Page 1 of Gentleman's Anger
one
LOGAN REYNOLDS
At twenty-four, I’ve been around long enough to know that I’m beyond fucked up, but I can compartmentalize it, for the most part. When I was seven years old, I witnessed my parents murders. I had gotten up for a drink of water and heard a noise. Like a dumbass, I went to the source of it. I pushed open my parent’s bedroom door and froze as I watched in horror as they were stabbed to death by strangers. Like a coward, I went back to bed, hoping and praying it was just a nightmare. Afterward, I kept hearing the whispers of the killers as they carried the TV from their bedroom downstairs. When they left, I finally called 911, but it was too late. They were gone and my older brother, Jensen, became our guardian. He raised us well, but it wasn’t the same. I never told anyone what I saw. I am ashamed that I didn’t do more to help them. It weighs on me more than anything ever has before. For years it was just Jensen, Harry, Paul, Don, Dave, Kyle, and me against the world. Jensen really held it together. He was eighteen when it happened. I like to think that if it had been me, I would have been able to step it up, but I’m not so sure. Jensen was a professional gamer for many years but once he got married to Jessica two, almost three years ago, he moved into game design, which I guess had been a dream of his. I’m ashamed that I didn’t know that about him. Fuck. I’ve got to get better about visiting more often. When I was eighteen, I left Florida for England and I never looked back. Sure, I visited some, but it is no longer home. My brother tried, God bless him, but I haven’t had a home since the night I stood by and did nothing as my parents were murdered.
My brother’s don’t understand me and that’s okay. I don’t need them as much as I thought I would. I have to be my own man.I don’t know exactly when I turned into this hardened person, but something has got to give, and it’s got to be me. Only I can change it but at this point I’m not sure how to go about doing that.
I never date, I’ve never fucked a woman before, never wanted to waste my time. Night after night, I watch as my teammates, most of whom are my friends, search the clubs of London for whatever pussy they can find for the night. I never understood that. Mind you, this isn’t rooted in some religious piety. It’s because I want my heart, soul, and body to belong to my soul mate. The one woman out there that was made just for me. Until I meet her, my sole focus is the game. I put on my uniform, the black and gold colors pumping me up. For luck, I jump up and tap the “Welcome to the Lion’s Lair” sign before reaching the pitch. The crowds cheers, and even their jeers make me grin. The fucked-up gentleman I was two seconds ago is gone. In his place is the wrathful god of rugby I have become.
This game is the last of the regular season. When we win, we’ll go onto the semi-finals.
We have to win. Winning is what it’s all about. The violence of this game means nothing without winning. Nothing. As the teams hooker, my soul job is to hook the ball back to my team.
Eighty minutes until glory or eighty minutes until defeat.
I know which I’d prefer but it’s not all up to me. Hopefully, Lady Luck will be on our side.
“Ready, mate?” my best friend, Jimmy Long asks as we make our way out to the pitch. London born and bred; Jimmy was the first person to warm up to me on the team. As the only American on the Lions it was hard getting acclimated, but Jimmy and his family helped me out.
“Born ready,” I tell him, grinning.
“Let’s rock those Badgers,” he says as we get into rows. The whistle blows and the match begins.
Eighty minutes later, victory is ours. We beat the Badgers by just three points, but I’ll take them. We are on the way to the semi-finals now.
This is my fourth time at the semi-finals, but we’ve never managed to get into the finals since I’ve been here, but to be fair the Lions never made it to the semi-finals before I got here. The team was very unbalanced before the former owners son took over.
After a quick shower in the locker room, Jimmy thrusts a dry-cleaning bag into my hands.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“The club.”
“I have a suit. I don’t need to wear yours,” I reply, trying to give the bag back to him.
“Not for this club.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m bringing you as my guest to my private club.”
“I don’t want to see strippers,” I say, quickly.
“It’s not that kind of private club. I mean not unless you want it to be.” I look at him with what I am sure is the craziest look on my face. “I’m not doing a very good job of explaining this.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Okay. It’s like this. Do you know what the regency period is?”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate that the only reason I know what it is isn’t because of history classes. When my mom died, she had tons of historical romance novels. They were all over the house. She just left them wherever she finished them, like decorations. Jensen was selling everything, which I got, but when no one bought the books, he was going to donate them to a thrift store. For some reason, I didn’t like that. I made him keep them. Since I was only seven at the time, I left them in boxes in the garage. When I turned twelve, after being punished for shoplifting, I was tasked with cleaning and organizing the garage. I found them again. Armed withLady Sophia’s Duke For Hireby Chastity Bontrager in one hand and a dictionary in the other, I fell into a fantasy world I’ve never shared with anyone. It’s my guilty pleasure. Some guys snuckPlayboyandHustler; I wasn’t one of them. Instead, I read every single one of my mom’s books and I feel like I learned a lot from them. Once I finished one, I moved on to the next one. They have graduated from six carboard boxes in my brother’s garage to a large plastic tote that can hold a six-foot Christmas tree in my air-conditioned storage unit back in Florida. I still read them now, but thanks to the invention of the Kindle, I can read them discreetly. I can’t imagine what how fucking badly my teammates would make fun of me if they ever found out.
“So in the Regency Period they had gentlemen’s clubs.”
“Like White’s on St. James Street?” I ask, cutting him off.
“Exactly. This club is on St. James too, but it’s open to anyone. Men and women. It’s called The Pinnacle.” I choke on my water, which I just started gulping down. Pinnacle is an old term for a woman’s orgasm. I don’t know if this is common knowledge, but I know, and I’d be lying if I said I was intrigued by the idea of this club. “You okay, mate?”
“Yep. Great. Go on.”
