Page 1 of Mean Machine

Round 1

THE ENEMYwas swaying on his feet, but Brooklyn kept pushing him into a corner. Eight rounds in, he was tired and yet buzzing, high on adrenaline and sheer uncontrollable rage. He threw low punches into the other boxer’s sides, felt the solid resistance like a wall he wanted to tear down with his bare hands.

Under the onslaught, the other man squirmed, rounded his back, and stumbled away, but there were only the ropes, and beyond them, the baying mob.

Brooklyn kept swinging, connecting, and then noticed the enemy had lowered his guard to protect his torso. He took a half step back and delivered a straight punch with the right and a cross with the left. As if in slow motion, the power from that hit threw the opponent’s head to the side. His yellow gumshield flashed, and the man went down as if struck by lightning.

No, not yet.

Before anybody could interfere, Brooklyn caught him by the throat, pushed him up against the ropes, and kept pummelling him. His rage knew no bounds, roaring in his veins, turning exhaustion to ashes, drowning out the shouts from the mob.

The other boxer’s arms flopped wide, grasping towards the ropes, and for a moment, he was spread open in a T. Unguarded, unprotected, throat bared, head rolling back. Unconscious, dead, or simply knocked out, that strange stage when every ounce of strength and endurance had been beaten from the body, leaving only leaden indifference—or readiness to die.

And it was a mercy to be killed on his feet, in the ring.

Brooklyn felt a hand on his left arm, and he snarled around the plastic in his mouth, freed himself with a shrug. The first few rows in the audience were on their feet. Jeering, applauding, or shouting, he didn’t notice the difference through the haze as he strained to finish the man off, there on the ropes, ready to go.

Ready for redemption.

Suddenly three more men appeared in the ring, invading the space he’d owned a moment ago. One pushed between him and the enemy, who crumpled in the corner, ignored, while the three men circled Brooklyn, tonfa sticks ready.

Brooklyn could take one, but not three.Fuck.Now he was the one still on his feet, and the impulse to lift his hands and lash out very nearly overwhelmed him. Fuck them for challenging him in the ring. He took grim satisfaction from how the eyes of the ISU guards widened. They knew.

His ring. His space. His fucking time.

The end of a tonfa tapped him lightly on the knee, hard enough to hurt but not enough to send him sprawling.We could have, that said.Give up.

Brooklyn cast another glance at the enemy. Done. Over. He looked at the guards, knew the other two would be on him if he attacked their comrade. He turned, his gaze sharpening. Applause. Light sparked off diamonds and teeth, expensive women jeering at him, their companions grinning with red faces. A minuscule dog was yipping at the end of its pink leash. Applause.

How would it look if the guards beat him to a pulp?

Not good. He raised his fists high over his head, taking the applause while the guards stepped smartly back. Not their crowd, and the bitches knew it. He almost laughed.

He hadn’t come so close to laughter in months. It didn’t matter what scum was cheering him, but it mattered that all of themsaw him.

Applauding him might be an indulgence—might be, in truth, nothing but scorn—but right now, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t one of them. He’d bet the women in the audience wanted him rather than the suit-and-tie-wearing sugar daddies they’d come with. And he knew the men all wanted to be him, even if they were pimps and CEOs and MPs and two-bit VIPs fromBig Brother. Right now, they were off their fat arses and applauding him.

A convict.

Fuck them all.

WHEN BROOKLYNreturned to the dressing room, Les was leaning against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest, a white towel draped across his neck. Brooklyn wanted nothing more than to escape the fake silk robe clinging to his sweaty skin.

“What was that out there, Brook?”

“Get my gloves off.” Sweat beaded on his face and ran down his temple. Tickling. He wanted to shower. Fall into bed. But Les’s face said that was pretty unlikely. Well, except the shower.

“That’s a ‘get my gloves off, please.’”

You fucking bastard. I won that bloody fight, didn’t I?Brooklyn clenched his teeth. “Please.” It still felt like choking on a toad. After three years, he was still not used to asking for assistance when it should have been their job to help him. Wasn’t like he didn’t pay them dearly for their “services.” But he wanted that shower and couldn’t chew through the duct tape wrapped around his gloves. And Les wasn’t the worst guy to have to ask.

“Sure. No problem.” His trainer pushed away from the wall and began cutting the glove off at the wrist, strong fingers deft and knowing.

Brooklyn looked to the side. Right after a fight, having another man so close was like an unbearable itch that triggered all kinds of aggressive responses.

And he wanted something to fuck. That counted as an aggressive response, right?

“That last bit, where you thought about killing him? Don’t do it, Brook. It’s not worth it. How’s Cash going to arrange you a championship bout if you kill the other fighters?”

---