answers. “Just light bondage and domination stuff. He definitely has
control issues.”
“Amanda!” I shriek. “The stuff I told you on the phone this morning
is PRIVATE.”
“We’re in an estrogen enclave. If you can’t get good advice here,
where can you go?”
Giselle raises an eyebrow as she paints hot wax over my mound.
“Sounds like your man likes La BDSM.”
I hiss in a breath at the initial burn, but it quickly fades to a tingling
warmth. I manage to unclench my teeth to answer, “I wouldn’t know.
We never discussed La BDSM. But I don’t think he’s into that lifestyle,
or if he is he didn’t mention it. I didn’t see any dungeons or whips or
crosses on the wall. I think he’s just…very dominant and… adventur-
ous in the bedroom.”
Giselle presses white strips over the wax and pats them down. “You
like to be adventurous in the bedroom?”
I shift around the table and scowl at the partition hiding Amanda
from my wrath. “I don’t really know. I’m not as experienced as Amanda.”
I shout the last few words.
Amanda just laughs. “If you keep going out with him, you will be.”
Giselle checks her watch and tests the wax. “You like to give the
man control?”
“I don’t like to be bossed around.”
“But in the bedroom,” she persists, “do you like the man to be
in charge?”
My body tenses. “I’m not really comfortable discussing this with
a stranger.”
Giselle pats me down below and chortles. “Do you allow strangers
to touch you here?”
She touches me there. I guess that means we’re friends.
“I don’t know if I like him to be in charge even in the bedroom. I
have issues with controlling men. I’ve never actually dated one before.
I usually go for easygoing, even-tempered B-type personalities.”
“Yawn.” Amanda fakes a yawn to go along with her insult. “Her boy-
friends were so boring. Even she got bored of them. She would text me an
hour into her dates and beg me to have an emergency so she could escape.”
“Nice. Thanks for sharing. Lucky me to have such a discrete and
understanding friend.”
Giselle tugs on the edge of a white strip and I wince. She raises a
painted eyebrow. “If it didn’t hold some appeal you would have run
away screaming.”
“I did run away. I didn’t scream because I didn’t want to wake
anyone up.”
“You can scream now.” Her voice is calm, reassuring.
Riiiiiip. Brain freeze. Pain. Someone screams. Me. I just screamed.
“You…you…horrible woman,” I shout at Giselle.
Everyone laughs. “Is that the best you can do?” Giselle taunts.
She rips again. I roar. “Rah.”
“Rah?” Giselle lifts an eyebrow. “Like a baby tiger?”
“That’s all you get. I have manners.”
Amanda laughs. “He wanted her to talk dirty. But she was too shy.”
“Amanda!”
“Say it in French,” Giselle offers. “Everything sounds better in the
language of love.” She says a few sentences in a low, sultry voice. My
mouth drops open.
“So beautiful. What did you say?”
Giselle translates, and I suck in a sharp breath. “That’s absolutely filthy.”
“I will teach you. You will whisper in your man’s ear, and voilà.
La sex.”
“Sex is not really the problem,” I inform her. “Now that I’ve been
forced to bare my most intimate moments, I think the problem may be
that he likes to be controlling all the time and I only like it…some of
the time.”
“In the bedroom!” Giselle says, as if she knew it all along.
For the next fifteen minutes Giselle waxes and rips, over and over
and over again until my throat is hoarse and tears stream down my face.
At least I have overcome my good manners and reticence to talk dirty.
By the time she tells me there is only one strip to go, I have called Giselle
every filthy name I know.
touch. Good thing we’re friends. “I always save the landing strip for
last,” she says.
I peer down below. Oh God. No. Not there. Not there. “Let’s just
stop now. I like this look. Sort of like a shorn sheep with a five o’clock
shadow on his back.”
Riiiiiiiip.
“Ahhhhhgh.” My scream strangles me. “No la sex. Never again. I’ll
never even be able to look at a man after this.”
Giselle soothes lotion over the torture site. “Your man won’t
complain.”
“He’s not my man. I ran away. He’ll probably never want to talk to
me again. He’ll think I’m a love ’em and leave ’em kind of girl.”
“If you mean something to him, he’ll come looking for you,” Giselle
says. “And when he does, you can beguile him with the new you.” She
holds a mirror in front of my nether regions and angles it for me to see.
“Finis! What do you think?”
I gasp. “I look like a plucked chicken.”
Giselle nods, her face grim. “Yes, you do. You should stay away
from him for at least a day. This is not so appealing to men and not so
pleasant when it comes to la sex.”
“So, how do you feel?” Amanda emerges from behind her partition
fully clothed and without a hair out of place.
“Exposed. It’s not a comfortable feeling.”
Amanda smiles. “Don’t worry. It’s worth it in the end.”
Chapter 17
Where It All Falls Down
By seven o’clock I am at Redemption, bare, sensitive, and ready
to work. For the first hour, I hide in the first aid room in case I bump
into Max. If I wasn’t so desperate for money, I would never have
shown up tonight.
Rampage stops by to tell me Max is caught up in a business deal
and won’t be at the club tonight. My shoulders sag and I slump back
in my chair. Thank God. Even after my chat with Giselle, I am still not
ready to face him.
I open the cupboard to inventory the supplies for the tenth time
that evening. A cough alerts me to Rampage’s continued presence in
the room.
“Was there something else?”
Rampage clears his throat. He smoothes the sheet on the bed. He
polishes the doorknobs on the cabinet with his T-shirt. He leans against
the doorframe and tells me Homicide’s wife has been at the club three
times this week, and Homicide is now a contented man. Nudge nudge.
Wink wink.
“I’m happy for him,” I say.
Rampage sighs. “Guess I’d better get going.” He turns and shuffle
hops to the door.
“Something wrong with your leg?”
He whips around and smiles. “Yeah, doc. I think I twisted my knee.”
Curious. I would have thought he would be disappointed—
devastated even—to have an injury. An injury means less training time
and fewer fights.
Rampage leaps up on the bed with an enthusiasm I have never seen
in an injured fighter. While I examine his knee, he inveigles advice from
; me about how to win the heart of the fair Pinkaluscious. I am more than
delighted to help him divert her attention from Max, even if he never
wants to see me again.
If I can’t have him, neither can she.
I tell Rampage I can’t find anything wrong with his knee. He pats
me on the back and assures me he won’t hold it against me. He shuffle
hops out of the room, this time favoring the opposite leg.
Hmmm.
Half an hour later I am inundated with fighters suffering from
injuries ranging from a sore finger to a splinter. For every fighter with a
semiserious injury, I treat at least three more who present with fake inju-
ries for the sole purpose of extracting relationship advice from me. Men,
it seems, have as many issues and worries as women—maybe more.
After the club officially shuts down, the core members haul out the
beer kegs, and I am invited to join the party. Rampage cuts loose and
leads the Electric Slide in the ring. The Blade Saw—he insists I call him
Blade Saw, even if it means putting up with my laughter—runs up and
down the bleachers, screaming and punching his fists in the air every
time he reaches the top.
We consume copious amounts of alcohol. Pinkaluscious and I
become best friends. She gives me the scoop on Max’s past relation-
ships but says nothing about what happened between them. I become
depressed and drink some more. I teach Eugene “Hammer Fist” Smits
how to mambo. A few of the other fighters try to teach me some moves
on the practice mats. Due to my inebriated state, I spend most of the
lesson giggling on the floor. Rampage dares me to stop Blade Saw’s in-
cessant running by flipping my skirt and flashing my cheeks. I comply.
Blade Saw stops and screams at my ass. It is the best party ever.
Max doesn’t show at the club on Saturday either. My impromptu
counseling service, however, is a huge success. I have to fight my way
through the crowds of fighters outside my door to tend to actual physi-
cal injuries, including two broken bones and a dislocated shoulder. I
give hugs and peck cheeks. I squeeze hands, and several times, I even
wipe tears. I love my new job.
By the end of the evening I hate women. Why do we nag men
when they come home from work and just want to sit in front of the
television with a beer and a home-cooked meal? Why do we ask them to
participate in household chores when there is a game on TV? Why don’t
we dress up in a French maid’s outfit to vacuum the carpets? And what
the hell is wrong with a quickie? I resolve to be different. But first, I will
have to learn how to cook, clean, and give up orgasms.
I am invited to another party after the club shuts down. It is even
better than the last one. Tequila replaces the beer kegs. I lead ten
rounds of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Rampage and I do the twist
with the grapple dummies. Blade Saw teaches me to drink upside down.
Hammer Fist breaks a board over my head. We all play strip poker. I
lose hand after hand.
When I am down to my bra and panties, Max arrives. He
looks yummy in his T-shirt and low-slung jeans, but maybe a little
annoyed. I toast him by shooting tequila from my cleavage. Annoyed
becomes angry.
Max stalks over to us. I tell him I just lost the last hand of poker. I
ask him to help me undo my bra. His face turns an interesting shade of
red. Or is it purple? Grown men shout and scatter, knocking over their
chairs in the process.
Max picks up the card table and throws it across the mats. My
sense of self-preservation kicks in. I jump up, fold my arms, and scowl.
Max doesn’t notice. He is too busy rampaging after his friends like an
enraged bull. I wish I had a red cape.
“Leave them alone.” I raise my voice. “We were just having fun.”
“Get your clothes on. Go to my office. And stay there.” He drives
his fist into a punching bag.
My jaw clenches. “Not until you stop this. You are totally overreacting.”
His voice turns to ice. “Get your clothes on. Go to my office. And
stay there.” He spins around and slams an elbow into one of the prac-
tice dummies hanging on the wall. Homicide laughs. Max takes a step
toward him. Homicide screams and runs away.
“If you seriously injure any of them, I will never speak to you
again.” I stride across the mat and put myself between Max and a
gasping Homicide. “So I took off a few clothes. These are your friends.
If you can’t trust your friends, who can you trust?”
“They are men,” he barks. “I know what they are thinking, and if
you even had an inkling of what that might be, you would have been
in a cab and home hours ago. You are tempting enough sober and
clothed. Now. Last time. Get your clothes on. Go to my office. And
stay there.”
“Make me.” My hands clench into fists on my hips. My heart thuds
in my chest. I stand my ground and glare at Max. Yay, for alcohol loos-
ening my inhibitions! I am brave tonight.
The room stills. The fighters who haven’t run away suck in a collec-
tive breath. Maybe challenging him wasn’t such a good idea.
Max’s eyes narrow. His body tenses. He stalks toward me, scoops
me up, and throws me over his shoulder like a sack of rice.
“Put me down.” My efforts at escape are futile. He has my legs
pinned tight, and the thud of my fists on his back does not even warm
his skin.
When we reach his office, he dumps me unceremoniously on the
couch and stands in front of me, his massive arms folded. “Stay.”
“No.” I push myself to my feet. Max steps in front of me to block
my way.
“Are you going to run out on me again?”
Guilt makes me immediately contrite. My cheeks flame. “I’m sorry
I left. It was all too much. I was…overwhelmed.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You were overwhelmed?”
I shrug. “Everything you do overwhelms me. You’re big. You’re
strong. You’re covered in incredible tattoos. You ride a monster mo-
torcycle. You have a tendency to glare and shout and stomp around
when things don’t go your way. You’re bossy and controlling. You take
overprotectiveness to the extreme. But even with all that, I think I can
handle you.”
He walks across the office and swings the door closed so hard the
pictures on the wall rattle. “You can handle me?”
I grab a blanket from the couch and wrap it around myself. “I think
I can handle you because inside you are caring and compassionate and
funny and sweet. And I like that you are protective and possessive. And
I like that it’s not just about me. You’re a great teacher. You look after
your guys. You are the first one on the floor when someone is hurt. You
know who needs you to pull your punches and who needs you to let
go.” I cross my fingers behind my back and meet his gaze. “Like now.
You weren’t going to hurt anybody, were you?”
His face softens the tiniest bit. “Maybe not.”
“But most of all, when I’ve asked you to back down, you backed
down. Except today.”
“You were standing half naked in a room filled with drunk guys.
There is nothing you could have said that would have stopped me from
taking you out of there. You were in danger.”
My cheeks flame. “Maybe not the most sensible thing I’ve done.”
“Definitely not.”
“Where it all falls down…” I continue at double speed to hide my
embarrassment,”…and what I can’t handle, is in the bedroom.”
Max freezes. “The bedroom?”
I twist the blanket in my hands and study the tiles on the floor.
“I like it when you…um…take charge. It makes me…well…hot. But
the fact that I like it scares me. What if that means I like you to be
controlling outside of the bedroom? What if I stop asking you to back
down when you cross the line? I can’t let that happen. I can’t ever put
myself in that situation.” I cut myself off before I give myself away by
saying “again.”
Silence.
I look up. Max is studying me, thoughtful, intense. “What hap-
pened to you, baby?”
My heart thuds in my chest. Nonononono. I didn’t want to have
this conversation. I don’t talk about what happened. Ever. It’s a family
secret. Part of it, even from me.
“Nothing. I was just trying to tell you how I feel.”
He reaches over and tugs on the blanket, drawing me to him like a
fisherman reeling in a fish. With a sharp yank, he unravels me and folds
me in his arms. “Something happened to you that made you afraid to
embrace who you are.”
“I know who I am.” I squirm, trying to get away, but Max tightens
his hold and rests his chin on my head.
“I’m not so sure you do,” he says. “But I’ll tell you what I know.
You are different from any other women I’ve been with. You don’t
listen to me. You won’t do what I say. You won’t do anything you don’t
want to do, and once you’ve made up your mind about something, you
won’t change it. It is irritating as hell, but I admire your strength and
conviction. You are caring, compassionate, sweet, and damn sexy. You
live life. You experience it. But you do it on your own terms. I don’t
think a woman like that ever has to worry she might find herself in a
situation she doesn’t want to be in.”