Page 3 of Beg Me

I may pass out.

Fuck, she’s so fucking perfect.

Holy fuck, angel. I’m going to have a baton in my pocket all fucking day now.

I can’t wait to be home.

Two more days, baby.

Two more days, baby.

And with that, I walk out the door, while trying to picture the grossest things I can to make this raging hard-on go away before I get to training.

Chapter 3

Zander

Thud. Thud.Thud.

My hands hit the heavy bag with precise movements.

Over and over, running the same drills for the last fifteen minutes. It’s never a bad thing to run these drills over and over again. Muscle memory will save you when you can’t think in the middle of a fight.

After getting your bell rung as many times as I have, you learn quickly to do more practice and training than you ever think you need to.

Never get complacent.

Grabbing my water bottle, I squeeze it over my head before taking a big gulp. I brush my hands through my blackhair and notice the sides are getting a little long. Going to have to shave that down again, I like to keep clean-cut sides with the top being longer than my old Military high-reg haircut.

My mom used to like to call it a mohawk, but it’s not long enough to be considered one in my opinion. Maybe a fauxhawk.

The wrapping on my hand is getting loose so instead of retying it, I decide to hop over to the ring and practice footwork for a while. I’m just killing time until work starts anyway, so I might as well go as long as I can. I have a fight coming up next week and I want to be ready for it.

Joel, my trainer walks in. He’s wearing short shorts, we called them silkies in the Marine Corps, and a tight fighting Under Armor shirt. It shows his leather-like skin from sun and age, covered in moto tattoos.

“Did you get more moto tattoos? How many can you fit on your body, Joel?” I ask.

The man cares about nothing more than the Marines I swear. He even works at the Youth Young Marines Center every weekend.

“When you have given as much of your mind, body, and soul to them as I have, you will understand, boy,” he huffs.

“I may be a stupid man, but I was smart enough to get out of the Corps after the first time I was blown up. It didn’t take me twelve IEDs and a permanent 100% disability check from the military to get me to leave like you, old man,” I jest.

He knows I’m messing with him. We both have a lot of respect for each other and the military. But every Marine can tell you, it fucking sucks 99% of the time.

“Yeah, you’re right my boy. How’s the footwork going?”

Changing the subject the way he normally does. He doesn’t like to talk about his time in too much. He would rather help make new little Marines in the Young Marines program. That way they join more prepared than most of us poor bastards who had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. He went through a lot in his time.

“It’s going good, I think I’m ready for the fight. I want to come in early tomorrow though and run more drills.”

“Man, you were ready for the fight four years ago. How many more drills can you do?”

He gives me a knowing look. He knows I don’t just come here to train, it’s my outlet, it’s what keeps my brain quiet. I can only stand the constant noise in my head so much before I come here. Everything gets quiet the second I feel that bag under my knuckles.

Weed does it too, but I only partake in that before bed. I don’t like being in public high or drunk, it makes me nervous not being able to fully control my surroundings.

“Alright man, I’m closing up. Do you want the keys, or are you heading out with me?” He asks as he walks toward the door.

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