Brooklyn grinned to himself, but deeper inside, a gnawing ache opened in his guts. It was a stupid idea, an even stupider hope. Thorne was free to choose his fights, likely had a whole team of people who carefully managed the second half of his career. With every single up-and-coming heavyweight out there hungry for Thorne’s three titles, taking on a no-name English convict, one without fame or notoriety and with a pile of debt on his shoulders, wouldn’t further Thorne’s career in the least. It wasn’t going to happen.

  “BROOK, MY man, how you doing?” Cash fist-bumped Brooklyn’s glove after the fight and turned to walk up the aisle with him, the crowd cheering left and right. Moving down the aisle in the other direction—towards the ring—was always one of the scariest things Brooklyn could imagine. He still felt like he was going to throw up, even after all this time, but that was just nerves. Once the fight started and the world became as small as the ring, the crowd faded into the distance, and he grew calm.

  “Pretty good.”

  “I can see that!” Cash was a ball of glee, dark face lit with pride. Brooklyn shortened his stride so Cash could keep up. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with the promoter’s hip, but walking looked painful when Cash did it.

  “Man, you’re my favourite southpaw ever.” Cash turned to the crowd. “Yeah, scream your heads off, ladies, but he’s going home with me tonight.”

  Brooklyn pursed his lips to keep from laughing. Cash’s ego and sunny disposition, bottled, would make the world a much brighter place. “You ditching Marina? Really? I’m flattered.”

  The doors closed behind them, and the crowd’s roar became the hum of an angry but distant beehive. The raw concrete walls sobered Brooklyn, but he was content to bask in the glow of Cash’s attention. The promoter had a way of making anybody feel good.

  “Get cleaned up, my boy. I’ll just say goodbye to the journalists. Be back with you in five.” That translated into twenty minutes.

  Les waved him off. “I’ll take care of Brooklyn in the meantime.”

  “Great. Won’t be long.” Cash rushed off, his wobbling gait unstable and laboured, but almost nothing slowed Cash down.

  Brooklyn headed to the changing room and undressed, his muscles still vibrating from the strain, blood rushing and pounding. A KO made him feel like a god. Concerns over his opponent’s well-being only ever happened when that adrenaline had burnt out. He could have torn down walls, punched over trees. He could do anything. For a little while, he could almost kid himself that life was good. Of course, life had never felt like anything special before he’d gone into the hole.

  “That was great work, Brook. Glenn was outclassed. What the hell was Cash thinking? That fight was almost too easy for you.”

  “I doubt anybody predicted that.” Brooklyn unwrapped the bandages and flexed his hands. His knuckles were red, abraded from the bandages. “He was a damn good boxer three years ago. He’s done.”

  “Yeah. Shit, there goes the old guard.” Les shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. The new guard isn’t any worse.” Brooklyn glanced up. “Or do you think so?”

  “No, you’re a fine boxer, Brook. But I remember when Glenn was truly great.”

  “Me too. So what?”

  “Feeling my age, I guess.” Les touched him on the shoulder. “Go. Shower.” Les’s phone rang, and he fished it from his pocket. The way he straightened a little and sobered—ISU calling?

  Brooklyn lingered to find a towel.

  “Yes, sir, he’s here. I guess you saw the fight. No, he’s all right. Got a few bad ones in the jaw, but he’s mouthy all the same. Nothing broken or even rattled.” Les shooed him towards the shower. “A moment, sir.” He looked up. “Shower, Brook. The car’ll be outside in twenty. Yes, I’m back. Sorry, sir.”

  Brooklyn headed off into the shower, still able to hear the mumble of Les’s voice through the spray, but then he ducked his head under and washed. What could he learn, anyway? Les wouldn’t speak openly. The business side of things was always tucked away. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t concern him. Even though, of course, it did.

  His knuckles hurt under the hot water, and he took care to not get the soap on them. He’d beaten Glenn stupid. The old man had offered him too many openings to the face and jaw. Punches to the body were draining and hurt like motherfuckers when he managed to get the short ribs or the liver, but punches to the head disorientated and addled. What he hit in the end didn’t matter. Whatever was sticking out of the guard, he’d laid into it with everything he had.

  He turned the water off, shook the drops from his eyes, and reached for the towel. A quick rubdown and a very careful pat dry of his hands and he wandered out again. He got dressed—faded jeans, socks, trainers, a sports top, and a hoodie to keep him warm. While the doctor checked Brooklyn, Les was texting on his phone.

  “What was that about?”

  “ISU got an offer for your contract.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “Somebody wants to buy you out.” Les looked at him for a long moment, long enough for the doctor to leave. “I advised against it. Apparently the offer was so high that they asked me for my opinion.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said your contract will be worth three times that when you become world champion. That you’re just getting started and they’d be stupid to sell up now. Nobody sells a winning horse before the Grand National.”

  Wow, talk about a bucket of ice water. “I’m not a horse.”

  “No. You’re an athlete. A fighter. But I had to tell it to them in a way they’d understand.” Les slipped the phone back into his trouser pocket. “I know you’re about ready to do it. You’re a fine boxer. You’ll be great if you don’t fall apart before you get the title.”

  Brooklyn laughed, but it sounded bitter even to his ears. “Like I’m doing it for them.”

  “No, you do it because you have the heart of a warrior. You’re hungry. For justice, maybe even for death. But you want to die on your feet, fighting. Right?”

  Gooseflesh all over his body, even on his dick. The man knew him too damned well. “You been writing the screenplay, huh? Nice tagline. Do you have something to eat?”

  Les tossed him a couple of protein bars and a water bottle. “And you have an appointment later if you want it.”

  “Sure. ISU’s certainly getting their money’s worth from this horse.” Brooklyn chewed, the sickly sweetness perfect after the sweat and adrenaline.

  The door burst open. “Brook. My boy.”

  “Hey, Cash.” Brooklyn smiled and found it wasn’t hard at all. “Tell me you got Thorne booked for me.”

  Cash’s face fell. “There’s a fight I’d pay to see.” With all the free tickets he got, that was saying something. “Maybe we’ll have a chance if Thorne gets convicted for tax fraud or something.”

  “Yeah, right after the moon crashes to earth.” Brooklyn started on the next protein bar. “Well, some guys dream of banging a supermodel. I just want to bang on Thorne a little.” He shrugged. “We all need our dreams.”

  “Well. Keep dreaming, my boy. Guess who I talked to before your fight?”

  “Not a mind reader yet.”

  “Try.”

  “The mayor of London?”

  “Richard Bells.”

  “And?”

  “Dick Bells? Nice one,” Les said. “Brook, he’s Odysseus Xarchakos’s promoter. And he runs Florian Esch too.”

  “Can I fight them both?”

  “You can have the German. In two months.”

  “Where?”

  “In Hamburg. You’ll have to fight the crowd too. Esch is a local hero.”

  “We’ll give you a bombastic instrumental song by Vangelis, and you’ll take the Germans by storm,” Les sneered.

  “I thought the way to do it is to say, ‘Ich bin ein Berliner,’” Brooklyn said. “Cash, if you score me the Greek, I’ll come in my pants. Just saying.”

  “It’s not impossible. Dick’s interested, but he’s above all interested in cold, hard cash.”

  “You think he’d buy out Brook?”

  “Possibly. I think he’s giving us Esch to see if Brook has star qualities. He’ll keep the Greek back. He’s a poker player; he’s teasing, but he’s very much on the ball. Brook, pretty sure you can have them both if the fight against Esch makes good money. We’ve been working hard to get your brand out, and we’ll have to do more ads and posters on the underground to step it up, see how ticket sales are looking. If we can fill a large enough venue, you’ll get the Greek.”

  “Wembley, here I come.”

  Cash grinned. “That’s my boy. I’ll make some phone calls.” He rushed out again.

  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.

  Brooklyn refused to picture him, but in his experience, they weren’t people he’d look at twice when sober. Too bad handing him over piss-drunk wouldn’t work.

  Finally the door opened. Soft footfalls. Barefooted or socked. Brooklyn realised his hands had clenched, but he couldn’t get them to relax.

  Round 2

  “BROOKLYN MARSHALL.”

  Brooklyn turned his head. He saw formal trouser legs and then lifted his gaze. Not fat, not old. The man was average-looking, dark hair curling wet at his neck, his skin flushed, likely from a long hot shower in one of the other bathrooms in the suite. Midthirties. Banker or other City type, most likely.

  “And you are?”

  “Nathaniel.”

  “Isn’t that some kind of demon in the Bible?” Brooklyn grinned.

  “And you—part of New York City?” Nathaniel stepped closer. “No, not a demon. At least, I don’t think so.”

  The accent was public school. So he might not be a trader at all. No Essex boy. “My parents got pissed in New York and ended up fucking in Brooklyn. My mother thought that was a cracking name.” Why are you telling him that? Winning time?

  “You look just as big as on TV. Larger than life.”

  Brooklyn laughed. “If you want to fuck, let’s skip the roses and chocolates.”

  Nathaniel paused, then walked closer and touched Brooklyn’s chest below the collar of the T-shirt. Brooklyn smelled an echo of his citrusy shower gel or aftershave. “I have the night.”

  Yeah, he had. Brooklyn didn’t do anything and remained sitting on the edge of the bed. He’d not received any instructions, but that touch confirmed this wasn’t a “fan” who’d ask him about his training regimen or what he’d felt and strategised in the ring. And if his guy had that kind of cash to spend, he was very aware of his own power.

  “Simply beautiful. You work very hard, and it shows.”

  Brooklyn didn’t dare hope that all the man wanted was to touch him a little. “You’re a fan of boxing?”

  “I watch a fight every now and then, but you’re starting to change that.”

  “You going to tell me you’re my biggest fan?”

  “No.” Nathaniel withdrew his hand. “But if you’ll forgive me, I’ve wanted to do this for weeks.”

  “Sure. Be my guest.” Oh hell, this was weird. Brooklyn couldn’t read the man, just felt unease creep all over him. It wasn’t a threat but certainly something he was unable to gauge. What did the man want?

  “Shower?”

  “I’ve had one.”

  “Yes, you probably would. Food?”

  “I don’t need anything.” One thing few people realised was how carefully he had to count his calories to maintain his shape. Randomly eating a meal would be breaking a habit he relied on.

  “I see.” Nathaniel took a step back and studied him.

  Brooklyn expected to be told to get undressed now, certainly based on how the man measured him.

  “Then allow me to ask you another question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you gay?”

  “No. I go both ways.”

  Something in Nathaniel’s face relaxed. “Some friends would dispute whether there are only two ways, but that’s a technicality.”

  “Listen, you want to fuck, you say the word. There’s no need for small talk. I don’t need roses to get in the mood. You paid for the time, what you say goes. We’re both getting out of this what we need.” Hell, he was now selling this thing to the guy who’d paid for him. Maybe because the situation was already so weird. Usually it was about sex, and that was fine. Some tried to start a conversation, but it was clearly nothing more than a social convention. Others jumped him the moment he came through the door.

  This guy, though, didn’t seem to have anything riding on it. He didn’t seem focused on the sex, didn’t even seem to want him particularly badly. Maybe he was getting over his shyness, but if this man was shy, he was hiding it well.