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 physical 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 cle**age. 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 practice 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 loosening my inhibitions! I am brave tonight.

The room stills. The fighters who haven’t run away suck in a collective 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 motorcycle. 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.”