Against the Ropes
Page 83
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***
We make it back to the table just before dessert, a delightful combination of cherries jubilee and chocolate cake. After dinner, music fills the tent and we follow a troupe of dancers into the hall for a Champagne Promenade, followed by a two-hour concert during which at least half the men fall asleep.
By ten o’clock we are back in the tent for the after party. My head is spinning from the overload of sensation and way too much alcohol, but I manage to drag Max to the edge of the dance floor through the hoards of overbearing mothers and their undernourished daughters all trying to get a piece of what’s mine.
“I like jealous Makayla,” Max whispers, when I scowl at another couture-clad matriarch desperately trying to get Max’s attention.
“I’m not jealous.”
“I think you’ve left fingerprints across my hip.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s hard to balance in these shoes.”
“Those shoes put you at a perfect height.” His fingers brush under my skirt, and he pinches my cheek.
“Ow.”
“Max, darling, are you bothering this girl?”
One of the grand dames of the gala kisses Max firmly on both cheeks and then turns her gaze to me. She holds up a thick pair of glasses on a stick and peers at me through at least three thick inches of lens. I shudder under the scrutiny of monster-size eyes and return her stare. She drops the glasses and huffs her derision with an inelegant snort.
“Really, Max. This? Instead of my Tootles?”
“Tootles?” I have to ask.
“My granddaughter. She was with Max for—” She cocks her head to the side and her eyes narrow. “How long was it?”
“I can’t recall, Moira,” Max’s voice is cold and stiff.
“Longer than anyone else. I do remember that.” She peers at me again through her enormous lenses. “They were engaged. Did he tell you that?”
“Engaged? You were engaged? To Tootles?”
“No.”
“Don’t be shy, Max.” The grand dame’s voice becomes decidedly cold. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There aren’t many men the family would even allow near Tootles. She has one of the finest pedigrees on the West Coast.”
A giggle escapes me. I imagine Tootles as a pedigreed poodle prancing around at a dog show. I should be upset at the revelation, but instead I am amused at the thought of Max with a woman named Tootles. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink.
“Enough, Moria.” Max grabs my arm and pulls me away, but curiosity holds my feet to the ground.
“What happened to Tootles?”
“The same thing that will happen to you.” She sniffs. “He’ll have his fun with you in the storage room, just like he had with every other girl he’s brought to the gala, but in the end, he’ll leave you and marry his own kind.”
My mouth drops open and my heart drops to the floor. My good humor dies a thousand deaths.
“Makayla.” Max touches my arm and I yank it away.
“Look around this room, girl,” she continues. “This is Society with a capital S. These are his people. He can have his pick of any of these women. I can tell by looking at you that you don’t belong. Why would he want you except to have a bit of fun?”
Blood thunders through my ears, the rush so loud I can barely hear. For the first time in my life, I have nothing to say—no jokes or quips, sarcastic comments or smart remarks. All that I am has been sucked into the black hole in my chest.
“MOIRA!” Max’s fists clench and his shout attracts all sorts of unwanted attention. He turns on the grand dame and gives her a piece of his mind. But I’m not interested in what he has to say. I slip through the crowd and out the door, just as the clock chimes twelve.
***
Makayla, where are you?
***
Just let me know you’re safe
***
I’ve checked with Amanda, your parents, your doorman, and your housemates
***
Where are you?
***
You don’t have to tell me where you are. Just tell me you’re okay
***
I’m worried about you, baby
***
I should have told you
***
I’m sorry
Chapter 20
Come with me
Friday night. Fight night at Redemption. If Amanda had not offered to come with me, I would never have been able to step foot through the door. She stands guard outside the first aid office with the sole purpose of warning me when Max arrives.
My first patient walks in before I even put down my purse. He introduces himself as Obsidian. His voice is so low he should be narrating the introduction of every Hollywood film. I run my hands over his delicious, dark skin to check for broken ribs. He is broad and heavily muscled and I regret he has not pulled a muscle in his groin. Guilt does not nag me while I indulge in lustful thoughts about Obsidian. He is no rich, society playboy. He would know how to treat a woman.
Unfortunately, he also knows how to treat a man.
He confides in me about his problems with his boyfriend, Raoul, and his bit on the side, Bulldog. He shares very intimate confidences. Too intimate. I recommend toys without sharp edges. After he leaves, I want to grab the bleach and give my ears a good scrub.
Amanda flits in and out, oblivious to the trail of panting men behind her. In a white sheath dress and sparkly gold stilettos, her golden curls tumbling down her back, she looks like a goddess. In my functional stretchy pants and pink Lycra tank, I look like I’m going to yoga class.
We make it back to the table just before dessert, a delightful combination of cherries jubilee and chocolate cake. After dinner, music fills the tent and we follow a troupe of dancers into the hall for a Champagne Promenade, followed by a two-hour concert during which at least half the men fall asleep.
By ten o’clock we are back in the tent for the after party. My head is spinning from the overload of sensation and way too much alcohol, but I manage to drag Max to the edge of the dance floor through the hoards of overbearing mothers and their undernourished daughters all trying to get a piece of what’s mine.
“I like jealous Makayla,” Max whispers, when I scowl at another couture-clad matriarch desperately trying to get Max’s attention.
“I’m not jealous.”
“I think you’ve left fingerprints across my hip.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s hard to balance in these shoes.”
“Those shoes put you at a perfect height.” His fingers brush under my skirt, and he pinches my cheek.
“Ow.”
“Max, darling, are you bothering this girl?”
One of the grand dames of the gala kisses Max firmly on both cheeks and then turns her gaze to me. She holds up a thick pair of glasses on a stick and peers at me through at least three thick inches of lens. I shudder under the scrutiny of monster-size eyes and return her stare. She drops the glasses and huffs her derision with an inelegant snort.
“Really, Max. This? Instead of my Tootles?”
“Tootles?” I have to ask.
“My granddaughter. She was with Max for—” She cocks her head to the side and her eyes narrow. “How long was it?”
“I can’t recall, Moira,” Max’s voice is cold and stiff.
“Longer than anyone else. I do remember that.” She peers at me again through her enormous lenses. “They were engaged. Did he tell you that?”
“Engaged? You were engaged? To Tootles?”
“No.”
“Don’t be shy, Max.” The grand dame’s voice becomes decidedly cold. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. There aren’t many men the family would even allow near Tootles. She has one of the finest pedigrees on the West Coast.”
A giggle escapes me. I imagine Tootles as a pedigreed poodle prancing around at a dog show. I should be upset at the revelation, but instead I am amused at the thought of Max with a woman named Tootles. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink.
“Enough, Moria.” Max grabs my arm and pulls me away, but curiosity holds my feet to the ground.
“What happened to Tootles?”
“The same thing that will happen to you.” She sniffs. “He’ll have his fun with you in the storage room, just like he had with every other girl he’s brought to the gala, but in the end, he’ll leave you and marry his own kind.”
My mouth drops open and my heart drops to the floor. My good humor dies a thousand deaths.
“Makayla.” Max touches my arm and I yank it away.
“Look around this room, girl,” she continues. “This is Society with a capital S. These are his people. He can have his pick of any of these women. I can tell by looking at you that you don’t belong. Why would he want you except to have a bit of fun?”
Blood thunders through my ears, the rush so loud I can barely hear. For the first time in my life, I have nothing to say—no jokes or quips, sarcastic comments or smart remarks. All that I am has been sucked into the black hole in my chest.
“MOIRA!” Max’s fists clench and his shout attracts all sorts of unwanted attention. He turns on the grand dame and gives her a piece of his mind. But I’m not interested in what he has to say. I slip through the crowd and out the door, just as the clock chimes twelve.
***
Makayla, where are you?
***
Just let me know you’re safe
***
I’ve checked with Amanda, your parents, your doorman, and your housemates
***
Where are you?
***
You don’t have to tell me where you are. Just tell me you’re okay
***
I’m worried about you, baby
***
I should have told you
***
I’m sorry
Chapter 20
Come with me
Friday night. Fight night at Redemption. If Amanda had not offered to come with me, I would never have been able to step foot through the door. She stands guard outside the first aid office with the sole purpose of warning me when Max arrives.
My first patient walks in before I even put down my purse. He introduces himself as Obsidian. His voice is so low he should be narrating the introduction of every Hollywood film. I run my hands over his delicious, dark skin to check for broken ribs. He is broad and heavily muscled and I regret he has not pulled a muscle in his groin. Guilt does not nag me while I indulge in lustful thoughts about Obsidian. He is no rich, society playboy. He would know how to treat a woman.
Unfortunately, he also knows how to treat a man.
He confides in me about his problems with his boyfriend, Raoul, and his bit on the side, Bulldog. He shares very intimate confidences. Too intimate. I recommend toys without sharp edges. After he leaves, I want to grab the bleach and give my ears a good scrub.
Amanda flits in and out, oblivious to the trail of panting men behind her. In a white sheath dress and sparkly gold stilettos, her golden curls tumbling down her back, she looks like a goddess. In my functional stretchy pants and pink Lycra tank, I look like I’m going to yoga class.
