Mean Machine Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Round 1

  Round 2

  Round 3

  Round 4

  Round 5

  Round 6

  Round 7

  Round 8

  Round 9

  Round 10

  Round 11

  Round 12

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Aleksandr Voinov

  Visit DSP Publications

  Copyright

  Mean Machine

  By Aleksandr Voinov

  For a boxer ravaged by guilt and in deep denial of his desires, a fight beyond the ring might yield his greatest prize.

  In a dystopian UK devastated by austerity and ruled by corporate interests, Brooklyn Marshall was a happily married London police officer—until an accident resulted in the death of a protester connected to a powerful family. Now he takes out his anger and pain on his opponents, fighting for the company that took him into stewardship after his conviction and disgrace—and which all but owns him.

  Wealthy barrister Nathaniel Bishop fulfills his dream of a family when he adopts a daughter. He can’t resist researching her allegedly violent criminal father, but Brook isn’t at all what he expects. He’s fascinating… and maybe worthy of redemption. Through legal sleight of hand, Nathaniel thinks he can overturn Brook’s conviction.

  Brook has learned the hard way not to trust anyone, let alone a privileged man who’s purchased his “time.” But as they get to know each other, he allows himself to hope.

  With his fights getting deadlier, hope might be the only thing to carry Brook through.

  For Rona and Andro; you both left too soon.

  “Boxing is not a sport—it’s an act of fucking survival; primal, tribal survival, man.”

  —Michael Bentt, retired WBO heavyweight champion, now actor

  Round 1

  THE ENEMY was 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 them saw 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 from Big Brother. Right now, they were off their fat arses and applauding him.

  A convict.

  Fuck them all.

  WHEN BROOKLYN returned 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?”

  “All right.” He was relieved when Les pulled off the gloves, and he wiggled his fingers in the sweaty red wraps. His knuckles would swell, but they always did. They’d be fine before the fight next month.

  He freed the end of the bandage and unwrapped his hands, the left one first and then the right, and tossed the sweat-soaked cotton into the laundry bag. “Can I have a shower?”

  Les studied his face for a moment. “Five minutes. I’ll pack your stuff.”

  “Wow, you’d do that for me?”

  “We’re on a tight schedule.”

  “For what?”

  “You
have an appointment.”

  “Fuck. I forgot.” He’d rather have gone back into the ring to finish off another journeyman who had more heart than talent.

  “Exactly.” Les smirked. “So keep that charge. Can’t have you fall asleep on this one. She paid good money to get what you’re bringing from that fight.”

  Brooklyn groaned but bent down to untie his boots. He pulled them off along with the wet socks, which went into the laundry bag too. He straightened slowly, gaze lingering on Les’s long, muscular form. He couldn’t help but grin at his coach’s exasperated sigh.

  “Into the shower, Brook.”

  “What?”

  “I know exactly what you’re doing here. And it’s a ‘no.’”

  Brooklyn huffed and plucked the towel from Les’s neck, delighting in his trainer’s sharp intake of breath. Oops.

  “Go.” Les shoved him away, took the towel from his grip, and swatted him on the arse with it. “Get showered, Romeo.”

  Brooklyn headed off, noticing, as always, the bars fastened to the window in the shabby little group shower. Considering the part of town, it was most likely more to keep burglars out than people like him in. Gym shower, not much different from the one in the place he’d begun boxing as an amateur. The gym he trained at now was south of the river and nestled in the arches of a Victorian brick bridge that had trains rumble over it every fifteen minutes.

  Footballers got the nice locations. Boxers fought amidst crates in the yard behind a supermarket in the nasty part of London, if need be.

  Les opened the door and dropped off a pair of jeans and a shirt, along with shorts, socks, trainers, and a hooded sweatshirt to keep his body warm. Brooklyn towelled himself down and assumed his “date” liked the thug look.

  Once dressed, he stood in front of the mirror for a few moments, then pulled the hood up and lifted his hands, lightly curled into fists. Yeah, like a Lonsdale ad.

  He lowered his hands when the doctor came in for a quick check, asking him if he felt all right, not dizzy, and peering into his eyes with a penlight. All routine. Health check before and after the fight, and constant monitoring in between.

  “Car’s waiting,” Les said, opening the door. “You ready?”

  “Got something to eat?”

  Les offered him a protein bar and led him out, hand between his shoulder blades.

  “What about Cash?”

  “Schmoozing the contacts, arranging the next fights.”

  Which tended to involve expensive clubs and lots of booze. Being a promoter certainly had its perks. “Tell me he’s talking to the editor-in-chief of Boxing Weekly.”

  Les laughed. “I’ll mention it to him. Thought you didn’t like the media?”

  “They can suck my dick, but they can also help me get a title fight,” Brooklyn said as they were passing Curtis, who joined them. Sadistic bastard wore his wraparound sunglasses even indoors. Brooklyn had once mentioned it made him look like a twat and received Curtis’s tonfa to both kidneys, hard enough that he’d pissed blood for five days, but not hard enough to incapacitate him. Taught him not to “flirt with the guard,” as Les had called it.

  He got in the car between Les and Curtis and peered out the window as they zipped through the streets, going east.

  “So what’s my gig?”

  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 PICKED up 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 o
ne 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.”

  He was pretty sure somebody at ISU booked the money as “paid meet with a fan” and pretended wilful ignorance as to what happened during that time. They were all adults, right? Stuff happened between adults. It earned Brooklyn a few extra grand a month—not that he saw any of the money.

  “At least you’re now properly fighting fit,” Les said, as if that explained or excused anything. Les wasn’t one of the guys; he was employed by ISU. Which made him just as complicit as Curtis. But Brooklyn had learnt to keep those thoughts to himself too. The hard way.

  “Listen, if it doesn’t serve as a vent, stop it. Nobody’s putting a pistol to your head.”

  “Vent?” Brooklyn almost laughed. “No, whatever. It still beats getting fucked up the arse.”

  “Jesus, Brook.”

  “What? You think there’s a ‘fan’ out there who will let me top him? Maybe. But he hasn’t plunked down the cash for it yet. Tends to be wankers who get off on topping somebody like me. Somebody strong.”

  “And that you are,” Les said, almost under his breath.

  Those words deflated the anger, turned it into cold, bitter spikes sitting deep in his guts, a feeling like tears tightening his lungs. He felt almost like crying, just from those words, out of nowhere. Unsettled, a low blow to a part of him he thought he hadn’t exposed. A weakness he thought he’d covered well. And fuck Les for finding that weakness.

  Hold me down, babe. Love me rough.

  Anything but thinking of his wife.

  “We should be lovers,” Brooklyn said, grinning when his coach groaned. “We already quarrel all the time.”