Page 61 of Mean Machine

“I know.” Nathaniel reached over and touched Brooklyn’s hand, ran a thumb across his swollen, bruised knuckles. His own nails were manicured, and he didn’t have a single callous anywhere. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It won’t be cheap.”

“That’s okay.” Nathaniel flashed the briefest of smiles. “The payment for my stake is being processed, leaving me with enough liquid assets to bankroll the operation. Besides, morally, if not legally, those are your funds anyway.”

Then why was it so hard to simply accept the gift? It was clearly meant as a gift. “On one condition: you’ll let me pay it back.” Brooklyn slid his hand out from under Nathaniel’s when the waiter returned to ask whether everything was in order.

Only when he withdrew did Nathaniel look Brooklyn in the eye again. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is. For me.” Brooklyn picked up his fork. “I’ll make a lot of money from that fight. I’ll be able to pay my own way then.”

Nathaniel sighed. “Well, if that’s what you really want.”

“I got my first job when I was old enough to work. I’ve always worked for my money. Only—”

Nathaniel lifted his hands. “Fine. I’ll keep a tally of what you owe me. We’ll do this like businessmen, then.” Something in that sentence vibrated with disappointment, but this was important. It was important to not owe anybody anything—Brooklyn didn’t want to get tangled up in new debts and obligations.

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it. I’m glad we can sit here like this.” Nathaniel gave a small smile. “Though I would have hoped it might be a little more romantic.”

Brooklyn laughed. “You insisted on taking a beaten-up Frankenstein out for breakfast.”

“You don’t look that bad.”

“Well, Thorne looks worse.”

Nathaniel grinned and bit into his croissant. Flakes fell off, and the smell of cheese and butter and carbohydrates made Brooklyn’s mouth water. True freedom was the ability to eat as much bread as he liked, even empty carbs like that, buttered white toast, whenever the hell he wanted. Les’s strict regimen had kept him in shape. Now that would be part of his own responsibility. It was tempting to forgo the restrictions for just one day and eat the whole pile of toast. It was a slippery slope for every boxer, but the weigh-in scales didn’t lie.

He concentrated on his bacon and eggs, though he did have a slice of toast with the baked beans. The first few mouthfuls were every bit as good as he’d imagined and remembered, but he managed to stop after the first slice.

“So where do we stand?” Nathaniel wiped his fingers on the napkin but didn’t take his eyes off Brooklyn. “I mean, as people.”

“I figure we’re dating.” Brooklyn smiled. “I said I’d date you.”

“I don’t want to rush you into anything….”

“But?”

Nathaniel spread his hands. “If you need space, you can stay in the hotel for as long as you like. If you want to move in with me—you’d be welcome. I could even rent you somewhere or leave you the flat in Knightsbridge.”

Brooklyn considered it. Was he ready to spend that much time with Nathaniel? Day and night? Even during their stay on that island, there had been plenty of space and room. They’d routinely met for dinner, but other than that, he’d spent the days training. “You know, I really want to focus on the next fight.”

“And I’d be a distraction?”

“Why don’t we play it by ear? But yeah, having my own base feels right at the moment.”

Nathaniel nodded, too diplomatic to protest, Brooklyn assumed. After more than three years without privacy, though, Brooklyn looked forward to commanding his own space, even if that ended up being a cheap room in a nasty part of town. He could always take up a small job somewhere, working a couple hours a day, and earn enough to pay rent in a bedsit. Making his own decisions again, big decisions, like where he lived and how to finance it. It would have seemed absurd to ever hesitate about stuff like that, but those last three years echoed enough that he did—it all seemed too much, like something daring and huge. Back then, he’d never really cherished his freedom; moving out of home had been more a narrow escape than an adventure. Or that last time, because he knew he’d have to face the music and might not return to the flat he’d shared with Shelley.

“I think I’ll talk to Cash first,” Brooklyn added.

“Good idea.” Nathaniel waved himself a coffee refill over. “He adores you.”

“I love Cash. I really do. And I need someone to arrange the fight.”

“Then that seems like a good place to start. Do you want anything else?” When Brooklyn shook his head, Nathaniel finished his coffee and flagged down the bill.

Once back on the street, a passing group of teenagers did a collective double-take on Brooklyn’s face, and Brooklyn pulled up the hood to shield himself at least somewhat from the curiosity of strangers. He’d always thought it mildly ridiculous that a heavyweight champion should have an entourage with bodyguards, but even Thorne had one who was with him constantly.

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