AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I think you have a point. But”—I bite the inside of my cheek—"don’t you find it weird that he proposed to me within minutes of meeting me, and that he’s much older than me? Not to mention, I was going to marry his son."
“Maybe.” Summer shrugs. “I admit, it seems impulsive. And I might add, out of character for him. But I think that’s because he decided to follow his instinct and not waste time second-guessing himself.”
I turn to Zoey. “And what do you think, Zoey? What would you do if you were in my position?”
She meets my gaze without flinching. “I think you’re right to be suspicious. I would be, too, if someone walked off the street and proposed to me. But it’s also dependent on the man—and I do happen to think Q is very personable. And hot”—she snickers— “so I’d get to know him better before making a decision. In fact,”—she snaps her fingers— “I have an idea. Q's participating in a fight tomorrow. Wanna come with me?”
10
Quentin
The underground parking lot in Hackney where the fight with Ryot is about to take place, is a couple of miles from my Primrose Hill townhouse, but it might as well be in a different country.
I spent much of my rebellious youth here getting into scraps with the underground gangs that rule this area. I turned my back on Arthur and his money by taking on criminal elements, then thought I was leaving it all behind when I enrolled in the Marines, but life has a way of coming full circle.
It’s a testament to how much I’ve forgotten that it’s only when I park my refurbished Cadillac Eldorado next to the Kebab Shop near the lot that I realize I don’t have a hope in hell of finding the car intact upon my return. I may have changed, but this area hasn’t. To play it safe, I pay the guy in the Kebab Shop to keep an eye on it. For good measure, I incentivize the teens milling about around the corner to guard it.
In the less than half a block I walk to the lot, I pass a make-shift shrine at the spot where a knifing took place a week ago, a pound store, a corner shop with barred windows, and another which is shuttered.
I drop a hundred-pound note into the cap of a homeless man who grabs it, stuffs it under his torn bedding, then goes back to sleep. The air smells of rotting garbage and unwashed bodies.
If I close my eyes, I might as well be back in one of the run-down areas of the Middle East country where I was posted for a lot of my time abroad. Except the temperature here is cooler.
When I enter the car park, the scent of copper grows heavy. It’s then it sinks in that I’m going to take on Ryot, not in a gentlemanly match at the 7A gym, but in a free-style boxing scenario.
When he told me to choose the date and time of the match, he left out the venue which he picked. Which is this—his home turf. Blood has been spilled here from previous fights and, possibly, gang run-ins before that. There are no cameras, either—I checked. The air is thick with the stench of imminent threat. The echoes of those hurt before me bounce off the walls.
I thought I was early but already crowds press in on the ropes rigged around the platform, which forms the temporary ring in the center of the lot.
I shoulder my way past the throng to where Knox waits for me with my gloves. He’s agreed to be my corner man for the duration of the fight. He chin jerks in my direction.
Without a word, I strip off my T-shirt and drop it on the floor, then take a seat in the chair in front of him. I pull on first one glove then the other. He tightens, then tests them. No mouth guard or any other protective gear because those are the rules of this wannabe Fight Club match.
"You sure you want to go through with this?" Knox drawls.
I don’t answer.
"He’s going to kick your arse.”
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I grumble.
Around us, the crowd begins to chant. It takes me a few seconds to realize they’re screaming, "Kill-er, Kill-er, Kill-er."
"Killer?" I scowl.
"Newsflash: they don’t mean you." Knox snickers.
"Shouldn’t you be joining them in supporting your brother?"
He chuckles. "I thought so, too. Until I realized he meant to meet you on his patch. He hasn’t lost a match since he began competing in these wannabe Fight Club encounters."
My muscles flex. I shake out my arms, crack my neck. I didn’t think I missed this part of my youth, but a part of me feels like I never left.
A ripple runs through the crowd. The chanting grows louder. The crowd parts for Ryot. He runs forward and bounds onto the platform. He’s wearing a pair of boxing shorts, boots, and gloves. His torso is bare, like mine. Unlike him, I’m wearing a pair of jeans.
For the first time, I assess him, not as my nephew, but as competition. He’s a little shorter than me, but his torso and shoulders seem to be hewn from rock. I know he's heavier than me. But seeing him without his suit on, I realize I misjudged him. The man is in peak physical condition. And unlike me, he doesn’t have a single grey hair on his head, or on his chest. Also, unlike me, he carries the grief of a broken heart. One I caused—unwittingly and by carrying out my duty—but that means shit to him. He's suffering and I can give him an outlet, by letting him take out some of his rage on me. It’s not going to hurt less, though.
Knox follows my perusal, and his expression grows sober. "He’s going to beat you up."
