Page 43 of Golden Eagle

She heard the floorboards squeak as he moved toward her, and she sat back, letting her hand fall into her lap, magazine forgotten.

He reentered the room wearing basketball shorts and a fitted t-shirt with the sleeves cut out. She took a moment to look at him – to admire – to see the cut of muscle in his arms, and in his back, through the thin shirt; to notice the ruffled mess of his black hair and the stubble growing in along his strong jaw.

“You’re not making Jamie feel bad about himself, right?” she asked.

He dropped his bag at his feet and sent her an offended look. “No.”

“I’m just asking.”

“I might be an asshole, but I’m not, like, amonster.” He paused in the act of reaching for his phone, and his brows knitted together. “Or, well…”

She felt a twinge of guilt. “Lanny–”

“Anyway,” he said, smoothing his expression and nabbing the phone. He dropped it in the bag with the rest of his gear. “I’m the right amount of asshole for a personal trainer.” He hiked the bag up over his shoulder and turned to her. “I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up.”

“’Kay.” She smiled, and he leaned down to kiss her goodbye.

But even an hour after he’d left, she kept thinking about that text she’d seen.Password.

Nobody needed a password to go lift weights with his friends.

~*~

Super strength, he’d called it. That sounded cheesy, but Lanny hadn’t yet come up with a better way to describe what had happened to his body after Alexei turned him.

He’d always been strong. His mother – God, he was going to have to call her – had old home movies of him at age five, wrestling with his older brothers, and pinning them. He’d been ruthless even then, crowing about his victories, little fists raised over his head. His mother’s laughter rich and musical from the other side of the camera.

It was Dad who’d gotten him into boxing. Probably because it was a “gentleman’s sport,” as he’d put it, his accent lending extra credence to the idea. But really it was because Lanny hadn’t had the body type for wrestling; his shoulders too wide, his arms too heavy. And once he’d started hitting things, well…grappling lost some of its appeal. The hit, that satisfying smack, and crunch; watching the other guy’s head snap to the side…that was beautiful. That was a thrill nearly better than sex – and for him, certainly more addictive. He’d been quick on his feet, he could take a hit, and he’d leveled a kind of strength in his own hits that had left trainers delightedly baffled.

He’d never been a genius; never been a pretty boy. But he could knock the shit out of people, and so he’d poured every ounce of himself into doing just that.

Until the bar fight. Just stupid, drunken bravado. A long-time rival. And his hand…

He curled it tight in his hoodie pocket now, as he approached the open gate; he’d always bear the surgical scars down the back of it, but it didn’t hurt anymore. Not even a little.

Two excessively large and beefy guys stood sentry on either side of the gate; they smelled like protein powder and body spray, and had no necks to speak of. Their plain black shirts, and stances with hands folded loosely in front of them, made Lanny think bouncer. This was a side gig, standing watch at a nine-foot, barbed-wire topped chain link gate at the back of a slimy alley. Not a terrible way to earn extra cash, really.

“Aftershave,” he told them, as he approached, never slowing, and they nodded. Even without the password, they recognized him by now; he’d been coming at least twice a week for three months, now.

The alley ended in a brick wall, a wooden door set at its center, peeling green paint. When he gripped the knob, he felt sticky, and greasy, and grit under his palm. He went in, and through a ramshackle one-room apartment, old porcelain sink in the corner streaked red with rust stains, bare bulb flickering; voices came from behind the closed door of the bathroom. Another door at the back wall opened up into what had once been a large courtyard, one that serviced all the surrounding buildings that encircled the place like castle walls.

Big cracks marbled the pavement, and through them pushed dead and dying weeds, crumbling to dust beneath the feet of the spectators. And spectators there were: a crowd of about fifty or so, tonight. Men in ballcaps and leather jackets; blue-collar workers blowing steam after a long day, wannabe mafia types, bookies, and trainers, and fans. Women, too. Some of them looking for work, most of them with their boyfriends.

You could place bets at the folding tables set up along one wall; buy lukewarm beer and mixed drinks from another. Red plastic cups rolled along in the occasional breeze like tumbleweed.

And in the middle of it all: the ring.

It was ugly. Built of plywood and cinderblocks, laid over with mats that stunk so badly of feet he thought they must have been fourth-hand from a gym demolition. It was boxing, yeah, but there was a chain-link cage that closed the fighters in. And there was no bell, and no one was getting disqualified if they threw a low blow.

It wasperfect.

Lanny wended his way through the crowd, headed for the long row of benches where fighters could set down their bags and get ready. A slim crowd of prospects, he saw tonight, only four men taping knuckles and shaking loose. An awed murmur followed his progress: regular viewers who recognized him.

“…that guy,” someone said.

“Oh, is he the one who–”

“That’s him!”

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