the ropes. He lands on the concrete floor with a thud.

I jump up, knocking over my barf bucket. Protein bars spill across the floor. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Down by the ring. I'll get it for you.” Rampage bulldozes a path through the crowd, and I race over to Flash.

Torment and the referee are already with him. His cornermen hover uselessly in the background.

“Makayla, you shouldn't be here,” Torment snaps when I kneel beside Flash. I ignore him. He broke his promise. Someone got hurt after all.

Flash is conscious but moaning. He rubs his head and lets loose a string of swear words that would put a fifth grader to shame.

“Flash, I'm an EMT. Can I examine you?”

Flash's eyes focus on me and his lascivious smile makes my skin crawl. “Yeah, FCUK. I knew you'd come lookin' for Daddy Flash. You're wanting what I promised you. Don't worry, baby. A little injury isn't gonna stop me from putting my—”

A low growl startles us both. I look up. Torment's jaw is clenched and his eyes have narrowed to slits.

“Calm.” I place my hand over his. “Although rude and obnoxious, he is my patient. I won't be very happy if you hurt him…yet.”

Other than a bump on the head and the telltale signs of drug abuse around his nostrils, Flash seems fine. His cut man—the cornerman responsible for tending injuries—helps him to a folding chair near the training area. While the next fight gets underway, I check his vitals and ice his head. Torment hovers beside me. Although I don't look at him, I feel his presence like a protective cloak over my body.

I warn Flash about the possibility of a concussion. I tell him I think he blacked out because of the combination of restricted blood flow to his brain and drug abuse. His lips tighten and I know I've hit the mark.

After ten minutes, Flash starts to come down from his high. He apologizes for his behavior. He moans about his defeat and his humiliating fall from the ring. A tear trickles down his cheek. I try to console him as best I can. I pat his back and tell him he was brave to challenge one of the best fighters in the league and he isn't the first person to fall through the ropes.

I glance up at Torment. He is watching me, his brown eyes darkened by intense emotion. For the briefest second, he lets me in, and the need and longing I see behind his mask take my breath away. Suddenly his eyes shutter and the moment is gone. Maybe I imagined it.