In the Ring Read online

  “That’s . . . oh . . . that’s great . . .”

  “We’re nearly there.”

  “Yeah. Just . . . just keep going a bit . . . longer . . .”

  A bit longer and I’d have been slipping my cock into him, and he knew it. But when the worst of the wetness had disappeared, I lowered him to his feet. He was rock hard, sticking straight up, and he tried to bend over to conceal it. I didn’t bother.

  “It’s okay, dude. Nothing to be embarrassed about. Look.” I smacked the underside of my cock a few times, made it bounce against my belly. “Guys get stiff all the time, right?”

  “I know . . . it’s just . . . I mean, some people are like . . . you know . . .”

  “Uptight about it? They’re assholes. It’s cool. You’re cute. You have a nice ass.”

  “Oh, I . . . er . . . yeah . . .”

  Poor kid was so horny and mortified and confused I thought he was going to cum on the spot. But that wouldn’t do. I had to keep him keen. I stuffed my hard dick back into my pants, and buttoned up. He looked heartbroken.

  “You better put that away before someone comes in. Here.” I grabbed hold of his cock, squeezed it hard, and pulled his pants up over it. “Now think about your mother. That usually does the trick.”

  He stood like a stunned cow, hands hanging by his sides.

  “Come on, Oz. Wake up.” I gave back his stuff. He frowned, and tried to pull himself together. “You’ve got my number, right? Now, let me go watch the fight.”

  “Oh . . . okay.”

  Poor kid needed to cum so badly, and he’d felt my dick rubbing against his ass, and nothing would be right in his world until I’d fucked him. That was just how I wanted him. Mission accomplished.

  “Call me, and we’ll fix up a proper training session.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And put in a good word for me with your boss. I need a job.”

  “Okay.”

  I moved towards the door. Oz looked as if he was going to start crying. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Come here.” I grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled him in, and kissed him hard on the mouth, pushing my tongue in. He staggered back against the wall and I pressed on, thrusting my groin against him. “You do what I say, and I’ll fuck your sweet ass until you can’t stand up.” I let him go. “Call me, Oz.”

  I left him to compose himself, and made my way out to the auditorium.

  The fight was about to begin. I found myself a seat at the back, where I could watch the crowd as much as the boxers. The ringside seats were taken up by Vaughan’s guests, local dignitaries, a few people that looked like minor television personalities, and assorted young men who could have been fighters, soldiers, or hustlers. They were all young, attractive, and dressed in the uniform of their class, sweatshirts, jeans, and sneakers. If this was representative of his inner circle, I was more than ready to penetrate it.

  The fight was impressive, in its way. Craig Lukas undoubtedly had talent as well as looks. I’ve known guys with great-looking bodies who crap out after five minutes of cardiovascular activity; Lukas’s muscles were not the display-only type. He was constantly moving, dancing around the ring, punching, dodging, and although he was shiny with sweat by the end of the first round it was clear he was only warming up. The crowd adored him. He had the charisma that marks out a champion, a kind of grace that can transform a bloody fight into something almost beautiful.

  His opponent, Kieran McAvoy, was shorter, stockier, with sturdy thighs and massive shoulders, pale skin, and dark red hair. He wasn’t much of a looker—his nose was flat and crooked, his eyes on the small side, his ears protruding—but I’ve never been one for the pretty boys. Even the homely ones look great with my cock in their mouths.

  It was quite clear that McAvoy never stood a chance. At best he’d been chosen as an opponent who was totally outclassed by the champion—at worst, he’d been paid to throw the fight. Even if money hadn’t changed hands, it was worthwhile for an up-and-coming boxer to be matched against one of Vaughan’s stable—it gave him profile and exposure, and may have been the first move towards McAvoy himself being accepted into the Vaughan family. I would make it my business to find out.

  Watching him taking the blows from Lukas’s merciless right hook, watching the dark blood spotting his pink-and-white chest, I was already planning a visit to the dressing room for a bit of post-fight counselling.

  Lukas won after four rounds. McAvoy was down on his hands and knees, blood dripping from his nose to the canvas as the referee counted him out. Lukas’s triumph was everything I knew it would be: jumping around, posing for photos with the beautiful girls in bikinis who reappeared in the ring, lifting the trophy belt, kissing it, kissing his own biceps, the full show. Alan Vaughan climbed over the ropes to congratulate his champion, and got the biggest cheer of the night. Lukas may have won the fight, but Vaughan was the gatekeeper to a world of money, fame, and women, the world that Craig Lukas inhabited and that Kieran McAvoy, slumped on a stool with a towel pressed to his nose, did not.

  I ran quickly towards the door through which McAvoy’s team was disappearing, and tagged on the end. I must have looked the part; nobody challenged me for ID.

  McAvoy’s trainer was a fat-bellied old geezer who smelt of cigarettes; little wonder the kid was a loser. His manager, who should have been giving him a pep talk or at least comforting him, was busy on his phone. I guess he was arranging how to spend his share of the loot. McAvoy sat on the bench, towel pressed to his nose, head down, the picture of defeat and despondency. I busied myself picking up wet towels, mopping the floor, wiping the mirrors. Nobody ever notices the cleaners. After a few minutes, manager and trainer drifted off, presumably to enjoy Alan Vaughan’s hospitality, leaving McAvoy alone, sweaty and bloodstained in his satin shorts.

  He started unlacing his boots, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Want me to run the shower for you?”

  He jumped. “Sorry man. Didn’t see you.” An Irish accent. “That would be great, yeah, thanks.”

  “You took a beating out there.” I fiddled with the shower controls.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.” The first boot was off.

  “You could have done a lot better.”

  “Yeah?” He looked up at me and scowled. “Who says so?”

  “I say so.” The water was hot now, steam already billowing out into the room.

  “Tonight wasn’t the night.” Both boots off, and now he was peeling the socks down. His legs were covered in golden fur, his feet large and pale.

  “You’ll never succeed in this sport if you throw fights.”

  He stood up, naked but for the shorts—yellow and green, that cheap satin that clings to the skin. He was angry, his face turning red, and he was showing more fight than he had in the ring. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  I shrugged. “You tell me.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

  “Call security and get me thrown out if you want. But I’m the man that can turn you into a winner.”

  He started to say something, but changed his mind.

  “You going to have this shower?”

  “Okay, okay.” He turned his back on me, and pulled down his shorts. The view was inspiring: white marble, sculpted, sweaty. The bloody towel covered his crotch when he faced me. “So who are you?”

  “Greg Cooper.” I held out a hand; he thought about it for a second or two, then shook it.

  “And what gives you the right to barge in here accusing me of cheating?”

  “Nothing. But I know what I saw, and I know what you can achieve if you’re allowed to.”

  He threw the towel on the floor and stepped under the jet of hot water. His cock was small and almost retracted, as is often the case after a fight, resting on tight, rose-pink balls. Above it was a mat of red hair. He got himself wet, rinsed off the blood, and started lathering his hair, his big, square hands making slippery patterns over his face.

&nb
sp; “I was outclassed tonight is all.”

  “Crap.”

  He laughed, smiling through a mask of foam. “You’ve got all the answers.”

  “You weren’t fighting back, you were just waiting for the end. Did they tell you which round to go down in?”

  His hands were working under his armpits now, wetting the red hair, then over his chest and down his stomach. He had not a single tattoo to spoil him. Obviously I was hard again, but I made sure it wasn’t too visible. I couldn’t scare him off.

  Under the hot water, McAvoy was relaxing both physically and mentally. It was probably a relief to have someone to talk to other than those assholes who mismanaged him. And there’s nothing like a hot shower after a bruising fight. What he really needed now was a massage, of course, but this wasn’t the place for that.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said, washing between his buttocks. “What qualifies you to judge my performance tonight?”

  “I’m a black belt in various martial arts. I was a trainer in the US Marines for many years. I boxed myself for a while. I know what I see.”

  “And you think I can do better?”

  “I know you can, and so do you.”

  “Yeah, you got that right.” He’d moved around the front now, soaping up his genitals; I was glad to see that he paid attention to these matters. “But it’s not as simple as that, is it?” His cock was slightly bigger now; it was never going to be large, but at least he was relaxing with me.

  “It should be. Two guys get into a boxing ring and they fight until one of them wins.”

  “I used to think that too. But, well . . .” He was rinsing the soap off now, almost ready to get out. I feasted my eyes, in case this was the last time I saw him naked.

  “How old are you, Kieran?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “And I’m twenty years older than you. But you seem to be the cynical one.”

  He frowned, and turned the water off. The room was quiet. I handed him a clean towel. He didn’t attempt to conceal himself as he dried. Boxers aren’t bashful; they spend so much time being paraded about like animals I guess they shed their inhibitions. “I want to be better,” he said, “and I’m just waiting for a chance to . . .”

  “What? Fight an honest fight?”

  He shrugged. “I need better management.”

  “You mean Vaughan.”

  “Who wouldn’t want to be managed by him? He’s the best.”

  “He’s the most successful. The richest. That doesn’t mean he’s the best.”

  McAvoy looked worried, glancing towards the door. He lowered his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve heard he’s a crook.”

  He didn’t deny it. We looked into each other’s eyes. “We can’t talk about that here.”

  “Afraid you’re being spied on?”

  “Don’t be daft,” he said, but he lacked conviction. “Anyway, what can you do about any of this? It’s all very well giving me advice, but it means nothing without the opportunities.”

  “Well said, Kieran. So, why don’t you get dressed, and we’ll go for a drink.”

  “I don’t fucking drink!”

  “Okay, I’ll have a drink, you can have a glass of milk.”

  At least he was smiling as he stepped into his shorts—brightly colored trunks, neon orange and green, as tight as could be. “Go on then. I’ve got no other offers.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “They’re putting me up in a B&B.”

  “Come over to mine, then. It’s a short cab ride away.” He looked hesitant. I took a gamble. “I’m also a physical therapist, by the way, if you need any help with that hip injury.”

  “How do you know about my hip injury?” He placed his hand on the right side of his pelvis, and pressed.

  “Because I have eyes to see with. Your stance is unstable. What did you do?”

  “Pulled something in training.”

  “I’ll take a look at it, then. You coming?”

  He pulled on a sweater and a denim jacket, slung his kit bag over his shoulder. “I must be bloody mad,” he said, “but I’m coming. Just . . .” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “Don’t let Mr. Vaughan see us leaving together.”

  05

  The apartment went well with Greg Cooper’s cover story—a man down on his luck, transient, off-radar. It was small, anonymous, cheaply fitted-out. At least it was clean and quiet; MI6 had taken care to find somewhere that wasn’t overlooked, where I could hide away, one of twelve “executive studios” that failed to sell to executives and were snapped up by greedy landlords. The kind of place where contractors are put up by stingy employers, or husbands rent when they’ve been kicked out by their wives. Most of the units were unoccupied. Perhaps MI6 had bought them all, and kept them empty. There was a tiny entrance hall, an elevator serving the four floors, and that was it.

  As an operational base, or fuckpad, it was perfect.

  Kieran chatted away in the taxi, no sign of nerves. Perhaps he was used to being picked up by men. We talked about muscle injuries and tendonitis all the way up in the lift, and it was only once we were inside the apartment that I laid a finger on him. As he was pulling his tracksuit top over his head, and was temporarily blinded, I pressed my thumb into the small of his back, just above the right buttock, the point between the gluteus maximus and the latissimus dorsi (my knowledge of anatomy isn’t entirely restricted to cock and ass). Kieran yelped, muffled by his clothes, and I pushed him gently down with my other hand on his shoulder.

  “That’s the place, isn’t it?” His ass was sticking out nicely as I rubbed in widening circles with my thumb.

  “Yes. Ouch.”

  “You need to get that looked at properly.”

  “Like I have time and money for that.” He was struggling out of his top, his face red, lips swollen, a vein standing out in his neck.

  “And when it’s bad you feel it right down the thigh and into the knee.”

  “Sometimes up in the shoulder too. I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done.”

  “You’ve torn a muscle. Everything’s tensing up. All the connective tissue.” I was improvising a bit here, but I’ve spent enough time under physical therapists to have picked up the jargon. “You should be resting it, not fighting. What is your manager thinking?”

  “He said it would get me in with Vaughan . . .”

  “Bullshit. It just gives Vaughan’s boy an easy victory. You’ll never be respected if you let people do that to you.”

  “But how will I ever get a chance?”

  “Kieran,” I said, pushing him down a little further, digging my thumb into the hard muscle of his buttock, “a boxer has to do most of his fighting out of the ring. It’s not just about gloves and glory and all that bullshit. It’s about saying no to people who want to exploit you, and recognizing when someone is trying to help you.”

  “Like you, you mean?”

  “Maybe. But you’ve no reason to trust me.”

  “Then why . . . ah! Shit!” I’d just given his ass a particularly hard thrust.

  “Sorry. Go on.” I continued rubbing.

  “Why are you wasting your time on me if you don’t want to help me?”

  “There could be a thousand reasons.” And the most obvious one was swelling inside my pants right now, eager to take over where my thumb left off . . . “I could be trying to spy on Alan Vaughan, for instance.”

  “Well you picked the wrong man if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I might think I could make some money out of you.”

  That touched a nerve. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Relax, relax.” I let him stand up; he was starting to go purple in the face. “I mean, your trainer might pay me to treat you. Or I could poach you from him, set up as a trainer myself. Become a manager. Rival to Vaughan. What do you reckon?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked sullen; something I’d said had touched a n
erve.

  “Hell, for all you know I brought you up here to fuck you.”

  He didn’t bolt for the door. In fact, he more or less ignored the remark.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Greg.” The false name still jarred on me sometimes, especially in a sentence containing the word honest. “My boxing is going nowhere. I’m having to work crappy jobs just to afford my trainer. If I don’t make it soon, I’m going to have to chuck it in.”

  “Then you really are a loser.”

  He shrugged and sighed. “Maybe I am. I just don’t want to end up like one of those guys who are nearly thirty and still fooling themselves that they have a chance.”

  “Yeah. Poor old bastards.”

  “I shouldn’t have let Vaughan persuade me to throw the fight. But it was a chance. He said if I showed him I could do what I was told, he might take me on. No more training fees; I’d be working with his people, everything paid for, part of the team.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Have you seen the kind of lives his guys have? Jesus, Greg. The cars, the clothes, the women. They’re like celebrities.”

  “What do they have to do for all that?”

  “They have to be great boxers.” His guard was up. “Obviously.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Oh, I heard rumors about some of the other businesses Vaughan has an interest in.”

  “Like what?”

  I wasn’t going to show my hand too soon, so I improvised. “Property development. Nightclubs.”

  “Well, he’s a tycoon, isn’t he?”

  “So they say.”

  “He’s generous to people who work hard for him.”

  “You mean the boxers?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I’d wrong-footed him. What did he know, or suspect, about the Vaughan operation? How far had he been drawn in? “That’s right.”

  Was he already working for Vaughan? If MI6 was right, there was any number of jobs for a young man of Kieran McAvoy’s obvious talents. I had a way of finding out. I’d track him.

  “Anyway, we’re not here to talk about Alan Vaughan. He’s all I’ve heard about since I set foot in this country. Fuck that. I’m a solo operator.” Kieran didn’t need to know that Oz was trying to get me a job with the great man. “I can help you, if you want to be helped. I can improve your fitness and technique, and I can work on your mental attitude as well. I was in the US Marines for over twenty years.”