Page 98 of Mean Machine

“Well, they sure were mine.” Brooklyn grabbed a shrimp by the tail, dunked it in chilli sauce, and took a bite. Perfect combination of sweet, hot, crispy, tender, and juicy. He took another.

Rose gave him a grin. “That might be enough. Could be enough to inspire a few people.” He jumped to his feet, always the more physically restless of the two. “Come, Brook, let’s dance.”

“Quite happy to have a few of these first.”

“Take the plate.”

“I don’t think our guests will appreciate shrimp and sauce flying everywhere.”

Rose gave them a chiding look, took off his jacket, dropped it on Em’s lap, and walked away towards the dance floor.

Em reached for a shrimp. “Now he’s got to think about it.”

“About what? The hero stuff?”

Em shook his head and gently pulled the tail off the shrimp, then pulled the meat apart. “You being available.”

Brooklyn hesitated, but he didn’t read any weird or nasty vibes, no jealousy, no probing. Em simply didn’t seem to be that kind of person. “That makes him think?”

“Coy doesn’t suit you, Brook. There’s stuff going on between you guys, and I get that. Are you worried I’d be jealous?”

“Well, a bit?”

Now getting away from the pool and into the loud thumping music seemed like a very attractive escape. All of this meant Brooklyn hadn’t been wrong about the flirting, about Rose’s intentions. If not for Nathaniel, things might already have happened, regardless of how confused his feelings were. He’d always kind of wanted Rose, and also Em, physically. He considered both his friends—liked and respected both of them, and maybe bright, energetic Rose always stole the limelight when he and Em were in the same room, but looking at Em now, his steady, calm presence, Brooklyn felt maybe it hadn’t been fair to focus so much on Rose.

Em seemed like the kind of person you could rely on, whatever came. He wasn’t loud about it, didn’t need the attention. He simply stood always ready to help and support. Maybe Rose didn’t like the MMA thing because he feared losing that—though any fool could see that Em would always be there for people he cared about. Nothing about him was fickle.

“Do you still think that?”

Brooklyn shook his head. “I don’t know what the rules are.”

“No rules.” Em moved closer, and Brooklyn’s heart stuttered almost painfully. Em radiated a heat and energy that was intimidating when you sparred with him, but outside sparring, next to the pool and with a plate of shrimp between them, he was breathtaking.

Em held his gaze with dark brown eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth; then his lids slowly closed and just as slowly opened again. “I think the Jacuzzi are that way,” Em murmured, then stood.

Brooklyn stood in the same moment, their bodies now so in tune they might as well have been physically connected.

Em led the way along the pool to the row of Jacuzzi at the far end, each one separated from the others by wooden screens. The first one was occupied, muffled laughter rolling from behind the screen. Em didn’t hesitate, moved on towards the last one of the row and stepped behind the screen. The bubbles were already starting up—some smart system had read their intentions. This was still a lapse of sanity—the privacy wouldn’t mean anything at all if some drunk revellers ended up having the same idea, and if Brooklyn had learnt one thing, it was that people talked.

And that was one of the reasons he’d not hooked up with random people, despite invitations or the fact that New York City was, like London, a pretty good hunting ground with its bars and the anonymity of all big cities. But again, that anonymity had been wiped out, and his physique alone made blending into a normal city crowd not exactly easy. He’d briefly entertained the idea of hiring a professional to blow off some steam, but maybe his own stint of earning some extra cash that way had cured him of the idea. He had no way of telling under what kind of duress a pro might be earning that money, what tough decisions they had to make, and really the thing he’d wanted more than an orgasm that involved another human being was to make a connection with somebody. But that was very much impossible without sending a bat signal to every gold digger, chancer, and player out there.

Here, the connection already existed. Friendship and mutual respect preceded the crazy amount of money and the big-ticket fame.

Em pulled his long-sleeved shirt over his head, and Brooklyn stood dumbstruck at the tattoo. As Em stripped, more and more of it became visible. On his right side, covering his pec and shoulder, and then down to his flank and obliques, were roses. Lush dark red blossoms on a leafy vine, with nasty-looking thorns, and in the background of the image was coiling darkness. In the low light, Brooklyn could make out scales and a sinewy body that seemed to be moving through a rose thicket, and there, in the place where the upper arm turned into shoulder, was the creature’s head. It was a red-and-grey cobra about to strike. It was a stupendous, breathtaking piece of art, and when Em turned, the tattoo covered his shoulder blade and side in the exact same pattern as his front.

“That’s wicked.” And so, so overt, if you knew the meaning of the roses. Always be a part of boxing, indeed. It was the strangest, most touching statement of commitment, and most people would miss it and overlook it when they focused on the fierce-looking cobra. Another boxing skill: feint and distract.

Pleased, Em lifted his eyebrows. “Right? With all the tattoos in MMA, I felt naked without any.” He stripped off his trousers and underwear. The tattoo stopped right on his Adonis belt and likewise left out the butt.

“It’s a statement piece. I mean, that’s one artist, one… concept.”

“Just got completed. The artist works fast, but it took a few days, six weeks apart every time so I could heal.” Em grinned, seemingly knowing without a doubt that Brooklyn was using this distraction to win time. “Come on.” Em slid into the water and gave a contented groan when he settled in the bubbling water, arms along the rim.

Brooklyn stripped off the hoodie, shirt, trainers, trousers. There was no point hiding because he simply didn’t have much shame or embarrassment left when it came to his body. He’d put a lot of work into how he looked, and at fighting weight, he was lean and sharp, at least for a heavyweight.

Em regarded him with that playful smirk. “I think Nathaniel is an idiot, quite frankly.”

Brooklyn grinned, though he hesitated when it came to the swimming trunks. Em was naked, nobody else could see that he was taking them off, but it did send a clear message, didn’t it?

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