Counterpunch

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “Hey.” Brooklyn sat down on a bench and began to wrap his hands. “Who are the pretties?”

  “Emanuel and Rosario.”

  Not Arabs, then. Most likely Cubans. Shit. That could get tough. Brooklyn closed the first bandage and began to wrap his other hand. Excitement rose. He knew all his other sparring partners inside and out, knew a fair amount of “hired bodies” who took up gloves for money too. All decent boxers, but these were new and looked in their prime. Fit enough even to last twelve rounds, if he needed that, and Odysseus had the stamina to make him box the whole length. Shit, the way these guys looked—poised and ready—gave him an odd sensation of anticipation. Attraction? Well, if it was attraction to want to see how far he could push them and how they’d push back.

  Brooklyn took up his gloves. “Let’s dance, shall we?”

  Santos nodded to one of the men. Yes, definitely twins. The shaved heads and high cheekbones made them look sleek and tough, but physically, both were clearly heavyweights. Brooklyn put his gum shield in, stepped up to the ring, and lifted the gloves.

  “Keep it to the body, Rose.”

  The boxer nodded and tapped Brooklyn’s gloves.

  Brooklyn lashed out immediately, landing a beautiful punch on the Cuban’s shoulder before the man had retreated. Dirty, yes. But he wasn’t here to play.

  Rose moved back, acknowledging the hit with a nod. And a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.

  A few jabs exchanged, testing the man’s resolve, nothing yet, and then Brooklyn launched into a combination. Punch, cross, uppercut, but immediately, Rose responded with a counterattack, forcing him to move back. Counterpunching orthodox fighter. Like Odysseus. He’d be perfect to work with. Brooklyn grinned behind the gum shield. Fuck, this would be fun.

  The next attack confirmed it. Rose was a great counterpuncher, and God, but he was fast and strong, too. There was no gentleness or playfulness now. Rose gave him what he had, and getting hit by those punches fucking hurt. Brooklyn was relieved when Santos told them to stop after a long three minutes.

  Brooklyn climbed out of the ring and spat out the gum shield. “That’s going to be fun. Is Emanuel as good?”

  “Four hundred amateur fights,” the other Cuban said. “Ten defeats.”

  Brooklyn glanced at Santos. “Holy hell, that’s a lot.”

  “It’s Cuba,” Emanuel said. “We don’t have pros. We’re all amateurs.”

  Rose joined them. “Showing a pro the ropes will be interesting.” He grinned.

  “Same amount of fights?”

  “Yes.” Rose reached for a water bottle. “Haven’t fought many southpaws.”

  “Thorne is versatile. He fights orthodox and with his left hand,” Emanuel said.

  “He’s not all that,” Rose stated.

  “My boys used to spar with Thorne,” Santos said. “But Rose knocked him flat on his ass once. Thorne didn’t take it very well. Will you take it better, Brook?”

  Brooklyn laughed. “I’ll take what he can give me. And his clone here too. I think we’ll get along great.”

  Which, of course, included a lot of pain. Santos put them through their paces with bag work, a subjective hundred miles of skipping, and endless rounds of conditioning.

  “British boys are soft,” Santos said as Rose dropped a medicine ball on Brooklyn’s stomach muscles until Brooklyn wasn’t sure if he wanted to eat anything at all. He’d never minded the training, but compared to Les, Santos just added another ten to fifteen percent of pain.

  He had breakfast and lunch with the Cubans, ran, sparred and hung out with them. If Santos hadn’t insisted on some additional training, in, of all things, yoga, life could have been perfect. As it was, squat little Santos forced him through some fiendishly difficult exercises in Iyengar yoga—or “poses” as he called them. Or Santos was taking the piss.

  As easy as they looked, they demanded a perverse amount of control over muscles he’d never consciously used. Like toe muscles. The yoga made Brooklyn hurt in all the places the boxing hadn’t managed to reach, but the focus he needed for it left him feeling calm and clear, his head quiet for once. The rage dulled, and the concentration of the poses removed all other concerns, much like a fight did. Only this was quiet, and he came out of it strangely rested and relaxed.

  The Cuban heavyweights accepted the yoga and the other aspects of the new training regimen without protest, but when the bandages came off, there was no trace of bracelets. They were freemen. He asked just to make sure, and Rose told him, “In Cuba, we’re all slaves,” which settled the question.

  Two weeks in, Brooklyn began to find his feet again. He managed to do more than stagger out of the gym and fall into bed. He hadn’t seen much of Nathaniel.

  If you want to sleep in my bed, you’re welcome, but it’s not part of your engagement.

  Yeah, as if that was really a choice he had. But he did wonder what the man was up to.

  After an earlier break than normal and a shower, Brooklyn went in search of the barrister, and found him in a study on the first floor, his Mac open and glowing in the tropical afternoon. Books piled left and right, and papers covered all the flat surfaces.

  What was, however, most surprising, was the presence of a woman who stood demurely to the side, bracelets marking her a slave. The focus of her attention was a young child in Nathaniel’s arms. Nathaniel was leaning back in the office chair, resting the sleeping toddler against his chest.

  Nathaniel looked up. “You’re back early.” He straightened and handed the child to the slave. “Thank you. That will be all.” Brooklyn saw something in his eyes. Worry? Fear? Guilt? Being caught out? “How’s the training going?”

  “As if Santos doesn’t tell you.”

  “Well, that’s his assessment. I’m curious to hear yours.”

  Brooklyn glanced at the slave carrying the child out. The kid didn’t even wake up.

  “I guess they’re worth their money.”

  “They went out of their way to give you the best possible partners to beat Odysseus.”

  “And Thorne, yeah.”

  “Well, yes.” Nathaniel smiled. “If it comes to that. I can’t imagine Thorne could resist the notion of putting the uppity slave in his place. Especially since you keep provoking him.”

  “He can certainly try.” Brooklyn shrugged. “So what’s with the kid?”

  “No comment.” Nathaniel’s thin-lipped smile betrayed he hated that Brooklyn had seen him like that at all. So what next? Was there a wife waiting in the woodwork?

  “Last time I checked, kids don’t grow on trees.”

  Nathaniel stood. “Why are you here?”

  “Reporting on my progress.”

  “Really.” Nathaniel measured him with one of those far-too-perceptive glances. “Anything else?”

  “Checking on you?”

  “I’ve been doing research.” Nathaniel placed a hand on a pile of paper and leaned forwards. “Researching your conviction and trying to find enough issues to build a case. It’s hard going.” He stared down at the paper. “It’s clear there was considerable pressure to have you convicted. Policemen usually protect their own. Edwards must have spent a lot of money and called in a lot of favours to have you exposed like that.”

  Brooklyn shrugged. “I did kill his daughter.”

  “Yes, you did, but it was an accident. It’s not enough to condemn you to slavery.”

  Brooklyn felt tired. Something about that whole mess drained all strength from him and left only desperation. Maybe that was guilt. Regret. Shame. Those memories were the stuff of nightmares—often enough literally.

  “Once I return to London, I’ll talk to Edwards.”

  “And what are you going to tell him? ‘Sorry that boxer killed your daughter. Would you mind telling the judge you bribed the lot so he’d get convicted?’ Real strong case, that.”

  “These things work a little more subtly,” Nathaniel scoffed. “But I can bring pressure to bear too. If I can show what he did
or what was done to meddle with justice in your case, I’ll have enough to take it to the Court of Appeal.”

  “Then you need a judge who loves you more than a fucking MP.” Brooklyn laughed.

  “It can be done. And if it can be done, I can do it.” Nathaniel straightened and measured him again. The gaze said “don’t doubt me.” Challenge and invitation. Brooklyn was torn between the impulse to tell Nathaniel to go fuck himself and something else entirely.

  He’d almost forgotten how sexy Nathaniel was when he knew what he wanted. But just because Eric and everybody else had orders to not use violence didn’t mean this couldn’t completely turn around if Nathaniel so much as snapped his fingers.

  “And why do you want to free me?”

  “Because . . .” Nathaniel paused. “Many reasons, actually. Above all, I believe being a slave will destroy you.”

  “That sounds very selfless.”

  “No. Quite the contrary. It’s one of the most selfish things I’ve ever done.” Nathaniel exhaled and sat down. “I need to finish this. Dinner’s at seven if you want to join me.”

  He made an effort. The suit in his wardrobe was a not-so-subtle nudge, so Brooklyn put it on after the shower. No tie, though. Just a shirt, buttons open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Suit jacket open, more a complement than a necessity. More formal than none, and more casual than the whole hog.

  Finding the dining room was no problem—dinner was served on the terrace.

  Nathaniel looked up when Brooklyn stepped out, and Brooklyn noted with a faint tingle of pleasure how Nathaniel’s face, for a moment, gave away his hunger. For all his superior attitude, his control, Nathaniel couldn’t help the visceral effect Brooklyn had on him.

  “Is this seat taken?” He placed a hand on the back of the chair. The table was laid for two, but Brooklyn wasn’t so sure Nathaniel had actually expected him to follow the invitation.

  “Please. Feel free. I’m glad you could make it.” Nathaniel smiled.

  “It was this or the Cubans.”

  Nathaniel leaned back. “They must be providing adequate company.”

  “They are.” Brooklyn nodded to a slave pouring him iced water with lemon slices. The lemons grew here on the estate, alongside limes and oranges, and they tasted like nothing he’d ever bought in a supermarket. “But there’s only so much common ground.”

  Nathaniel glanced up and held his gaze. Brooklyn almost started counting to pass the time. The slave brought piles of steamed vegetables and grilled fish and cooked bulgur wheat. Brooklyn shovelled the food onto his plate.

  “I’d have thought, maybe, that Rosario would be more interesting company.”

  Jealousy? Brooklyn tried the fish. Finished with a touch of butter and lemon juice, and so fresh it fell apart the moment it touched his tongue. “I don’t get the feeling he prefers me over Emanuel.”

  In fact, the twins were inseparable, and those images were enough to make Brooklyn sweat. He’d never particularly indulged in the twin kink, but the Cubans made him reconsider. “Hard to imagine there’s enough space for me between them, if you catch my meaning.” He winked.

  Nathaniel exhaled. “I do.”

  “So, why are you so on edge? Just the thought that I’m fucking one or both of the Cubans, or is there anything else?”

  “No. Yes.” Nathaniel studied his fork. “I seem to inadvertently have caused you to shut down again. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “You shut down quite nicely yourself.”

  Nathaniel rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You mean the child.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes, you treat me right, and then you treat me like a slave again. And I fucking hate that.” Even though I am a slave. But he’d halfway hoped Nathaniel might ignore it, like the Cubans did. Yeah, that would be a good start.

  “I was trying to do the right thing. Give you the means to win your next fights.”

  “What I need to beat Odysseus I already have. Two good fists and a heart.”

  “And I meant to get you out of that gym.”

  “Why? Because of Les?”

  Nathaniel grimaced. “You make it sound like I’m the villain in your love story with Leslie Flackett.”

  “You treated him like shit. He’s never treated me anything like that.” Brooklyn put his fork down. There was no way he’d be able to eat now. “He’s not sleeping with me because it’s unprofessional. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do him if I got half a chance. I just told you because I thought it would make you back the fuck off.”

  “And why do you want me to back off?”

  If I knew that. Brooklyn shrugged. “You’re powerful. You’re free. You have secrets. You treat me like a slave. Should I go on?”

  Nathaniel reached into his pocket and placed a flat, grey box on the table, roughly the size and shape of a business card holder. He opened it and pushed a slider to the side, from a green field to red. “There.” He closed it. “Your bracelets won’t shock you now.”

  “Didn’t know they had an off switch.” Brooklyn pulled the metal box closer. The chip that should always stay close to him. The anchor to the invisible chains. “And where could I run to? They chipped me the second they conscripted me; they’d find me anywhere and take me into custody. Worse, I’m ‘dangerous,’ so if you can’t ensure I’m under control, they’ll repossess me right out from under you.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “I thought you might realise that, things being as they are, I’m as tied into my role as you are into yours. I treat you like a slave in public because that’s the only accepted way to treat a slave in public. I thought you’d understood that in private, we’re on different footing.” Nathaniel pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Ah, listen to me. I’m whining.” He stood and walked to the balustrade, gazing out over the ocean.

  I thought you’d understood.

  Apart from Les, Nathaniel was the first man in a long, long time who’d actually considered what Brooklyn must have been feeling, thinking, understanding. That he wasn’t just furniture, or a sex toy. Something broke inside him, and he wasn’t even sure what it was. Just a sudden tension—and then something like relief.

  He stood too, and took a position near Nathaniel, but not touching, looking out over the sea. “Guess we can’t win this. You’ll always be free, and I won’t.”

  “I’m working on that!” Nathaniel snapped.

  Brooklyn reached over and placed a hand against Nathaniel’s tensed neck. “Relax.” He stepped behind him, deliberately crowding him against the balustrade. “Okay, so slavery sometimes fucks up freemen too.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. This situation isn’t pleasant even for me.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you . . .” Nathaniel sounded like he choked on the rest of the sentence, but the first part was clearly true too. “To be free. I wish I didn’t have to have secrets. I don’t want to lie to you, Brooklyn, not even by omission.”

  “Why’s that?” Brooklyn began to knead the muscles in Nathaniel’s neck, felt the man resist him at first, and then gradually relax. “Because you give a fuck, right?”

  Nathaniel nodded, a motion Brooklyn felt in the taut neck. And maybe, if he thought about how Nathaniel had treated Les and Curtis, that hadn’t been about pleasing Brooklyn—or showing off. Maybe this was how Nathaniel treated people, whether they were born free or not. Then he genuinely wouldn’t get what all this was about, right?

  And who are you, Mr. Subtle and Polite?

  He glanced back at the off switch sitting so innocently on the table. How much farther could Nathaniel move towards him? Short of falling at his feet? His hand tightened on Nathaniel’s neck. “One day I want to know why me.”

  “One day I’ll tell you.” Nathaniel gave an amused snort.

  “Turn.”

  Nathaniel turned around. Dark-blue eyes. Lighter patterns there, almost white in a certain light. Nathaniel looked a little flustered, vulnerable, and maybe that was what made Br
ooklyn take his face in his hands and kiss him full on the lips. Nathaniel jolted, seemed torn between backing away—good luck, with the balustrade in his back—and pushing forwards. Then his lips opened and his tongue slid between Brooklyn’s lips.

  Brooklyn grinned and opened his teeth to suck on that tongue, his hand cupping Nathaniel’s erection in his trousers. The man pressed against him, and Brooklyn forgot about the off switch. He broke the kiss and trailed his lips down Nathaniel’s neck. “Want to take this upstairs?”

  “Yes, let’s not scandalise the nanny.” Nathaniel cleared his throat and smiled at him, flirtatious, and then turned and glanced back at him—up to now, Brooklyn hadn’t been aware men could have that “come hither” glance that women mastered at sixteen.

  He followed Nathaniel with an odd sense of apprehension that jumped a million miles when Nathaniel closed the door behind them. The bed. Huge. Enormous. Dark wood. Same silky cotton sheets as in his own bedroom. Casually, some handcuffs on the bedside table.

  “Ever hopeful?”

  “Oh, no. I just unpacked that bag.” Nathaniel stepped forwards as if to hide them, but Brooklyn took him by the arm. God, Nathaniel actually looked nervous, dark-blue eyes slightly widened, hands tight.

  “Get undressed.” He watched Nathaniel shed the jacket and open the fine white shirt. He remembered how he’d come on that shirt or one that looked exactly like it. Same tailor, maybe. That was an image he’d never forget, and he concentrated on getting his own clothes off.

  When Nathaniel sat down to pull off his socks, Brooklyn waited only long enough for the second sock to hit the ground, and then closed in and pushed Nathaniel flat on the bed, covering him with his own body. He opened the man’s legs farther, and made him scoot up towards the head of the bed so they weren’t hanging halfway in the air.

  Nathaniel stared at him and closed his eyes when Brooklyn began to rub their cocks together. He loved that. Loved Nathaniel trusting him like this, and just the sheer sensuality of the man when he was in the mood, and Nathaniel was in the mood at the drop of a hat. No awkward fumbling under the sheets with him. They were both bared, out in the early evening—it would get dark soon, but right now, everything was drenched in liquid gold.