by Tilly Delane
The Brighton Bad Boys Series is intended for mature readers over 18 years of age only.
Copyright Tilly Delane, 2020
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Titles by Tilly Delane
Silas (Brighton Bad Boys I)
Rowan (Brighton Bad Boys II)
Diego (Brighton Bad Boys III)
Content
Rowan (Brighton Bad Boys 2)
Thank Yous, Contact, Begging for Reviews, and What to read next
Sneak Peek
Rowan
Rowan
I like the open countryside. It makes me feel less in everybody’s face.
At six foot three inches tall and packing 240 pounds of pure muscle, I always feel like King Kong in New York when I wade through Brighton or London or Manchester. Wherever there is human civilisation, really.
But out here, walking across the wide-open heathland on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset, where there aren’t any other people or buildings for miles, I feel like I’m not in the way, or about to accidentally break something, or someone.
I bet the others are going to have a field day with that.
I can see it now.
Me, standing up in the inevitable circle.
Hi, my name is Rowan, I’m twenty-five, and I’m an addict.
Clap, clap.
I also suffer from a bull-in-china-shop complex, a severe case of in-the-way paranoia, and anxiety around fucking shit up.
Hums.
All of these originated with the death of my birth mother when I was eleven in what has widely been described as a freak accident.
Silence.
After Mum’s premature demise, I tagged along with her then husband, not my biological father, and my toddler half siblings into my stepdad’s next relationship. When he and his next woman split up, he took off with his own babies and left me behind in the care of my stepmum, who eventually adopted me.
Shocked mutterings.
All was well for a few years, until I fucked up my hitherto brilliant relationship with my stepbrother, Silas, by fucking his girlfriend while she still had his dick in her mouth.
Gasps.
Aside from being a kinky arsehole, I had also racked up a couple of hundred thou in gambling debts behind their backs at that point, so I did the only thing a worthless piece of shit like me can do. I scarpered. And left them to pick up the pieces.
Clearings of throats.
I went to hell, beyond, and came back.
Impatient noises.
Now I’m here.
Thanks for listening.
I’m gonna sit down now.
I might save the juicier revelations for a rainy day though. Won’t give ‘em the scandalous parts right at the beginning. Won’t give ‘em the self aware, articulate version of me so readily.
Will give ‘em the brute ex-MMA-and-illegal-fight-club-fighter, who doesn’t have two brain cells to rub together, first. See what they do with that.
Those counsellors will need to fucking well earn my trust to justify their extortionate rehab fees.
‘Cause that’s where I’m headed.
I am walking across this breathtakingly beautiful nature reserve through the sweltering late June heat with a backpack full of all my earthly belongings, in order to get to a remote rehab centre, imaginatively called The Village.
It’s situated in what was until a few years ago a ghost village of typical Purbeck limestone houses with thatched roofs, dating back hundreds of years.
There is a whole load of history behind the why and how it became deserted, which they wax lyrical about in the online brochure that you can download from the website of Halosan, the American chain of clinics that owns it. They bought it up a few years ago and turned it into a gated community for addicts in recovery. When I flicked through the pdf on my phone, it came across like a fucking movie set.
At first, I didn’t really consider it an option. Too squeaky. But while I rang around a bunch of other rehab places, I found out something sobering, no pun intended.
Barely any of them even consider gamblers, and then only if there is a co-morbidity (yup, King Kong here knows words and shit) with some nice, solid substance abuse they can get their teeth into. I guess it’s because there is something tangible to do when you detox a junkie or dry out an alcoholic. There are drugs you can give them to ease the transition.
Would have been easier to find a place if I was still into the chemical enhancement of life. But I dropped that shit all by myself when I got to the third ring of hell. To survive there, you’ve got to have your wits about you. I only have the betting left now.
But us pure gamblers are tricky bastards from the medical point of view. There is nothing to apply during the chrysalis stage. No pills to push. Which turns out just hunky dory for me. But makes it hard to find a residential place.
Most help with gambling addiction comes as weekly therapy sessions along with separate meetings with a financial advisor.
But I need a clean break.
I need head space, away from everyone and everything. I need concentration to silence that little voice that constantly calls to me. To find a fight, a race, a match and let the fever take over.
Because for me, it’s not about the money or the adrenaline rush you get from winning. For me, it’s all about the action. Being part of it. A substitute for being in it myself. Despite the fact I miss being in it as much as I miss a hole in the head. Fucked up much?
On their admission form, they’ve got me down as a gambler, but I’m not.
I don’t do casinos or online poker or any of that crap.
I put bets on action. On people. On dogs. Every once in a blue moon, if there is nothing else, on horses. If it’s people, it’s the fighting kind. If it’s dogs, it’s exclusively the racing kind. If it’s horses, it’s the flat-racing kind.
I have feelings about that shit. Strong ones. The last time I beat someone within an inch of their lives without getting paid for it was when one of the sick bastards at the Benson Mansion thought he was doing me a favour and took me to some dilapidated farm, where another one of the staple Brighton arseholes was training up fight dogs.
Brighton is home, but sometimes I really wish I could start over somewhere new. I tried, for years. But it turned out no matter where I go, there are Benson types that will find me and sucker me in.
The Bensons are old school Brighton underworld and the bane of my life.
Old man Benson is a cunt of the highest order. He’s probably well into those dogfights. Not that I want to know. His son, George, aka Diego, because he’s a poncy prick who wanted a proper gangster name, runs the Brighton fightnights. The human ones. George junior and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but he wouldn’t stand for the kind of sadistic shit his father is into, that much is certain.
And he’s currently in my favour. Very fucking much.
Diego played a huge part in pulling off the stunt that got me out of debt to my family and brought a truce to Silas and me.
Silas and Diego go all the way back to fucking pre-school. Always made me jealous ‘cause they already had bags of history when I first arrived at Sheena’s house. Sheena is Silas’ mum and the woman who was stupid enough to adopt me. Sheena’s always had a soft spot for Diego, too, so I guess he really is okay, deep down.
Old man Benson and his cronies are vile though. Really, really sick.
I think Diego got a bit of a final eye-opener in that respect when he organised the fight between Silas and me that ultimately led to our reunion. Or maybe Diego knew already but it needed his oldest friend’s life being gambled with for him to snap. Who knows.
And most of all, I can’t believe that after all of that we are good. That Silas still loves me. At least a little. That Sheena, Silas and Grace, his girlfriend, let me stay with them until there was space for me at The Village. Silas even offered to drive me here in Sheena’s car today, but I declined.
This is my journey. Either into disaster or the sunset. We’ll see.
There is no rail service on Purbeck, so I had to get off the train at Poole. The Village offers a driver service, at extra cost, of course, or you can get a cab from Poole station, but I didn’t fancy either. I bought a map at the Tourist Information, got on the bus to Studland and started hiking from there.
Good choice, other than that I forgot to refill my water bottle and now I’m parched. It’s way too hot for June even with the permanent breeze from the ocean in the air. I stop, drop my backpack, sit on it, wipe my brow and consult the map. If I’m not mistaken, The Village is only about a quarter of a mile ahead now, so I decide to polish off my last water before hoisting my backpack back on and marching onwards.
Raven
It’s 3pm and I’m pissed.
That’s American pissed, not British pissed, and the fact that my brain offers that explanation up to myself tells me I’ve really been on this godforsaken island too long. And by that I mean the whole of the UK, not just the peninsula of Purbeck.
And to think how excited I was when Halosan offered me the chance to go to Europe for a year to set up one of our two new complexes and train the local nurses.
Look at me being the company bot, using the pronoun our in there.
But it’s not far from the truth. Halosan has pretty much owned me since I was nineteen. They put me through five years of die hard, rock ‘n roll, you-are-now-a-fully-fledged-RN-specialising-in-recovery nursing training and in return, I got tied in. As per post-graduation contract, they still own me for another six months. Then I’ve done my time for them.
Not that it’s been a hardship. The pay is great, the benefits exemplary and because you live in at the centers, you don’t have rent to pay. The only snag was a no-pregnancy clause, but that has posed no problem for me. I’m twenty-eight now and I have no intention of having a baby this side of thirty. If ever. I got life to live first.
I went into the Halosan program straight after high school, courtesy of John, my foster dad, who knew I’d always wanted to become a nurse. So he searched high and low for the best program for me. He’s good like that.
He and his wife Elena run a group home for twenty kids and no matter what any of them want to be, he’ll always find the best route for them to get into whatever that choice is. So John found me the Halosan offer and I’ve been with the company ever since. It’s been great, but I want to see some shit before I commit to anything else, especially a baby.
As if getting into the Halosan training program in the first place wasn’t fortuitous enough, toward the end of my contract, Halosan also offered me the lifetime opportunity to go to either Lake Como, not far from Milan in Italy (yes, sir, thank you, sir), or Purbeck in Dorset in the UK (excuse me, sir, where, sir?).
I got Purbeck.
It’s beautiful but it’s also nowhere near Milan, or any other big city. Getting to London from here takes half a day. Not because of distance but because the British transportation system might as well still depend on stagecoaches. They’d probably get you there faster. So I’ve only been to London a few times and haven’t really gone anywhere else other than Poole and Swanage, the nearest small towns, ever since I arrived here ten months ago.
But that’s okay. I get four weeks off at the end of my stay to explore at least a little of the rest, and of Europe. Not long now.
This is my last intake of guests and my trainees are all up to standard. They’re good, actually. Especially Christine, who will take over from me as head of nursing once I’m gone. She comes from somewhere ‘up North’, talks in a funny accent, has a super wry sense of humor and absolutely loves it here.
Me? I can’t wait for my Purbeck year to be over now. It’s been a ball, but I’m done with the vista now. I want to be somewhere else. Not bothered where exactly but I’m bored with this.
Which is probably why I’m so extra crabby right now about Mr. Rowan Hadlow, Fuller or O’Brien. The guy with the three different last names who didn’t turn up for registration by noon, like all the other good little lambs. Instead, he called to say he was ‘walking’ and wouldn’t get here before late afternoon. Walking from fucking where?
So he’s missing the induction talk that is in full swing in the main hall of the therapy center, which used to be the village church. And so am I. Because I’m out here at reception, where the entrance to the church used to be, waiting for the fucker. Just my luck that the one candidate who can’t keep to a simple timetable happens to be staying in my house. Awesome.
The big door to the main hall opens and Elias slips out. Elias is one of the younger nurses here, at twenty-three, and he’s got a bit of a mouth on him, which needs watching. He’s half Irish, half English with an accent that changes depending on which part of his heritage he wants to ham up. Today is Irish Elias.
“Hey, Ray,” he mock whispers as he sees me, while he shuts the heavy door quietly.
I hate being called Ray. It’s not my name. It’s either Raven, or if you are my foster parent or someone official, you may call me Ravenna but it’s never ever Ray.
“Not my name, sunshine,” I volley back, and he grins.
“Awh, you still got a face on ya. Still waiting on three-name-man?”
“Keep it zipped, Elias,” I reprimand him and watch him roll his eyes as he walks over to the restrooms.
I’m angry at him because he shouldn’t be saying stuff like that in public. But if I’m honest, I’m even more annoyed at myself for being unprofessional earlier and making an indiscreet comment about the fact this guest, ‘idiot’ I think was the word I chose at the time, comes with medical records in three different last names. Shouldn’t have slipped out. Did. Bad.
Firstly, because it’s confidential information that Elias has no clearance for, only the counselors, Christine and I. Secondly, because it’s judgmental.
And I know from my own experience that an individual can come with different last names for different parts of their life due to no fault of their own. Before ending in the system, I’d been a Lavetti, a Miller and a Grady.
My graduation papers are in the name of Vanhofd. I asked for that one. It’s John and Elena’s last name. Their group home was the only time in my life I felt safe, so when I turned eighteen, I asked them how they’d feel if I legally changed my name to theirs. They were over the moon. I think if they weren’t dependent on the money they got for all of us foster kids, they would have adopted us anyway. Every single child that ever passed through their hands. They’re that kind of people.
I know people assume growing up in the system is always a bad ride, but for me it was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wish it had got me sooner.
Fuck me, I’m in an antsy, reminiscent frame of mind today.
It’s something about this guy, who fucking better arrive soon if he doesn’t want to encounter my full wrath on day one. He’s not even here yet and already messing with my mojo.
I watch the clock and a full five minutes later, Elias reappears from the restroom.
“Did you fall in?” I ask snarkily, and he laughs.
“Gotta relieve the boredom somehow,” he answers good-naturedly, with an obscene gesture and a smirk.
For a moment, I wonder if he actually did go and jerk off, but I doubt it. He’s all mouth that one. Probably just played around on his cell, checking on some sports news.
Elias is a huge boxing and MMA fan and there is some big fight on tonight he keeps yakking on about. Which brings me back to Mr. Noshowy
et. According to his records, he’s a twenty-five-year-old ex-fighter who’s got a gambling issue. No drugs, no alcohol. At least not according to his admission form. I got doubts. But if it’s true, it makes him both interesting and a loose cannon as far as I’m concerned. I’m good with alcoholics and junkies. You keep them fed, you don’t feed their narcissistic egos and leave the rest to the counselors.
Gamers and gamblers can be tricky.
I have an interesting bunch this time. Aside from Mr. Getyourfuckingassherepronto, I have an eighteen-year-old called Tristan with a gaming problem, an alcoholic businessman in his late forties called Simon, and a repeat customer called Charlie who, nomen est omen, has a cocaine issue.
Charlie is twenty-two, the guitarist in a soon-to-be-famous rock band, and here for the second time already. He was in my first ever group on Purbeck and it’s kind of sad that he’s back for my last, but I prefer that to him giving up on rehab altogether. Sometimes people need a few tries before it really clicks and they can flick that switch in their brain for good. It’s a good thing Charlie’s parents are not short of a bob or two, as Elias would say. They can afford to keep sending him back on a regular roster if they need to. I like Charlie, I hope he makes it, but I also know from experience that the younger they are the higher the chance they’ll relapse. It’s the idea of immortality, of none of it counting yet, that keeps them hooked more than the actual substance.
And coke is always a bastard anyway. Because it can short circuit the healthiest person any time. It can kill you the first time or the thousandth time. And there is sweet f.a. you can do for the victim when it fries them. No matter if you are a doctor, a nurse or the fucking Antichrist.
I know. I really, really know. When I was twelve, I watched the Antichrist try and fail to revive my mother.
In a way it’s a shame that the professional boundaries tell us not to divulge personal information to the guests. I could probably scare Charlie into becoming the first ever totally sober rock star with my stories. But that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here for…the bell.
