Page 374 of John + Siena: The Complete Duet

NINETEEN

Five months later …

“Harder.”

Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Tuck that elbow in tighter, John, come on.”

Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Faster, let’s go.”

Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack.

Each of John’s blows landed one after the other with no hesitation against the heavily padded gloves Cree kept high for him to punch. Nothing worked to blow off steam quite like beating the hell out of something did, but in a healthy way. Or that’s what they kept telling him. Hey, it kept him from getting arrested, and he also had a place to go to work out all the anger that seemed to constantly bubble far too close to his surface.

While he didn’t get to see the man nearly as often as he used to—business in Vegas kept Cree busy—he still came into town once a week to visit with his adopted son who lived in Brooklyn with his spouses, and he made sure to call John in for a round.

Yeah, he didn’t even call them sessions.

Not even close.

“Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five,” Cree said through John’s raining punches, counting down to what would be their third five-minute break for him to get some fluids and take a breath. It was also encouragement for John to start hitting as hard and fast as he could, ignoring technique and posture for the moment because that was always how they worked. “Four, three, two … one.”

John dropped his hands first and took two bouncing steps back from Cree, grinning behind his mouthguard at the same time. His words came out a bit garbled, but the other man in the ring seemed to understand him just fine all the same. “Better, yeah?”

“Far better,” Cree agreed as he pulled the mitts from his hands. He pulled off his own gloves and threw them to the mat at his feet. Tossing his mitts aside, too, Cree headed for the corner of the ring where the water bottles waited with condensation gathering in droplets and dribbling down the sides. He tossed one to John, saying, “Here—drink.”

He did.

A half a bottle in one go.

This was hard work.

But good work, too.

It focused John’s brain in a way nothing—except for maybe fucking his wife—did. He was grateful for this. As a younger man, fighting had simply been a means to an end for John. Something to do with all that anger and rage that constantly festered at the slightest of provocations. His temper was legendary.

This helped that.

A great deal.

Cree turned back on John but his gaze drifted to somewhere behind him. “Ah, that’s your man, isn’t it?”

Spinning around to find who he was referring to, John watched as Michel—smart and entirely out of place in his three-piece suit inside the gym—approached the ring. For the most part, neither his cousin nor Pink stepped in when they knew John was having a session with Cree or Leonard. They didn’t take away from his time, and he appreciated that.

“The news you wanted on the upcoming deal with the …” Michel passed a look to Cree, and then went back to John as though he was waiting for the okay. “We good?”

“Cree is fine,” John replied.

Not that Michel knew, but Cree had his own hand in organized crime by way of training assassins. It wasn’t really the time for that conversation, though.

“Well, good,” Michel said, sighing. “Anyway, the deal is a go so long as you have a personal meeting with the distributor first.”

Of course.

Everybody wanted a seat with the boss.