Page 14 of The Gambler's Prize
Just that one word. No timeline, no opening up about his plans. I suppose it’s too much to expect him to treat me like a working partner. I’m just the servant. Still, I can surmise that the boxing gym is a business venture. He’ll be able tocharge a decent price for lessons, leveraging the cachet of those heavyweight titles. It would make more sense to start up in Rhennes, where there are more aristocrats and wealthy merchants with money to burn. But maybe there’s a reason he left Rhennes. Was he forced out like me? Maybe we have more in common than I thought. That’s a question I really don’t dare ask.
“Would you teach me?” I ask instead.
He might be an asshole, but the chance to learn from the best is hard to pass up. The corded muscles on his forearm flex as he reaches up to scratch under his hood, possibly in confusion. It’s a habit I’ve noticed a few times. I still have no idea why he never takes the hood down, and it’d take a braver man than me to ask. He probably wonders why I want boxing lessons at all. Probably thinks I’m too spoiled to fight. His body screams restrained power, strength, utility. I look at my soft hands. There’s the beginnings of a callous already on my finger. No wonder he thinks I’m useless.
“Teach you boxing?” he says. “And give you weapons to use against me?”
“Come on. We both know you’re not scared of me. Even with lessons I’d have no hope.”
He makes atrueface, which is galling.
“No time,” he says, after a moment. “We’ll need to dedicate all our time to building the gym, given your skills so far.”
I refuse to allow any offense to show on my face. Who cares if I’m a terrible digger? It’s not like it’s a skill I’ve ever needed before. Or will ever need again after I’m done with him.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll just visit my regular boxing gym in the city.”
There’s a flicker in his expression, just a tiny tremor. Blink and you’d miss it. It’s shock. I give myself a few points. It feels like a mini victory any time I make any emotion register on that rocky face.
“About that…” he says. “We need to go over the house rules.”
My moment of victory didn’t last long: now I’m kicking myself for even mentioning it. I’ve given him an excuse to think ofrules. As if things aren’t bad enough already. With the stupid indentured servant laws, he’s well within his rights to circumscribe my life to a ridiculous degree.
“House rules?” I widen my eyes, all sweet and innocent, hoping to get him to go easy on me.
Of course he doesn’t even notice. His face remains as unfeeling as ever. Sometimes it reminds me of the wind-battered outcroppings of rock that spring up in the desert landscape.
“Rule one: no casinos, no pubs,” he says.
Isn’t that two rules?
“None at all?” I say.
He gives me a dark scowl from under the hood. “Do I need to remind you what happened last time you stepped into a casino?”
“No, Boss,” I mutter to the red soil.
“Rule two, no overnight visitors.”
Fuck. I guess it is his house, but still…
“For two whole years?” I plead. “What about, you know…?”
He smirks. “You have hands, don’t you?”
Just when I thought he was warming up to me, showing some signs of care as he protected me in the tavern. Now he’s back to looking at me likethat. Like I’m a speck of dirt on his shoe. He keeps this level of contempt just for me. I watched him carefully in town. He wasn’t the life of the party, but he managed to talk to people without snarling and glowering at them. He reserves a special kind of ire for me, like a super rancid bottle of vinegar left on the shelf for too long. Why does he hate me so much?
“What’s the problem?” he sneers. “You’ve already had enough sex to last a lifetime.”
Rage fires through my tired muscles. The insult is too much on top of everything else. My body prepares for a fight, stupidly. Grimes, with his boxing titles and years of fighting experience,reads the signs easily. He grins without warmth and steps closer, squaring his shoulders. His expression is taunting. He wants to provoke me to violence? Maybe. I bet he’d love the excuse to throw me on my ass and feel justified. I won’t give it to him. If he wants a fight,he’llhave to be the aggressor. And for some reason, even though he needles me and insults me and looks at me with scorn, he always stops just short of putting his hands on me. I’d love to punch him, slap him, shove him into the hole he just dug and hope he breaks an ankle. But I settle for standing up and walking away from him. Even that’s too much defiance for my asshole of a boss.
“Florian,” he calls sharply. “Get back here.”
The authority in his voice draws me back. Fear prickles up my spine. I turn slowly, looking down at the dull red earth. Because I’m afraid of what he’ll do to me if he sees the hatred in my eyes.
“You don’t walk away from me,” he says. “Understood?”
I nod.
