Page 7 of Violent Things
“Well, yeah, I mean…Idid.” He looks lost, like he’s about to bolt any second. Michael comes and stands behind me, giving off an unmistakeableprepare-to-be-fucked-upvibe. I push the ropes of the ring down and vault over them, landing right in front of the kid. I’m on the fence. I should be right there with Michael, ready to give this little shit the beating of his life for breaking into my gym, but my curiosity is getting the better of me. “Why didn’t you leave when you realized someone was here? Huh? Answer me.”
He shrinks back into himself, shrugging his shoulders. “I was watching you guys. You were going to town on each other. People don’t spar like they wanna kill each other normally. Guess I was a little fascinated. Wanted to see who would win.”
Michael crosses his arms over his chest, still covered in blood, looking formidable. “And what do you think? In your expert opinion, who was winning?”
The kid’s eyebrows almost hit his hairline. He doesn’t realize he’s being fucked with. “I don’t know. You both looked pretty even to me. You gonna call the cops or what?”
I know Michael’s looking at me, waiting to see how I will react. I know full well howhewants to fucking react. He wants to laugh his ass off; I can feel it bubbling off him. I beat him to it, rumbling out my own laughter, right from the bottom of my ribcage. “How old are you?”
The kid looks from me to Michael, like this is some sort of trick question. “Twenty-three.”
“Twenty-three?”
“Yeah.”
“You got a job?”
Uncertainty flickers across his face again. “Yeah. I work at Mac’s.” He jerks his head over his shoulder, toward the door.
“Mac’s, the auto mechanics across the street?” I’ve seen the place. They deal in specialty cars. I thought about taking the Camaro over there before I noticed flashy pieces driving through the roller shutters at weird times of the night. Last thing I need is even stepping foot inside a place that cuts and shuts cars or burns VIN numbers off stolen vehicles.
The kid nods. “Yeah. I see you guys training over here sometimes when I’m on my break.”
I fit the gym out with a huge roller shutter of its own, so that we could get some airflow in here when we’re busy. It stands open during the day, when we’re open. “And your name?” I ask. “Better tell me the fucking truth.”
“Mason. Mason Reeves.” He says it too quickly for it to be a lie.
“All right, Mason, Mason Reeves, if you have a job working over at Mac’s and you’re earning money, why the hell aren’t you paying to come into my gym during daylight hours, huh?” I take a step closer to him, still considering planting my fist in his face. How the next few seconds play out right now all depends on what comes out of this fucker’s mouth.
Mason looks me in the eye and shrugs. “I don’t have to explain myself to you, man.”
“Ah, yeah, actually you do. Otherwise my boy Michael here is going to break something of yours. And it won’t be something small like your fingers. It’ll be something big. Something that means you won’t be working at Mac’s for a while, after all.”
Michael straightens up at this, as though he’s looking forward to the prospect of physical work. Things have been pretty low key since Charlie died. Michael’s been mostly checking in on Sloane to make sure no one’s following her. And also running tabs on the DEA. As Liam Neeson would say, though, he has a very particular set of skills, and he likes to use them. Just like me.
Mason lifts his chin, staring at us both. If he’s perturbed by the fact that Michael’s about to hospitalise him, he’s barely showing it. Barely.
“Whatever, man. I don’t come during the day because I’m at work.”
“There’s an all-night gym three blocks that way.” I point in the direction of the commercialized gym a five-minute walk down the road, raising my eyebrows. “Try again. This time the truth, motherfucker.”
Mason steps forward, a spark of something firing in his eyes. His chin is still lifted, showing me he’s not afraid of me. It’s a good show, but I can read him like a book. He’s freaked, but he won’t lose face by backing down. Good for him. Really fucking dumb, but good for him. “I have a sister to take care of,” he says. “I have rent to cover, and I gotta get school shit for her. I can’t afford expensive gyms.”
Michael looks down at his feet, smiling, arms still crossed. I sigh, not too impressed by the fact that I now feel obliged tonotbeat him up. “Where’s your mother?” I realize I sound like a fifty-year-old as I ask this. Fucking ridiculous.
“Dead. Drug overdose. It’s just me and my sister. My dad left when I was four. Millie’s dad left when my mom died. You want my whole life story, or are you just gonna call the fucking cops, so we can get this over with?”
Well, fuck me, the kid has stones. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time he’s had to front up to someone much bigger and much scarier than he is. I can appreciate that it takes some form of courage, even if that form of courage is mainly rooted in stupidity. Sloane would call him brave. I call him asking for it.
“I’m not gonna call the cops,” I tell him.
“You’re not?” He actually looks surprised, like the very sight of me isn’t enough to tell him that I’m hardly on the best of terms with local law enforcement.
“Nope. You’re gonna get in that ring with me. You can lay a couple of good hits on me, you can come train hereduring open hours.”
Steel forms in the kid’s eyes. “Why can’t it be him?” he says, jerking his head in Michael’s direction.
“Ha! I don’t know if I should be flattered or offended,” Michael says.
