He eventually sat down, found the remote, and rotated through several dozen channels before he found the rerun of the match. People were talking about his “remarkable staying power” and Thorne’s “brutal strength.” It seemed so very familiar and at the same time like it didn’t concern him at all. He turned the sound down to almost nothing and then raided the minibar.
The phone rang.
He was about to let it ring, but he wiped some peanut shells off his top and answered anyway.
“A Mr. Bishop is here for you, Mr. Marshall.”
Oh Jesus. Fuck. “Send him up.”
No, don’t. Just go away. He gathered the wrappers and little bottles and tossed them into the bin. A polite knock startled him out of the nervous preparations, and he went to the door with a sense of impending doom.
Nathaniel. Carrying a leather folder. Wearing a tie. God, he looked like something from the cover of a lawyer magazine.
“May I come in?”
“Sure.”
The formality threw him. There was so much distance in that straight-backed pose and the noncommittal expression, Brooklyn would have preferred to be shouted or sneered at. Then at least he’d have known what he was facing.
Nathaniel moved to the living room, cast a glance at the large-screen TV that seemed disapproving enough for Brooklyn to switch it off, and sat down. He placed his hands on the leather folder, and Brooklyn realised Nathaniel was just as nervous as he was.
“Okay, let me get this straight. Why the fuck are you here? As my owner?”
Nathaniel looked up at him. “Flackett told you, I understand.”
“Answer the fucking question.”
“Very well.” Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “I’m here as an intermediary between a third party and what you know as ‘the management,’ the collective of people that hold your deed.”
“Why you?”
“Because I’m the only fully trained solicitor.” Nathaniel opened the folder. “I also asked for it, as I felt I should explain myself to you.” He glanced at Brooklyn, seemed to not see what he was looking for, and took a pile of papers from the folder. “These are your release papers. There’s no need to sign anything—you’re not a legal subject yet. These make you a free man again.”
“What?” He pulled the papers over and spotted an elaborate coat of arms in the header.
Nathaniel inched closer and straightened the papers before Brooklyn. “An eminent person has petitioned for your release, which has been granted. Her Majesty the Queen has deemed you worthy of manumission.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“English case law is a jungle. The right to petition the queen or king was established around 1752.” Nathaniel’s lips twitched. “It took a while to dig it up. Apparently, the Royal Household was more aware of the law. But, well, here it is. Signed and effective immediately.”
“Free?”
Nathaniel nodded and took a little capsule out of the leather folder. He opened it and pulled a thin stick from a protective foam block. The key to the bracelets. “I should do this. The keys break quite easily.”
Brooklyn stared but stretched out his arm and allowed Nathaniel to insert the key into a tiny hole in the bracelet. It went in all the way, and when Nathaniel turned it, the bracelet fell open.
The same on the other side. Nathaniel gathered the key and bracelets up and placed them on the folder.
“Congratulations.”
“Why?”
“Seems there might be a boxing fan in the Royal Family.” He smiled a little.
“No. No. That’s too fast. I’m too slow for this. What the fuck is going on?”
“You’re really quite popular, Brooklyn. The fight attracted a lot of attention. People feel you deserve a second chance.”
“But, no. From the start. I thought you’d dropped the lawsuit.”
“And abandoned you?”
Yes. Bastard. Brooklyn stared at the papers. “Les said you’d abandoned the lawsuit.”
“I did.” Nathaniel folded his hands again. “I received a call from a senior member of my profession who told me if I kept pushing for your release, I’d be in very hot water. The press knew we were lovers. They knew I was going to represent you. This older colleague said I was being unprofessional and was about to taint the reputation of the Inns of Court.” Nathaniel’s face twitched. Brooklyn could imagine that. Nathaniel chastised by a man he respected and quite possibly feared too.
“But worse. He said I might be attracting too much attention. Already, the press was digging around in my personal life. They had worked out that I’m related to Rupert Edwards.”
“The MP. And Jessica was your . . .”
“Half sister, second marriage. My mother left the public eye after the divorce with Edwards, and I distanced myself as much as possible. In many ways, I did not fulfil the role as heir apparent, but Edwards was never good at letting people be what they were. Jessica rebelled against him as much as she could, and I believe that was what landed her in the antigovernment protest to begin with.”
“And you bought me to spite your father?”
Nathaniel ran his hands through his hair. “Something like that. From my maternal grandfather, I’d inherited a participation in a boxing stable. Before you, I never cared much about boxing, but I respected it because boxing was his life. My way to pay homage to my inheritance.”
“Okay. I think that begins to make sense.” Except you still abandoned me. “So what’s your dirty secret? What did they have on you?”
“My daughter.” Nathaniel almost whispered. “Hazel.”
“The kid.”
“Yes. She was born a slave; her parents were slaves. I spent more than a year trying to disguise her status.” He shook his head. “The amount of paperwork and sweat . . . It’s easier laundering money than hiding a person’s origins. I’d found a freeborn surrogate mother willing to claim that she was her child and I was the father, and I was just waiting for the last few pieces of paperwork to come through when I got the call from my senior colleague telling me, in essence, that I was too vulnerable right now to try to free ‘another slave,’ as he put it.”
Brooklyn had wondered how a gay guy had ended up with a child and why he’d been so protective. No wife in the attic, then. Just some dumb stroke of luck that Nathaniel had a habit of getting way too involved with slaves. Hazel. “They blackmailed you.”
“I could have fought them, but I was scared they’d turn her into a slave again. Like you, I wanted a family. A child. Somebody who’s there for me.” Nathaniel turned away as if fighting for his composure.
Brooklyn reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “And? Is she all right?”
“Yes. It came through yesterday.”
“Fucking hell.” Brooklyn shook his head, not sure what to do with his hand, still on Nathaniel’s arm. “So they made you choose between your daughter and me.”
“Yes. I’m afraid it’s not an easy choice, but I’ve made it. I just wanted you to know I had very good reasons for doing what I did. I’m very, very sorry, Brooklyn. And I’m glad you’re free. You certainly deserve it.” Nathaniel gathered his things and stood.
“And you’re leaving now. I mean, for real.”
Nathaniel looked stricken. “Please be fair. I know I abused your trust. I lied to you. And then I abandoned you. Just tell me to get the hell out of your life, and I will.”
“Why me, then? If you’re not into boxing, what was your interest in me? Piece of rough you owned?”
“No.” Nathaniel pressed his lips together. He didn’t speak for a long while, but Brooklyn gave him that time. He needed to know. “It’s because of Hazel.”
“What?”
“My co-owners struck a deal with a real estate investor who owned a number of female slaves. That was a few weeks after you came to be owned by us. Do you remember? When they bred the boxers? I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I thought if any of those were successfu
l, I could adopt a child. I’d played with the idea for a while. My life was just about studying, and then work, work, work. I realised I didn’t have a lot to live for. Previous relationships were eaten up by my career. So I thought at least a child would give me a good reason to be less selfish.” He shook his head again. “Hazel’s your daughter. The blood test . . . Hell, she even looks like you.”
“The mother?”
“Sold overseas. I can’t track her. I tried.”
Strangely, Brooklyn believed that. I have a daughter, he thought. Over and over. His brain was unable to skip past that and kept returning to the peaceful, adorable image of Nathaniel in his white shirt with the toddler. How old was she? A year? Fifteen months? Resting against his chest, soundly asleep. The fierce protectiveness, the refusal to speak about her. When Nathaniel might still have feared he could lose her.
“Can I see her?”
Nathaniel nodded. “You might even be able to press for your paternity to be acknowledged. But that would turn her into a slave again, since you were a slave when you fathered her.” He pressed his lips together and looked terribly conflicted. “Of course you can attempt this. It’s your moral right. She’s your daughter more than mine, but I ask you not to.” He looked nervous, even scared, and guilty as fuck. “I’d offer you money to pay for your silence on the matter, but somehow I don’t believe you could be bought out like this.”
Every man has a price.
Seemed Nathaniel, ironically, was the only man who thought he couldn’t buy Brooklyn.
“Like I’d get custody of her. Ex-slave with a history of violence and no job, no money, no assets. They wouldn’t hand over a child to somebody like me.” Hazel. His kid. Not his kid. She’d be much better off growing up as Nathaniel’s daughter. It ached, though. She’d seemed like such a small, precious thing, sleeping so peacefully. Oddly, it gave him hope. If kids could trust so completely while all the world around them was turning to shit—
“Most likely not, no,” Nathaniel said softly. “I’d . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to steal her. I just want her to have a good life and spare her what you went through—at all costs.”
“You know, for a legal professional, you sure like to bend the rules.”
Nathaniel smiled. “Let’s say I prefer to play with a deck I’ve set up to suit me. And then play by the rules. But seriously, we can enter into a contract that gives you access rights.”
“And treat me like your divorced wife.”
“More like husband.”
Brooklyn met his eyes, and Nathaniel looked away immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me you owned me?”
“I thought you’d rip my head off if you knew. Slavery never sat right with you. I saw you baulk all the time. Resent and hate. Fight the notion that you should be something you’re not. I wanted to get to know you, and when I did get to know you, I couldn’t risk what I had. If everything had gone according to plan, you’d have never known.”
Yeah, he never would have allowed Nathaniel anywhere near his emotions. All the skilful diversion and evasion to give him what only a member of the management could have given him—like waltzing right over Les, for example—and all the time, Nathaniel must have been worried Brooklyn would suspect him. He could have, if he hadn’t had his head so far up his arse he could have examined the fillings in his teeth.
“Yeah, I think I can see your point. I’d never have let you . . .” do anything I let you do to me. Say to me. You would have had to strap me down every time, and I’d have still found a way to take my revenge.
“Believe me, I was close, several times. That night when you went into the pillory by yourself. I thought, God, he trusts me, I can’t, I just can’t.” Nathaniel shook his head. “Sometimes betrayal only becomes real when you admit to it. You can absolutely begin to believe the lie. I wanted . . . Hell, I so wanted to be the white knight saving you from slavery. I thought that would make you mine in the one way that really matters. You know?”
Make you mine.
Part of him freaked out over that idea. He’d never talked to Shelley about emotions like that. At some point, after the dating and the fucking, it had just become clear they’d get married and have kids, and maybe get a house. And Brooklyn had been expected to do all the work. The “courting.” Wasn’t it weird to be “courted” by a guy? But less weird than he’d thought. He could practically see Nathaniel’s pulse beat hard in his throat.
“Well. Phew. I’m not that good at feelings.” Least of all talking about them. He envied Nathaniel the ease and smoothness. Maybe gay guys were more in touch with their emotions. And wasn’t that what he liked about Nathaniel?
He couldn’t imagine having this conversation with any of the supposedly straight mates he’d exchanged a hand or blowjob with. Slightly camp Nathaniel and his bared emotions. He knew he’d make a mess of things if he tried to explain any of this, but he really needed to try. Otherwise, they might end up walking away in opposite directions.
“I mean, put me in a ring, and I know what to do. But tell me—” you love me, “something like that, and I have no fucking clue. I, yeah. I’ll be okay with all that. I’m just tired. I feel like tenderised meat; I just had one of the toughest fights in my life, and I’ve been given everything”—almost everything—“I’ve wanted. I’m . . . I think I need to sleep on it.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Of course. I just didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
“Four and a half months was a hell of a wait.”
“What did they do to you?”
Brooklyn hesitated, denial the first thing on the tip of his tongue. Telling Nathaniel might make the guilt worse, but maybe he deserved to know. All those missing days between them. “Maybe I’ll tell you, but not today. It wasn’t pretty, but it’s okay now.”
“I hope, sincerely, that you will.” Nathaniel stood again, but this time, Brooklyn stood with him.
“Thanks for coming by. It means a great deal to me.” He placed a hand between Nathaniel’s shoulder blades and guided him to the door. He wanted to touch the man, wanted to hold him again, but everything was a jumble, all his emotions flat with exhaustion. He didn’t want to regret what he might do on an impulse.
“What about Rose and Em and Santos?”
“Rose was distraught when they took you. Even cooked up a mad plan to go undercover as a slave in the gym and make sure you were okay. I told him Flackett’s not that stupid, and that I’d never let him go through slave training for that.”
Brooklyn grinned. “Brave Cuban. I’d like to see him and the others again.”
“I can arrange that. Tomorrow, dinner?” Nathaniel looked hopeful.
“Okay, if I get sixteen hours of sleep beforehand. I’m knackered.”
“I’ll give them a call. They’re in London, anyway. They watched your fight, and I’m currently introducing them to a number of promoters.”
“Get Cash on the case. He’s good. He should be happy to launch the Cubans.” He leaned against the doorjamb and studied Nathaniel in his lawyer outfit. Damn, he just liked looking at him. Especially now that he was less nervous, less scared. Much less guilty. “That’s very good of you to help them, by the way. Heavyweight boxing will be a lot more interesting with them. Hell, Rose is cut out to be a champion too.”
Nathaniel smiled. “Yes, that was the deal. Help get you ready and then help get them going. I might have had enough of slave boxing, but I could rather get into freemen boxing.”
Brooklyn grinned. “You’d better do that. Because I have no intention of dating a guy who falls asleep when I talk about fighting.”
Nathaniel stared at him. “You would? Date me?”
Brooklyn grinned wider and shoved him out the door. “Ask me again once I’ve slept. But yeah, I think I might. Okay, I’m pretty sure I will.” He leaned his head against the doorjamb. “Get home safe. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Watching Nathaniel walk to the elevator with that spring in his step made him chuckle. God, yea
h, he liked the man. Really liked him. Despite the manipulation, the lies, the stuff he’d omitted. It was extremely hard to hold a grudge now.
He closed the door and padded back into the room, about ready to fall into a bed—any bed—when the phone rang again.
“Fuck you,” Brooklyn growled, but few things were as compelling as a ringing phone. He sat back down on the couch and answered.
“Mr. Marshall, a Mr. Thorne for you.”
“Yes, I’ll take the call.” And he could get used to being “Mr. Marshall” again, rather than “Brook” or “Brooklyn” to total strangers.
“Brook, well done. Good job.”
“Is that a swollen jaw, or is your accent worse than normal?” Brooklyn shot back.
“Smart-ass,” Thorne huffed. “Yeah, you got me good. Audience loved it, though, so who’s complainin’?”
“Good revenue?”
“Very good. Care for a rematch?”
Brooklyn smiled. This was now his decision. “I won’t fight you as a slave.”
“No?”
“No. I’ve been released. I’m free.”
“That’s why your guy Cash told me to call you direct. Well done, man. Well done. So, rematch in six months? New York? Same purse?”
“Fifty percent pay-per-view, and fifty percent ad revenue. I’m getting what you’re getting.”
Thorne laughed. “Shit, I’m too bruised to laugh right now. You’ve quite the soft touch in negotiations, huh?”
“I’m penniless, Dragan. I got nothing. No house, no yacht, no golf clubs, and no Alice Cooper.”
“So what are your plans?”
“I might have a family I need to take care of. Give me ten million and fifty percent, and I’ll fight you whenever and wherever you like. Honest. I’m not promising to fall, but I’ll give you more than six rounds next time.”
A family. God, if only. Nathaniel. Hazel. It was still all a dream. But it could probably work out. He wanted it to. He knew Nathaniel was expecting his move, knew Nathaniel was still waiting for the right answer to “I love you.” He’d give him that. Tomorrow. Maybe meet up before the Cubans. Or cancel on the Cubans and have a nice dinner alone together. A night of sex afterwards. He’d try that caressing thing too. He rather liked that.
Counterpunch Page 17
