Page 24 of Quake
“Your mother is quite upset with you,” he said. “You should have more respect.”
“You should have turned up to dinner.” It was pointless even attempting to defend myself because he completely ignored me.
“I can already see that none of my suggestions were implemented,” he went on, surveying the studio.
“And like I said, it isn’t my business. Or yours. If you’re that adamant about it, take it up with Andrew Miller.”
“Who are these fighters you are training?” He strode over to the ring where Gaz and Mitch were sparring, and Franklin was working a ball solo.
“Franklin Waters…” I began, attempting an introduction, but Franklin took the initiative.
“Vincent Carmichael,” he said, shaking Dad’s hand. “It’s really great to meet you.”
“You’re solidly built, good form. A little slow on your hand-eye coordination,” Dad said, looking Franklin over. “How long have you been training?”
“Longer than I can remember. Coming up two years at Beat. I’ve made a lot of headway since Caleb came on.”
Dad narrowed his eyes at me, then declared in all his arrogance, “I’ll make my own judgment about my son’s coaching abilities.” He gestured toward the ring. “Would you care for a few rounds?”
Franklin’s eyes lit up, practically pissing his pants at the chance to spar with a world champion boxer. Little did he know, he was merely a pawn in a long overdue Carmichael power play.
“Sure thing. Any pointers you could give me, I’ll gladly take.”
Dad snorted, shaking off his suit jacket.
“If you need something to change into, I have—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Spare me your courtesies, boy,” he snapped, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
I raised an eyebrow at Franklin, but he was so besotted, it was pointless. Same went for Gaz and Mitch, who ducked through the ropes, exiting the ring. If they knew what was good for them, they wouldn’t have the balls to call me boy the moment Dad left the premises.
Franklin held the ropes open for my father, who ducked through seamlessly, then followed, eager to hear his assessment. Mitch handed them both a pair of gloves, which they donned.
Dad looked ridiculous standing there bare chested in nothing but his suit pants, and I rolled my eyes. The guys were star struck, and Vincent Carmichael could do no wrong. They would pay to take a beating from the guy, and that was what Franklin was about to be served on a silver platter.
“Never let your opponent through your guard,” Dad said, holding up his fists. “If he thinks he can hit you, he will.”
They bounced around, and the difference in their stances clear. Franklin was too loose, and Dad, well he was fluid, but his weight was planted evenly on his heels. Then he struck, breaking right through Frank’s defenses and clipping his cheek with a right hook, the glove hitting him with a dull smack.
“See?” Dad snarled. “You’re afraid of getting hit, so your defense is weak. I can break straight through. You block, you get punched. There is no such thing as a boxer without scars. Learn how to take the hit, and you’ll be able to give it back just as hard.”
They went at it for another few swings, each punch getting past Frank’s guard and smacking him in the head.
“Grow some balls,” Dad growled. “There are no boys in boxing. Only men.”
I didn’t like his approach at all. Going at Franklin so hard without any sight of reward was old school, and it wasn’t the way I liked to handle these guys. My training had been ten times worse than this.Failure was not an option. The notion had been literally beaten into me. There was another way, the way Andrew Miller had taught me when he’d taken me on at Beat, and I was determined to follow the direction of another champion boxer.
Vincent Carmichael’s word was not law—especially not at Beat—and there was much more to boxing than money, sex, and power. Things like control, calm, balance, poise, precision, stamina…
“If you train soft fighters, your career is over,” Dad snapped, turning his attention to me. “That one needs hardening up.”
Everyone was staring at me, waiting for my reaction. I kept my mouth shut, knowing Dad was attempting to humiliate me in front of the men who were supposed to look up to me. It was another ploy to get me out of Beat and back into training and another frustration in a long line of manipulative bullshit. It was nothing new, which was why it was so fucking disappointing.
Lucky for me, I’d warned the guys the second I knew his arrival at Beat was inevitable.
My gaze flickered to Franklin’s, and he shrugged, looking as uncomfortable as I felt. Then he nodded toward the roller door. While Dad was ducking through the ropes, I turned and saw Juliette had arrived. The last thing I wanted was for her to witness round two in the Carmichael shit show on the Humiliation Network.
“Dad, I have to go. You know where the door is,” I said thinly, backing away.
