Against the Ropes
Page 15
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.
“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.
