Page 3 of Mean Machine

Les hesitated, and Brooklyn wondered if it was because he disapproved. But they both knew the realities—without these side jobs, he’d never dig himself out from under International Stewardships United, plc.

“She’s one of those who likes it really rough.”

“Just rape the bitch.” Curtis turned his face, and his lips barely moved as he spoke. “Rip her clothes, tie her up, fuck her in every hole, call her whore, and she’ll get off on it.”

Brooklyn glanced at Les. His trainer shrugged. “That’s about the extent of it.”

Thug kink, indeed. He could do that. After a fight, he was capable of just about anything. Rough sex would definitely scratch his itch.

It didn’t even matter if she was attractive. His standards, never the most refined, had adjusted to the new realities. Alcohol used to get him in trouble during his misspent youth, when any warm body would do, but these days he did what he had to.

The car stopped outside a dingy hotel in East London. Not quite an area of burning rubbish bins, but close enough. There were no women out, and the few men cast furtive glances at the traffic, like they were keeping watch minutes before trouble went down. It made Brooklyn’s fingers itch.

Curtis opened the door and followed Brooklyn into the hotel. Les stayed in the car. A huge guy behind the desk merely glanced up as they walked into the foyer.

“We’re on honeymoon,” Brooklyn began, to get a rise out of Curtis, but the big guy behind the counter merely said, “Room 202,” and turned his head back towards the TV.

They headed down the corridor. “You gonna watch?”

“Want me to?” Curtis asked, blank-faced. “Can’t get it up otherwise?”

“If she’s into that?”

“My dick’s not for sale.” Curtis knocked on a door marked 2 2. “Ma’am. Your delivery. Call me if you need anything else.”

The door opened. The woman behind was pretty, maybe in her late thirties, statuesque in high heels, a knee-length grey skirt, and a silk blouse. She looked up into Brooklyn’s eyes and, with a smoky voice, said, “He’ll do nicely.”

BROOKLYN PICKEDup the pace once they were farther into Hyde Park and out of the throng of Japanese tourists. God alone knew what they were looking for. The statues? Or just to tick a box on their “I Was Here” list before they hit Bond Street? Yes, by all means, but at seven in the morning on a Sunday?

Les’s steps were synchronised with his, but Les carried a good thirty pounds less weight. However, Les was almost twenty years older. That had to count for something too.

“You going to talk about it or not?” Les matched his new speed without any problems. Racing ahead was not a good idea. Brooklyn had tested his limits thoroughly when he’d signed up with ISU—that was what people called it: “signing up.”

While ISU tried to avoid public displays of brutality, and corporate stewardship was for all intents and purposes pretty much invisible, its chains bound tightly and with almost no slack. Curtis or any of the other ISU guards were happy to enforce discipline any way they saw fit. With somebody convicted of a violent offence, Curtis was authorised to “put him down like a rabid dog” if he posed a danger to the public.

And he’d tested Curtis enough to be certain Curtis wouldn’t hesitate and even enjoyed it. You probably had to be an irredeemably fucked-up bastard to go for that type of job and stay in it for any length of time. To add insult to plentiful bruises, Curtis’s salary came out of Brooklyn’s account with ISU.

“Talk about what?”

“Last night?”

“I could have killed him.”

Les scoffed. “You know what I mean. About the woman.”

“What? You now reporting to ISU on whether I hit my performance goal? If you need to fill in a customer satisfaction report, give her a call.”

“Brook.” Brooklyn fucking hated when Les used his “we’re friends here” voice. It was worse than the “you can trust me” voice. “You’re not talking to anybody else. If you want to talk about it….”

“I don’t.” Brooklyn glanced to the side. “I’m not talking because I don’t want to.” Bad enough he’d seen real fear in her eyes, although she’d left no doubt that was exactly what she’d ordered and paid for. He’d become that kind of horror for other people—a horror they controlled.

Les didn’t say anything for a mile or so. Brooklyn began to hope his coach had dropped the issue, and ideally, the whole conversation. He was still choking on it all—not just on the woman, more the circumstances and all the rest—and he needed his breath. He couldn’t get too emotional while he was running. Anger would just burn him out faster, and pacing was important. He needed to last longer than one circuit.

“Why do you want to know, anyway?”

“I need to know how it affects your performance. Can’t have you distracted from your training. Like you are now.”

“The fuck I am.” He had to remind himself not to run faster, stay where he was, and that grated. He wanted to run, to race as fast as he could. At least get to the point where Les had no breath left to level accusations against him. “It’s not like I have much of a choice, with the rate at which I’m still burning money.”

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