Page 24 of Mean Machine

“You didn’t tell me to stop.”

“I didn’t want you to stop.” He yawned and pulled his hand back after another reassuring squeeze, then fell asleep, if his deep, relaxed breaths were anything to go by.

Brooklyn was aware of the man’s small movements, his closeness, without touching or brushing. He didn’t mind it at all. It made all this feel more normal. Most people who’d fucked him had kicked him out afterward.

Fuck, seemed that nothing he’d learnt about the bloody perverts applied to Nathaniel.

WHILE NATHANIELwas in the shower, Brooklyn toured the suite. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, and he certainly wasn’t going to rifle through the man’s pockets to establish his name and identity. There had to be a passport somewhere, but finding it might be a bit more difficult than patting his jacket. Who went to a restaurant with their passport tucked in the inner pocket?

Two instincts warred with each other: finding out more about Nathaniel, and not imposing on the man’s business. One was an instinct from his former life, the other a more recent reflex. In the end, he sat down on the couch and pulled a pile of magazines close. A few law magazines,The Economist, and a back issue of Universal Resilience. He checked the contents.

The Mean Machine—Universal Speaks to Brooklyn, Convict Boxer.

Brooklyn found the story. Eight pages, ninety percent images. But what images. Gritty and so vivid they leapt off the page.

You look like a mean motherfucker.

And he did. He didn’t see it that much in the mirror, but right there, he looked imposing, and more so against the rough textures of the gym. In the ring against Stu, he looked scary, focused—both snaps had frozen him in midattack, never on the defensive. Ironically, the shower shot made him look almost human, soapsuds running over him and his eyes closed.

“I have to get them to send me the files,” Nathaniel said, running a white hotel towel across his neck. “That article caused quite a stir. I wanted to meet you even more after I’d read it.”

“Not much reading.” Brooklyn pointed at the spread.

“Yes, but you are challenging Dragan Thorne. Now, I’m no real boxing aficionado, but even I know he’s the current world champion.”

“There’s no single world champion, but yeah, he has three titles.” Brooklyn nodded at the magazine. “Caused a stir?”

“Oh, yes. There’s a lot of talk about you on the internet. Fan clubs, forums, galleries.”

“Really?” Brooklyn laughed. “I’m a bit isolated.” Apart from the screeching fans waiting for him outside and in the hall. Well, okay, maybe he could have guessed.

“They keep you out of the way, but that doesn’t stop it. If anything, it gets people more interested. They’re keeping you a pretty scarce resource.”

“Les probably thinks I need to focus on the boxing. And that’s what I want.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Nathaniel pointed at the pile of magazines. “The Economisthas an interesting analysis on the similarities of modern-day convict fighters and Roman gladiators. They seem to have used Ancient Rome as an inspiration, including your ability to buy your freedom… pardon, buy out your contract, except gladiators got to keep part of their winnings.”

“Really? How do you know?”

“They could afford fancy stonework on their tombstones and sarcophagi.” Nathaniel lifted his eyebrows. “Whereas you don’t have any assets. If I understand your contract correctly, your winnings offset your living and training costs, and a part is used to buy back shares in you as a ‘going concern.’” He leaned forward and folded his hands. “Of course, you’re buying back the freely traded shares at market rates, and as you win and gain a following, the price of those shares also increases, making it a bit of a moving target, but I think it keeps you motivated to work harder and strive for freedom, even if it takes twenty or thirty years.”

“You’re being optimistic. At the current rate, I’ll be out way past seventy.”

“There’s also the possibility of a royal pardon.”

“Yeah, like for that Victoria Cross winner, not that he goes anywhere, both legs blown off in Afghanistan, but hey, he’s out of his contract.”

Nathaniel laughed. “Personally, I’m glad you’re not in the Army.”

“Me too. I don’t like orders.”

“I’d never have imagined.”

“Now you’re being sarcastic.”

“Takes one to know one.” Nathaniel chuckled. “There’s a restaurant I’d like to try. Are you interested?”

“Sure.”

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