Page 10 of Mean Machine

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 lights 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 forward, 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 only a few steps away, and he almost dove in.

“What’s up?”

“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 fan.” 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. “He paid 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 at 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 caught and cornered in public, but when she’d turned to cast a glance at him, 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 pushed the door open. “Let’s go, convict.”

Brooklyn opened his eyes. “Sure.”

They were outside the Diamond Royal. 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 there. Hardly to sign autographs.

“Princess suite, sir.” She addressed Les. Curtis was too clearly a guard, and Brooklyn was too clearly a piece of rough trade. “Take the personal elevator, number five.” She handed him a card.

Les marched ahead, using the card to open the elevator. The suites were listed above the panel, with the Princess high up, but not quite at the top. That honour belonged to the Radiant and Oval suites.

“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 nothing but a commodity. 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, I definitely do this for the money.

The door to the suite was open, and Les stepped in and leaned forward 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 noted it was a bedroom, the bed untouched in that pristine, top-of-the-range hotel way. Something out of a catalogue shoot—impersonal, perfect.

“Well, good luck.” Les looked around in the room. “Curtis will be on call outside.”

Brooklyn pulled off the hoodie and pushed it against Les’s chest. He swallowed, feeling more nervous than he’d let on.

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

“Remember, Brook, if this has an effect on your performance….”

“We’ve been through this. I’ll fuck this guy, or he fucks me, and if worse comes to worst, we’ll go easy on the training tomorrow. It’s nothing.” Well, “nothing” that translated into a grand or so for his time.

By now he could deal with freaky, with kinky, with ugly, with nasty. Hell, he sometimes admired these freaks’ pure balls to meet him on this level. Yes, Curtis was just outside, certainly in the same building, but the amount of damage Brooklyn was capable of doing to a nonfighter before Curtis was through the door was still appalling. Of course, any further violence would destroy everything he’d worked for and extinguish that last bit of hope that, one day, he’d be his own master again. ISU relied on him to control himself; Curtis was only the failsafe. Arguably, that was worse than getting chained up for some freaky bondage sex. He was in control and wasn’t. He’d consented and hadn’t.

He sat down on the side of the bed, closed his eyes, and forced himself to relax. There was no point being tense. He’d made the choice. He now had to accept whatever came.

“I’ll pick you up in the morning, okay?”

“Yeah.” Brooklyn listened to Les’s steps on the way out. From carpet to parquet, then carpet again. A heavy door closed softly.

From winning in the ring to this in the span of less than an hour. The switch between the victory high and the creeping anxious anticipation always threatened to give him emotional whiplash. It would have been easier to simply go on fighting—attack the freak who’d bought his time and show them who they were messing with.

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