Page 13 of Mean Machine

Yeah, as final as the ones before it. By now, it felt like people were too goddamned exhausted to keep rioting, though frankly Brooklyn hadn’t been keeping up with the news. Vanishing into the cave where all that mattered was his work, his training, and the next fight meant he made progress and didn’t tear himself up over the state of the country or even the world. What news he caught were snippets on TV, and none of it made him wish to pay more attention. There was only so much he could do about food shortages, trade wars, and the genocide of ethnic minorities somewhere on the planet.

“When do they pick me up again?”

“After breakfast.” Nathaniel had a dark blue tie dangling undone from his neck when he came back. “Which should be with us in about fifteen minutes.”

“Enough time for a blowjob?”

Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows. “Giving or receiving?”

Brooklyn lost a beat. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him. Receiving. That had been a while. Ages, really. Was Nathaniel joking? He probably was. Seemed the guy was more interested in fucking his mind than his body. “Tends to be giving?”

“Would you like to give me one?”

Phrased like that, there was only one answer. “No.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Listen—what the fuck do you want from me? Do you actually only plan to feed me breakfast and put me out the door? What the hell are you after?”

“You have some strong opinions,” Nathaniel said. If the tone hadn’t been so bloody neutral, Brooklyn would have punched him for that superior attitude. “You haven’t resigned yourself to your current position yet, have you?”

“No. And I never will.” Brooklyn kept himself from glancing over his shoulder for the malicious presence of Curtis, normally the guardian of his politically incorrect views when dealing with the outside world. He could speak freely with Les, usually the only one who accepted that. He’d had a near slip-up with the reporter, but that had mostly been in the grey area he could claim as a boxer. Trash talk. A show of brazenness, balls, testosterone—whatever people wanted to call it. A boxer had to be confident. Hell, after sending another man down, he had plenty of confidence. Reining that in was the real problem.

“This is all I wanted,” Nathaniel stated.

“Does that mean you’ll tell the Neanderthal outside the door I’ve been a disappointment? Because I’d rather suck you off than deal with that.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you were not a disappointment at all.” Nathaniel didn’t cringe, didn’t stutter, didn’t react in any way shocked. “Besides, you’ll need to rest for your next fight.”

“Then what the fuck did you want?”

Nathaniel raised a finger and turned to the door. A waiter rolled a cart in and set up their breakfast. Fried eggs, bacon, freshly squeezed orange juice, oat porridge, a bowl of fruit salad, a boiled egg, and some thick slices of white toast, golden with butter. Almost like in better days when his meal plan hadn’t been optimised. The toast especially was near criminal.

Brooklyn sat down at the table and waited for Nathaniel to join him.

“How important is it to you that I answer that question?”

“Ah, sod it.” Brooklyn dug into his breakfast, unwilling to play head games. If all the man had wanted was to watch him sleep and eat, he was okay with that. It wasn’t like he’d see him again.

“HOW WASit? How are you?” Les asked once Brooklyn settled in the car.

“I’m all right.” Brooklyn turned his head. “Could do some light training today.”

Les seemed reluctant to believe him. Maybe he expected Brooklyn to be covered in welts or something. No point telling him otherwise. In this case, it hadn’t been that bad. The eggs and bacon had certainly been close to spectacular. And the taste hadn’t been ruined by swallowing some stranger’s spunk.

Back at the gym, Brooklyn changed and went for some light cardio, toning and stretching, and pushed Nathaniel from his mind. Travelling businessman or banker on a stop in London. Why should he give a fuck?

He spent the evening with Les in the sparse room Les sometimes used when he stayed overnight in the gym. TV, DVD player, narrow bed, walls the same grey they were in the boxers’ quarters. Just enough privacy here to breathe a little easier and focus on watching the last few fights of his next opponent, an experienced but unrefined Irish brawler named John O’Dowd.

Almost like watching a DVD with a mate and a six-pack. Back when he’d been free, such evenings sometimes turned into semidrunk groping and often enough into a mutual handjob or occasionally a blowjob. He’d had one mate who’d enjoyed getting fucked, which was even better.

The freaks he’d encountered in the past three years had given him a strong dislike for getting penetrated. He’d always much preferred to be fucked by a man he trusted, but that was a rare commodity, both then and now. There had to be something irresistible about fucking a guy who could just as easily break your neck. Brooklyn didn’t see the appeal.

“You all right?” Les glanced at him.

“Yeah.” Brooklyn leaned forward, clutching both hands together and gritting his teeth. “I’ll take him, easy.”

“You should. He really struggles against southpaws. Call it a day?”

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