Tyson Read online

  Table of Contents

  TYSON

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  COPYRIGHT

  TYSON

  A TOUGH LONDON NOVELLA

  M.C. Adams

  WICKED ROMANCE PUBLISHING

  ONE

  * * *

  ‘Of course I’ll come to a kickboxing class with you,’ I said to my friend Hunter last week, ‘anything to help a friend.’ He let out a sigh of relief and clapped me on the shoulder. I put a brave face on, trying to pretend I was bang up for it, but honestly, on the inside, I’ve kinda been dreading it.

  Hunter is one of the toughest guys I know. He works as a bouncer at one of the rowdiest gay clubs in the centre of London - Sailor Barry’s. It’s his professional duty to stay in shape, and keep his martial arts skills as sharp as a shuriken. Kinda the polar opposite to me.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not exactly a pushover. I run a successful company - we shift thousands of tons of letterhead and copier paper every week - we make over a million pounds profit a year. I manage a rowdy bunch of fifty-four employees, competitive, boisterous salespeople. And they all respect me. I’m a no-nonsense sort of boss, firm but fair. As long as you don’t cross me, I’m amiable enough.

  But… kickboxing? I’ve never done anything like that in my life. In my teens, I was a gymnast. I know — sound manly, right? I took part in local, and even national, gymnastic competitions. I’d have carried on with it if work hadn’t taken over. I’m a workaholic, see, and the long hours of overtime soon stopped me from continuing with evening activities. All I have time for these days is a quick run around Hyde Park twice a week, just to keep, at the bare minimum, in some sort of shape. I’m naturally muscular anyway, so I’m lucky - as Hunter delights in telling me.

  But yeah, I’m short on free time, and don’t do much other than work. I think that’s the reason I haven’t had a boyfriend in over a year, too. I’m in a relationship with my job. And I’d never cheat.

  Hunter, though, has been going through something of a crisis lately. Hunter’s gay, too, and he seems to go through boyfriends like they’re going out of style. His most recent partner just dumped him. Apparently Hunter is too unreliable. That’s something I can believe. I can barely believe he turned up on time this evening.

  Hunter has been doing all the the things that spurned lovers do - getting his deep black hair cut short and spiky, getting (another) piercing, and finally he’s taken up this martial arts class. I assume that’s what spurned lovers do, anyway. I’ve never let myself fall for anyone enough to let myself be hurt by them.

  Avoid pain at all costs. I don’t have a tattoo, of course, but if I was to get one, that would be it. In big letters. Across my forehead.

  So, against my better instincts, I agreed to go to this kickboxing class with Hunter, until he feels confident enough to go on his own. Then I can get back to my own life, having done a good deed for a friend. Hopefully, it will only take a couple of weeks for Hunter to get his swagger back, and he’ll be back to his fun and flirtatious self in no time.

  ‘The problem is,’ he tells me, as we head for the address on the kickboxing leaflet, ‘is that everyone always tells me to grow up, that I’m too wild.’ His green eyes glint under a street-lamp. ‘But I don’t wanna fucking grow up. Grown-ups are boring. I want to drink and I want to fuck and I want to have fun.’

  And that’s why me and Hunter could never be an item.

  I nod occasionally, letting Hunter rant and release all that bitterness, knowing it will do him good. Really though, I’m only really half-listening. Instead, I’ve got this strange, fluttering feeling inside me. As I say, I’m no pushover. I’m not used to feeling - what is this? Nerves? Anxiety? Yep, that’s how I am feeling now. It’s like I’m reliving my first day at school, wondering what everyone is gonna be like, if I’m gonna fit in, if I’m going to be able to keep up.

  I watch my legs striding forwards. It’s a warm summer’s evening in West Kilburn, so I’ve got my shorts on. But I don’t really feel as though I’m wearing the right gear for a martial arts class. I’m wearing a tight Asics, t-shirt which I normally use for running. It clings to my lean, muscular torso. All of a sudden, I think that maybe I should have chosen a hoodie, or something less revealing. Damn, I can even seen my nipples, hard against the fabric. I suddenly feel even more self-conscious than I did before. I hope Hunter doesn’t tease me. I’m gonna be the campest, most effeminate guy at this class, I just know it. I’m like something out of a Jane Fonda exercise video, for fuck’s sake.

  I have a horrible feeling this place is going to be chock-full of meat-head guys. Don’t get me wrong, I like a well built guy as much as the next man. But there’s something so specifically showy about the gym crowd. Hunter can be a little like that sometimes, but he’s so down to earth I forgive him.

  Some gay guys seem straight. Hunter’s like that. I, on the other hand, just scream gay, straight away. Everyone always knows. And I could do without snide comments about my masculinity and sexuality. Maybe that’s what I’m scared of, more than anything else.

  ‘This must be it,’ says Hunter, holding up the flyer and re-reading the address. The flyer, which Hunter got from some greasy spoon down the road, looks pretty corny if I’m being honest. I’m surprised Hunter went for it. The entire background was taken up with the picture of a man’s torso, a perfect six-pack, each ab an angular, chiselled, masterpiece of Photoshop, no doubt. It’s the kind of photo which makes you give up hope of ever having a good body. No-one really has a stomach that good.

  I look up from the flyer at the building in front of us. ‘This can’t be right,’ I say, puzzled.

  In front of us is a small row of what I can only describe as dirty old garages. Each one has rusting, dark blue corrugated metal covering over the entrance, and beside that a grimy black door. ‘This place is a dump,’ I say. ‘It can’t be here.’

  Hunter looks at the flyer again, screwing up his eyes because he’s left his glasses at home. Really, he is so forgetful it’s a wonder he ever manages to get anything done. Take this evening, he forgot his water bottle, then his wallet, then his car keys. We had to go back to his house three times before we could leave. We are already running ten minutes late.

  It’s difficult to get angry with him though - he’s always so cheeky and easy-going. Whenever he does something wrong, he looks at me with those big, doe eyes, and there’s was no way I can stay pissed at him for too long.

  ‘Look, we’re obviously in the wrong place,’ I say to Hunter. ‘Let’s just cut our losses, go to a bar, get a couple of beers, relax.’ God, I could use a drink. I am almost glad Hunter has messed up.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ says Hunter, pointing at the door, and suddenly I hear the noise of hands thumping against hard fabric. It’s the sound of people punching. There’s no mistaking it.

  We’re in exactly the right place.

  TWO

  * * *

  We shuffle through the door, to the sound of some thirty or forty people, rhythmically pounding pads in pairs. Each time they punch, they let out a loud hiss, and I almost step back through the door and leave. I’ve heard there’s a good yoga place down the road. Bikram — the hot stuff. Surely Hunter would be up for that instead? It’s meant to be really good for your core. Burns calories, too.

  But the main thing I notice as I step through the door is
the smell.

  It absolutely stinks in here. The salty stench of sweat is everywhere, then a more metallic tang, like blood, perhaps. Then a wild, unbridled animal kind of smell, almost impossible to describe — acrid, but not totally unpleasant. Everyone in here looks so tough, with short hair, tribal tattoos, and hard, angular bodies. The guys in here are fit. And I mean fit.

  Hunter fits right in with his tats and attitude. But I stick out like a sore thumb.

  ‘We’ll creep in round the back,’ whispers Hunter behind me. He’s a brute, but at least he can be sensitive sometimes.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Hunter,’ I whisper back, dying to turn back, but determined not to wimp out before he does. I can do anything he can. I can do it twice as hard.

  I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s right, but I’ll give it my all.

  I try squeezing past a guy holding up pads while his partner threw punches at him, but the guy takes a step back, stopping me in his tracks. ‘Trying to sneak in late?’ he says, in a low, threatening voice. I notice that one of his teeth is missing, and he has a scar running across his lip. I knew that the guys in here would be trouble.

  ‘And what?’ I ask, standing straighter, throwing my shoulders back, a technique I use when I’m disciplining the more unruly members of the population at work. Arrogant arseholes hate it when you square up to them. It freaks them out.

  Trouble is, my voice breaks as I speak, and my nerves are plain to see. The guy looks me up and down, as if he’s appraising my outfit. But I get the feeling he’s appraising a heck of a lot more than just that.

  Then, confirming my worst fears, he puckers his lips together and gives the air a sarcastic kiss. The smile that follows shows of yet another missing tooth. Then he turns back to the green-haired punk punching him.

  Wanker.

  Hunter surges forward, and for a moment, I think he’s going to punch the guy, but I grab his arm to stop him. I don’t want a fight.

  You know, other than the ones I’m literally paying to get into.

  Well, this is just great. What has Hunter got us into? He might be my friend, sure, but I won’t be coming back here next week to ‘support’ him, that’s for sure. This place is full of know-it-all guys with small dick syndrome.

  As I step forwards, trying to catch up with Hunter, who is now slipping off his shoes and putting down his water bottle, the punching and hissing suddenly stops, and the room goes silent. Everyone stands with their legs together and their bodies rigid with attention.

  At the front of the room, where I haven’t yet dared let myself look, stands the instructors, arms at his sides. Everyone in the room has their gaze fixed on him, and in return, the startling blue of his eyes is fixed on them.

  Now I’ve seen a lot of men in my life; I’ve seen a fair number of them up close and personal, but I’ve never seen a man like this. He’s tall. Really fucking tall — he must be getting on for six foot four. He has short golden brown hair, brushed back and up, shaved at the sides. There’s tight, golden stubble on his hollow cheeks and his sharp jawline. His lips are generous and slightly more red than is entirely usual. He’s got a don’t-mess-with-me kind of a haircut, but plump, mess-me-up lips.

  But it’s his eyes that really get me. Really make me feel something kinda fluttery and tight in my gut. They’re that pale blue — the colour of the sky on an early summer morning, and when they glance at me, it’s like I’ve been pierced straight through.

  He wears black trousers, slung loose at the hips, with mysterious Chinese lettering scrawled tantalizingly around his groin, and a black belt tied in a complicated-looking knot, drawing attention to the space between his legs, hovering over his crotch. And his torso - it’s magnificent. He’s wearing a tight, black vest, which his toned arms practically rip their way out of. His pecs are heavy and strong, and I can see the muscles in his neck and shoulders, thick as ropes.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got latecomers,’ he says, pulling back his lips to reveal big, white, angry teeth. His voice sounds barely human, it’s so low and gruff - almost like a growl. ‘You know what happens now,’ he says. I notice a twang of a foreign accent. What is it? German? Danish? It’s exotic and mysterious, and makes me think of crisp, cold Scandinavian winters.

  All forty people in the room look at him obediently for a moment, and then get down on their knees. They shuffle their hands forwards, so that their flat palms are directly under their shoulders, and then lift themselves onto their toes, with perfectly straight backs.

  It’s crazy. He’s got complete command over the room. Even the meat-head guys. It’s like he’s brainwashed them or something.

  ‘Gentlemen. It’s your fault everyone’s got to do this now. Find a space. Get into the plank position.’

  I look at Hunter, and he raises his eyebrows at me and then shrugs.

  Fine, I’ll do what he says, I think. But how humiliating. I haven’t been told off for showing up late to class since I was ten years old. Hunter is gonna pay for dragging me along to pay money for this sadist to humiliate us.

  I find a tight space at the back of the room and got down onto my knees. As I put my weight onto the palms of my hands, leaning forwards, I notice that my shorts are really damn tight on my arse. Like, dangerously tight. Why did I not think about this when choosing my outfit? Once more I feel like a fish out of water. I glance over at Hunter. He’s not struggling in the slightest, he looks as solid as a rock. He probably does planks in his sleep.

  The instructor marches to the back of the room and watches our positions. ‘Straight backs, ladies and gentlemen,’ he says, looking at Hunter first and then me. I try to pull my stomach in, to concentrate on straightening out my spine, but I feel like the core strength just isn’t there. Now if only I’d been doing yoga…

  Suddenly I feel a firm hand pressing down on the small of my back.

  ‘This needs to come down,’ says the gruff voice. Slowly, expertly, he guides my hips down towards the floor. Then, a hot, smooth palm touches my stomach. ‘And this needs to come up.’ He pushes gently on my stomach, sending waves of feeling around my abdomen. And further down, too.

  It is the first time a man has touched me there in months. Heck, it’s the first time a man has really touched my anywhere for months. I feel a strange tingle, somewhere deep within me, and try to steady my breathing. I can smell him, this animal creature so near to me, can feel his hands so firm against my stomach and the small of my back, pushing against me, and for a second, I almost feel myself willing his hands to slide down a little further…

  No! Stop it! What am I thinking? This man is an arrogant pig.

  Instead, I focus on getting my body rigid, and wait for him to walk away. Instead of walking away to examine Hunter's posture, though, he lingers by me a little longer. I don’t know how I know this, but I can feel his eyes on my arse, taking in the curve of my body, the powerful roll of my buttocks below my clothes. Mind you, he’s probably thinking about how inappropriate my gear is for martial arts. He probably hates my guts.

  His hands are still pressed against me, and I can feel their heat, getting warmer and warmer as my body aches under the pressure of holding still. Then, slowly, his hand slides another inch down my back, then another, until it’s over my coccyx, almost touching my butt. He applies a little more pressure, and then a little more, until I’m fighting not to fall to the floor. My legs tremble under the strain.

  But I’m not going to break. I’m not going to show any weakness to this bully.

  ‘Arses should be lower than shoulders,’ he says in a strange low voice, and then he draws his hand away. My backside, where he’s been touching me, throbs with feeling, as if it has just been smacked. It’s the weirdest sensation — almost as if the heat and strength in has hands has travelled into me.

  I look up, desperate to catch a glimpse of him, to see if he is going to do the same to Hunter, but instead, he just walks back to the front of the room. ‘Twenty press-ups,’ he says to everyone, his eyes onl
y on me.

  THREE

  * * *

  For the next hour of class, thankfully, Hunter and I are able to hide in the corner, throwing jabs at one another’s pads with all the skill of two-year-olds trying to wrestle with their parents as their nappies get changed. Our postures are both terrible - you don’t have to be a World Champion MMA fighter to figure that out. Every time I catch sight of myself in the long mirror that runs across the front wall, I wince at how amateurish I look. I keep getting my jabs mixed up with my crosses, I don’t understand the first thing about upper-cuts, and as for my hook… my right-hook looks barely powerful enough to bat away a fly.

  Hunter is doing better, and he surprises me a couple of times with the power and skill of his blows. He’s done other martial arts in the past, and you can really tell. He keeps giving me this annoying little looks, as though to say, ‘I’m so good at everything.’

  I also notice, looking in the mirror, that my outfit is even more inappropriate than I’d at first thought. Now that I’ve been sweating, you can basically see the outline of my muscles under my tight shirt, the hard shape of my pecs and even my small but firm abs. When I turn around, the taut curve of my buttocks is clear for everyone to see. I feel practically naked; it’s obscene.

  Luckily, I’m much too distracted by the endless instructions being growled at us to worry about it for long. While I’m working with Hunter, the instructor doesn’t come near us. We just do our beginner thing, while the other, more experienced fighters in the room jab and cross and hook and hiss, and the sweat flies off mats, until we become enveloped in the stench, and we are part of that muskiness, that thick animal scent. By the end of the hour, I’m surprised to hear myself actually groan as I take a punch. The wild aggression in the room is heady, and I can see, I think, how something like this could grow addictive.