Page 63 of Mean Machine

“Thank you. I don’t want to be ungrateful. I’m still getting used to all of this.”

“Yes, I understand.” Nathaniel let his head hang, studying something between his shoes. “You know, I was maybe expecting we’d move in the same direction we were a few months ago, but a lot has happened in the meantime. I factually abandoned you—that’s what it looked like to you, and I can’t refute it by telling you I was still working on getting you out. I was hoping we’d move past that and get back to where we were, but now”—he lifted his head and looked straight at Brooklyn—“I don’t believe that’s going to happen, is it?”

“Not seamlessly, no. That fight is my priority.”

“Which I get.”

“Beyond that… I’m grateful.” Why was his throat tight? Oh, yes, because he didn’t really speak about his emotions if he could avoid it. Nathaniel’s openness and vulnerability helped—the man had never seemed like a threat, not on a visceral level. “And about us… I mean it, I’m okay to date you, but I want to take it slow. Get used to being my own man again.”

Nathaniel nodded silently.

“I don’t even know.” Brooklyn rubbed over his face, felt the bruises under his fingers, the heat of the swollen injured flesh. “For more than three years, I’ve fucked people who paid for it.” He took a deep breath, tried to push away the memory. “I want to remember what it feels like to choose who I sleep with.”

Nathaniel drew in a sharp breath. His jaw muscles tightened, and he looked genuinely hurt—there was a softness in his eyes that gave it away. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I even get why you booked me. I get it. No hard feelings about that.”

And that reflex was there—that little voice that asked him what the hell he was doing, sharing his thoughts so freely with a citizen.

“I tried, Brooklyn. I really did.”

“Yeah.” Brooklyn stood. “See, yesterday I wanted to tell you what I feel for you. But today, I feel like I have to work this out first. Before I can commit to anything but the fight.”

“But you do—feel for me, that is?” Nathaniel gripped his own hands and was hunched over, like a man expecting to get hit by awful news.

“Yeah, I do. I really want to talk to Cash first before I make any decisions.” Brooklyn stepped around the living room table and placed a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. It had been forever since they’d touched in any meaningful way, and the fine fit of Nathaniel’s suit, the off-white tailored shirt beneath and Nathaniel’s dark brown hair almost brushing his collar brought back the memory of other touches, unorthodox and unequal as their relationship had been then.

Nathaniel reached up and touched Brooklyn’s hand, then slowly lifted his head. “You can have as much time as you need. It’s only fair.”

Brooklyn crouched down before him and kept his hand where it was. “I got to. But I’m working on it. I’ll get there.”

Nathaniel met his eyes, and his lips curved into the smallest, gentlest of smiles. “If you’re not staying for lunch, I’ll call Eric.”

Brooklyn shook his head and pulled back. “I know the way from here.”

“All right.” Nathaniel rose too. They stood there awkwardly together, a bit too close, a bit too far apart, too many limbs between them, until they’d got out of the space between couch and table.

Nathaniel took him back to the door. “Call me. Please. I’d worry too much if you didn’t.” He opened the door for Brooklyn, demonstratively, meaningfully.

“Will do.” Brooklyn leaned forward and brushed his lips against Nathaniel’s—it didn’t take much thinking, didn’t turn into uncontrollable wildfire, but it was a touch that reminded him how good it felt to touch Nathaniel more than this. Kiss him properly, hungrily, passionately. Those were good feelings. They seemed oddly pure in the muddle of thoughts and feelings and memories vying for his attention.

Nathaniel seemed startled, and Brooklyn winked at him, then turned and walked away. Once outside the door, he broke into a trot, and once inside the park, into a run.

“COME ONin, Brook! Food’s just on the table!” Cash stood in the door, beaming at him, and Brooklyn followed him inside. He’d never visited Cash at home—and a nice home it was, out of the way in the Northwest of London, detached, with some grass and bushes on all sides. It looked like a converted brick barn, the roof sagging, as if tired. The old-fashioned style prevailed only on the outside—to the back, the house had been gutted and converted and extended for dear life. The kitchen was in the extension that consisted largely of glass, flooding this part with light.

Brooklyn walked slowly to allow Cash to stay beside him without straining. “How are you doing?”

“Doing well.” Cash offered him a place at the table, and Brooklyn pulled the chair back when Marina appeared from the kitchen with a cast iron skillet in gloved hands. She smiled at him and put the dish down. “Brooklyn, how lovely. I hope you’ve brought an appetite.”

Brooklyn patted his stomach. “Only had breakfast.” He sat down and watched Cash get on the chair. His hip didn’t seem to trouble him any more than usual, but he still inwardly winced when he watched the energetic Cash struggle with basic movements like that. Marina paused and waited with a watchful gaze to see if Cash was all right, then settled herself.

The food was a spicy stew with beef and vegetables, served on top of brown rice—perfectly acceptable food even in training, as long as he kept an eye on the portion size.

“So, have you spoken to Bishop?”

The food was so spicy that Brooklyn had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Saw him this morning for breakfast.”

“And how did it go?”

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