Counterpunch, Page 3

  Guards watched the room at night to make sure there was no “funny stuff” going on, and Brooklyn was still too proud to openly break those rules. It was difficult at times. Les told him he’d need the aggression and testosterone to fight, and it worked, so he shouldn’t complain.

  He stopped when she was done, towelled himself dry, and sat down on a wooden bench for more photos. Sitting boxer in terry robe, holding a pair of battered gloves.

  “If you had one wish, one opponent you’d want to fight, who would that be?”

  Two very different questions. But Steven didn’t expect to hear that he wanted to go home, that he wanted his life and freedom back. The thought hurt. “Dragan Thorne. But he, like all freemen, is a pussy, and doesn’t fight slaves. I think freemen are afraid of us and won’t fight us like men because they’re afraid we’ll show them we are men and pound-for-pound as good as they are.”

  Steven looked up. “Isn’t that a dangerous thing to say?”

  “You tell me.” Brooklyn leaned forwards. “See anything I can lose now? I mean, anything at all?”

  “Your life?”

  “I’m worth too much money.” Brooklyn laughed, but it was a bitter, choked sound. “Yeah, there’s that. They could send me to the army. But the army pays a fixed sum, and I’m worth a lot more than that. And as long as I play ball, I’m not going to Afghanistan.”

  “Where will your career take you?”

  “I’ll be the slave heavyweight champion before the year’s up.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. There aren’t many of my calibre around. Heavyweight is where the glory and the money is, but there’s no Muhammad Ali, Foreman, or Frazier around that I can see. Even Dragan Thorne wouldn’t stand a chance against one of the greats. He’s a lumbering idiot who’s more interested in getting big sponsorship deals than learning how to fucking move in the ring. He’s only looking so good because they’re booking him easy fights with men that think half an hour in the limelight will make them famous—before they go down. Playing tomato can is the easy road for any boxer, but it also means he’s desperately mediocre.”

  Steven’s eyes shone with delight, as if the hack had never heard a boxer trash talk. Catherine screwed the lens off her camera and began to pack.

  Brooklyn chuckled. “Was it good for you?”

  Steven gave him a wide grin, rather more smitten than Brooklyn thought was strictly necessary. The guy was like a puppy wagging its tail. “I really want to see you fight.”

  “Come on Saturday.” Brooklyn stood and walked them to the door. “Cash’s your man. He’s doing the promotion. He’ll be happy to help.”

  Listen to you, Brooklyn, sounding like a cheap phone salesman.

  “Brook, my man, how you doing?” Cash fist-bumped Brooklyn’s glove after the fight and turned to walk up the aisle with him, the crowd cheering left and right. Moving down the aisle in the other direction—towards the ring—was always one of the scariest things Brooklyn could imagine. He still felt like he was going to throw up, even after all this time, but that was just nerves. Once the fight started and the world became as small as the ring, the crowd was gone, and he grew calm.

  “Pretty good.”

  “I can see that!” Cash was a ball of glee, dark face lit with pride. Brooklyn shortened his stride so Cash could keep up. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with the promoter’s hip, but walking looked painful when Cash did it.

  “Man, you’re my favourite southpaw, ever.” Cash turned to the crowd. “Yeah, scream your heads off, ladies, but he’s going home with me tonight.”

  Brooklyn pursed his lips to keep from laughing. Cash’s ego and sunny disposition, bottled, would make the world a much brighter place. “You ditching Marina? Really? I’m flattered.”

  The doors closed behind them, and the crowd’s roar became the hum of an angry but distant beehive. The raw concrete walls sobered Brooklyn, but he was content to bask in the glow of Cash’s attention. The promoter had a way of making anybody feel good.

  “Get cleaned up, my boy, I’ll just say good-bye to the journalists. Be back with you in five.” That translated into twenty minutes.

  Les waved him off. “I’ll take care of Brook in the meantime.”

  “Great. Won’t be long.” Cash rushed off, his wobbling gait unstable and laboured, but almost nothing slowed Cash down.

  Brooklyn headed to the changing room and undressed, his muscles still vibrating from the strain, blood rushing and pounding. A KO made him feel like a god. Concerns over his opponent’s well-being only ever happened the next day, when that adrenaline burn was gone. He could have torn down walls, punched over trees. He could do anything. For a little while, he could almost kid himself he was free again. Of course, actually being free had never felt like anything special.

  “That was great work, Brook. Glenn was outclassed. What the hell was Cash thinking? That fight was almost too easy for you.”

  “I doubt anybody could have seen that.” Brooklyn unwrapped the bandages and flexed his hands. His knuckles were red, abraded from the bandages. “He was a damn good boxer three years ago. He’s done.”

  “Yeah. Shit, there goes the old guard.” Les shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. The new guard isn’t any worse.” Brooklyn glanced up. “Or do you think so?”

  “No, you’re a fine boxer, Brook. But I remember when Glenn was truly great.”

  “Me too. So what?”

  “Just feeling my age, I guess.” Les smiled at him and touched him on the shoulder.

  “Fuck, Les, if you keep touching me, you could at least follow through with all those promises.”

  Les stared at him, his grip tightening. There was something else in his eyes. Desire? Brooklyn was pretty sure Les wanted him, and he wouldn’t have minded. Here was one guy he trusted, one who probably, mostly, understood what it was like, a man he spent more time with than he’d ever spent with Shelley. If Les made a move, he wouldn’t say no.

  “That would be wrong, Brook.”

  “Fucking slavery is wrong.” Brooklyn grinned. “Two wrongs make a right, eh?”

  “I’m your trainer.”

  “If I were free, it wouldn’t matter, would it?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Les dropped his hand, where it hung as if Les tried to forget he had it. “I can’t do what I’m doing if I’m sleeping with you.”

  “Nobody has to ‘sleep.’ We could just fuck.”

  Les groaned.

  How would that sound when it came from pleasure?

  Brooklyn stood and opened his arms a bit, offering. “Just say the word, coach. I’d be all yours.”

  “Go. Shower.” Les was probably trying for serious, but all he appeared was exasperated. His phone rang, and he fished it from his pocket. The way he straightened a little and sobered—management call?

  Brooklyn lingered to find a towel.

  “Yes, sir, he’s here. I guess you saw the fight. No, he’s all right. Got a few bad ones in the jaw, but he’s lippy all the same. Nothing broken or even rattled. Yes, sir, I guarantee that.”

  Les shooed him towards the shower. “Just a moment, sir.” He looked up. “Shower, Brook. The car’ll be outside in twenty. Yes, I’m back. Sorry, sir.”

  Brooklyn headed off into the shower, still able to hear the mumble of Les’s voice through the spray, but then he ducked his head under and washed. What could he learn, anyway? Les wouldn’t speak openly. The business side of things was always tucked away. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t concern him. Even though, of course, it did.

  His knuckles hurt under the hot water, and he took care to not get the soap on them. He’d beaten Glenn stupid. The old man had offered him too many openings to the face and jaw. Punches to the body were draining and hurt like motherfuckers when he managed to get the short ribs or the liver, but punches to the head disorientated and addled. What he hit in the end didn’t matter. Whatever was sticking out of the guard, he’d laid into it with everythi
ng he had.

  He turned the water off, shook the drops from his eyes, and reached for the towel. A quick rubdown and a very careful pat dry of his hands, and he wandered out again. He got dressed—faded jeans, socks, trainers, a sports top, and a hoodie to keep him warm. While the doctor checked Brooklyn, Les was texting on his phone.

  “What was that about?”

  “Management got an offer for you.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “Somebody wants to buy you.” Les looked at him for a long moment, long enough for the doctor to leave. “I advised against it. Apparently the offer was so high that they asked me for my opinion.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you’ll be worth twenty times that when you’re the slave world champion. That you’re just getting started and that they’d be stupid to sell you right now. Nobody sells a horse before the Grand National.”

  Wow, talk about a bucket of ice water. “I’m not a horse.”

  “No. You’re an athlete. A fighter. But I had to tell it to them in a way they’d understand.” Les slipped the phone back into his trouser pocket. “I know you’re about ready to do it. You’re a fine boxer. You’ll be great if you don’t fall apart before you get the title.”

  Brooklyn laughed, but it sounded bitter even to his ears. “Like I’m doing it for them.”

  “No, you do it because you have the heart of a warrior. You’re hungry. For justice, for freedom, maybe even for death. But you want to die on your feet, fighting. Right?”

  Gooseflesh all over his body, even on his dick. Fucking Les would be a terrible idea. The man knew him too damned well. “You been writing the screenplay, huh? Nice tagline. Do you have something to eat?”

  Les tossed him a protein bar and a water bottle. “And you have an appointment later.”

  “Management’s certainly getting their money’s worth from this horse.” Brooklyn chewed, the sickly sweetness just perfect after the sweat and adrenaline. “You think they’ll turn me into a full-time breeding stallion if I really do become champion?”

  “Not sure they want your genes all over the slave population. People tend to like their slaves more docile than that.”

  The door burst open. “Brook. My boy.”

  “Hey, Cash.” Brooklyn smiled and found it wasn’t hard at all. “Tell me you got Thorne booked for me.”

  Cash’s face fell. “There’s a fight I’d pay to see.” With all the free tickets he got, that was saying something. “Maybe we’ll have a chance if Thorne gets turned into a slave.”

  “Yeah, right after the moon crashes to earth.” Brooklyn started on the next protein bar. “Well, some guys dream of banging Katie Price. I just want to bang on Thorne a little.” He shrugged. “We all need our dreams.”

  “Well. Keep dreaming, my boy. Guess who I talked to just before your fight?”

  “Not a mind reader yet.”

  “Try.”

  “The mayor of London?”

  “Richard Bells.”

  “And?”

  “Dick Bells? Nice one,” Les said. “Brook, he’s Odysseus Xarchakos’s promoter. And he owns Florian Esch too.”

  “Can I fight them both?”

  “You can have the German. In two months.”

  “Where?”

  “In Hamburg. You’ll have to fight the crowd too. Esch is a local hero.”

  “We’ll just need to give you a bombastic instrumental song by Vangelis, and you’ll take the Germans by storm,” Les sneered.

  “I thought the way to do it is to say, ‘Ich bin ein Berliner,’” Brooklyn said. “Cash, if you score me the Greek, I’ll come in my pants. Just saying.”

  “It’s not impossible. Dick’s interested, but he’s above all interested in cold, hard cash.”

  “You think he’d buy Brook?”

  “Possibly. I think he’s giving us Esch to see if Brook has star qualities. He’ll keep the Greek back for the moment. He’s a poker player; he’s teasing, but he’s very much on the ball. Brook, pretty sure you can have them both if the fight against Esch makes good money. We’ve been working hard to get your brand out, and we’ll have to do more ads and posters on the underground to step it up, see how ticket sales are looking. If we can fill a large enough venue, you’ll get the Greek.”

  “Wembley, here I come.”

  Cash grinned. “That’s my boy. I’ll make some phone calls.” He rushed out again.

  Les glanced at his mobile. “Car’s waiting.” He grabbed the bag and slung it over his shoulder. Brooklyn walked at his side.

  When the security guys opened the door, however, there was a crowd outside. It felt like walking to the ring all over again, and Brooklyn paused, suddenly showered with lightning from cameras and mobile phones. He couldn’t help but look at them: girls, boys, women, men. Between them, somewhere, he caught a flushed face with a taut ponytail. He blinked and pushed forwards, Les right next to him. Where was she? Gone. Missed. He wanted to wade in after her, make sure she wasn’t an apparition, but he really couldn’t tell her apart from the rest of the mob. The car was just a few steps away, and he almost dove in.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Saw somebody I know. Thought I’d seen her. But I was wrong.” What would Shelley be doing here, waiting outside for him? That wasn’t like her. And why would she have changed her mind? “Just get me to my paying customer.” Brooklyn leaned back and shook his head, while the car weaved into the London evening traffic. “Any specifics?”

  “It’s a guy.” Les watched him carefully, as if apologetic.

  “Let’s go easy on the jogging tomorrow, then.”

  Les winced. “You’re booked for the whole night. If you don’t get any sleep, we’ll cancel training. You need a rest day like anybody else.”

  “Yeah.” Brooklyn closed his eyes, tried to summon what exactly he’d seen. There were many blonde women with ponytails. Oval faces. It was like being back on square one, getting jolted every time he saw somebody of similar height and build in a crowd. There had to be half a million people like her in London alone. He’d run after one of them, two years ago. Not only had he been shocked—and shocked badly—in public out on the street, but when she’d turned to cast a glance at the convulsing slave, it hadn’t been Shelley at all. Like some kind of nightmare where people shape-shifted from one moment to the next. He could have sworn it was her.

  Curtis opened the door. “Let’s go, slave.”

  Brooklyn opened his eyes. “Sure.”

  They were outside the Diamond. Nice hotel that boasted a selection of pop stars at any given time. Brooklyn had rarely felt more underdressed, and while the receptionist kept a perfectly straight face, he knew she knew why he was here. Hardly to sign autographs.

  “Sapphire suite, sir.” She addressed Les. Curtis was too clearly a guard, and Brooklyn was too clearly a slave. “Take the personal elevator, number five.” She handed him a card.

  Les marched ahead. The card opened the elevator. The suites were all listed. Sapphire was pretty high up, but not quite at the top.

  “You think I’ll at least get breakfast here?”

  Curtis shot him a dark look, and Les shrugged.

  When the doors opened without a sound, Brooklyn’s stomach roiled. Yet again he was a piece of rough trade. And while he was always at least a little in control with a woman; a man was a different matter. It’s just like casual sex. A one-night stand, only, of course, nobody asked me.

  The door to the suite was open, and Les stepped in, leaning forwards to look around. The faint sound of a shower from far beyond the tasteful blue-cream-white interior. “Uh. Plush.”

  Brooklyn huffed. “Yeah, I’m clearly climbing the ladder.”

  They walked in farther, and there was another door open to the side. Subtle invitations.

  Brooklyn inhaled sharply when he saw the fully stocked playroom. “Sick bastard,” he murmured.

  “Shut the fuck up, slave,” Curtis growled.

  “Cur
tis, would you mind? Outside.” Les pointed at the door. “Everything’s under control.”

  Curtis shot him a nasty look but turned on his heel.

  Les waited for a few moments and then glanced at Brooklyn. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “What? This isn’t the first time they’ve done kinky shit to me.”

  Brooklyn pulled off the hoodie and pushed it against Les’s chest. He swallowed, feeling more nervous than he’d let on. “I prefer being tied up. Keeps me from breaking the bastard’s neck.”

  He shed the shirt, the shoes, and then the trousers and underwear. There were two kinds of restraints in the room. A St. Andrew’s cross and, centrepiece of the room, a pillory and stocks, all in dark wood and leather. Before anybody else could make the choice for him, he stepped towards the pillory and knelt down on it. The leather pad supported his chest, and more padding kept his knees off the parquet.

  “Help me with this, Les.” Because if I can fight, I will. I’ll punch the bastard and break his neck. I’ll kill him. I swear, I’ll kill him.

  “Sure, Brook.” Les knelt down at his side and closed the padded steel restraints around Brooklyn’s left wrist first. His strong hand. Then his right. And a metal ring for his neck, where it sat snugly until Les found the catch that widened it. “Y’all right?”

  Brooklyn smiled, but everything in him wanted to run, bolt, fight to the death. “You sound more nervous than I am.”

  “I just don’t like it,” Les murmured.

  “My legs next.”

  “It has a spreader bar.”

  “Yeah. Better spread them wide.” Because that’ll help. It will limit what I can do to defend myself. Goose bumps ran across his body when Les fastened the cuff around his ankle. And, way, way apart, the other. Brooklyn tensed in the restraints, once and then again, with all the strength he had. But it was solid hardwood, something like teak, probably. It didn’t even budge.

  “If you want to be extra good to me, some oil would be great.”

  “Oil?”

  “My arse.”

  “He won’t . . .”

  “He might not, but I’m taking no risk.”