Page 47 of Mean Machine

Brooklyn got to his feet, knew he stood no chance against Curtis’s tonfa. And from the small smile on Curtis’s lips, Curtis knew it and savoured the build-up.

Just a few days ago, that would have filled him with screaming dread. He knew what guards could do if they were allowed, if nobody watched them. But he’d always hoped—always, at least distantly, assumed—that Les was his ally in this hellhole. But then, he’d also assumed Shelley had loved him and Nathaniel would actually find a way to free him.

Where was Nathaniel now? Or had he turned away too? Seeing Odysseus die right in front of him might have shattered the last illusions Nathaniel’d had about him.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“The Greek? Yes. Massive brain haemorrhage. He had a series of strokes last night that finished him off. It’s all over the news.” Les grimaced. “‘Killer Cop Strikes Again.’ Not a headline you’d appreciate.”

Oh God. Brooklyn wished he couldn’t imagine that, but he could. The way Odysseus had lain there, an inanimate, bleeding object. The fight shouldn’t have happened. None of this was any good. He didn’t want any of this.

“The title, of course, is yours.” Les raised an eyebrow. “There was a discussion on whether you should be disqualified because you hit him again as he was going down, but titles are politics. People figured you’d be a great heavyweight champion. A big ticket seller. The world wants to see you get your just deserts and watch you die.” Les stepped closer. “I told you never to kill a man in the ring. You didn’t fucking listen.”

I’m sorry, Brooklyn thought, but he bit down on the words. Apologising to Les for Odysseus was pointless. If anything, he should apologise to those Odysseus had left behind. Did he have a lover? Wife? Children? Who knew?

“I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“As if you didn’t know how strong you are,” Les growled. “You had so much promise. If you could let go of all that bullshit in your head, but no, you’re bent on self-destruction, and I’ve had it with you. I tried to be nice to you. I tried to win your trust, your friendship. I fuckingcaredabout you, Brooklyn.” Les pulled back. “But I’ve let you down too. I should have been firmer with you. Treated you like a convict. Well, I brought Miller here to freshen up your memory.”

“So he’s going to beat me to a pulp to put me back in my place?”

Les didn’t answer him. “Miller. Proceed.”

Curtis pulled the tonfa free. “With pleasure.”

No. Fucking. Doubt.

What Curtis gave him now made the beatings he’d received up to that point feel like love taps. A powerful blow to the back of his knees took away control over his legs and crumpled Brooklyn to the floor. Two powerful swings struck his shoulder blades and back and pushed him onto hands and knees. He fell farther, onto his elbows, because his hands couldn’t take it. The broken bones protested any kind of movement, and Brooklyn swallowed the tears stinging in his eyes. He wouldn’t cry when Curtis was watching. He’d rather get beaten to death.

He managed to glance at Les, but there was absolutely nothing in his face. The very fact that he kept standing there, out of the way but close enough to watch, felt like a kick to the teeth. At least, though, this turned the sense of guilt into numb anger.

Curtis hit him in the kidneys and liver, sending him flat to the ground. Getting punched there was bad enough, but the tonfa was a real bitch.

Brooklyn coughed against the cold brick floor, and he wasn’t at all surprised when Curtis’s heavy boot kicked him hard in the thigh. He should do something to protect himself, but whatever he could attempt, Curtis would break through. He couldn’t use his hands—the thought that Curtis might hit his broken bones was a cold, sharp horror right in the centre of his brain.

Resistance would only make all of this worse.

THE DOCTORexamined his hands, but Brooklyn didn’t pay attention. He didn’t care. “It will take a few more weeks before he can start boxing again,” the doctor said. “Injuries like these shouldn’t be trifled with.”

“I’ll start building his stamina first, anyway,” Les said. “As long as he’s cleared for that.”

“Oh, yes. Make sure you give the hands a rest,” the doctor said.

Brooklyn stood when Les indicated they were done. He followed Les out of the practice and sat down in the car. His hands. Keeping his eyes on his hands was safe. Looking at anything on the outside might remind him there was something else. Somethingmore. But he’d ruined that, hadn’t he? There was no firm ground anymore—he couldn’t rely on promises, couldn’t even trust himself.

“Your hands should be good enough to meet fans again.”

It was one way to get out of the gym for a few hours. One way to get out from under Curtis and Les. “Sure. Sounds good.”

He stayed out of the way as much as he could, spending the free time on his bed, resting. Not doing anything much, not reading, not daydreaming, just empty and drifting. It did pass the time.

When it was getting dark outside, Les appeared with a pile of clothes. Blue jeans, red T-shirt, underwear, socks. Brooklyn got up, took them, went for a shower, and got dressed in the changing rooms. Checked his appearance in the mirror. He thought it was tacky in the extreme to be wearing a “Mean Machine—Fitzhughes Gym 1945–2021” T-shirt. Maybe a concession to a crazy fan. Fuck the boxer, keep the T-shirt as a trophy.

He went to the car, too aware of Curtis’s presence. Curtis watched him extremely closely, always itching to use the tonfa.

Hilton. Brooklyn released a long-held breath.

Not Nathaniel. No word from him for weeks, and it wasn’t like asking would do any good. Nathaniel had given up on him.

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