Page 57 of Mean Machine

Nathaniel stared at him. “You would? Date me?”

Brooklyn grinned wider and shoved him out the door. “Ask me again once I’ve slept. But yeah, I think I might. Okay, I’m pretty sure I will.” He leaned his head against the door jamb. “Get home safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Watching Nathaniel walk to the elevator with that spring in his step made him chuckle. God, yeah, he liked the man. Really liked him. Despite the stuff he’d omitted. It was extremely hard to hold a grudge now.

He closed the door and padded back into the room, about ready to fall into a bed—any bed—when the phone rang again.

“Fuck you,” Brooklyn growled, but few things were as compelling as a ringing phone. He sat back down on the couch and answered.

“Mr Marshall, a Mr Thorne for you.”

“Yes, I’ll take the call.” And he could get used to being “Mr Marshall” again, rather than “Brook” or “Brooklyn” to total strangers.

“Brook, well done. Nice fight. Thanks for the title. Completes my collection some more.”

“Is that a swollen jaw, or is your accent worse than normal?” Brooklyn shot back.

“Smartass,” Thorne huffed. “Yeah, you got me good. Audience loved it, though, so who’s complainin’?”

“Good revenue?”

“Very good. Care for a rematch?”

Brooklyn smiled. This was now his decision. “I won’t fight you as a convict.”

“No?”

“No. I’ve been pardoned. I’m free.”

“That’s why your guy Cash told me to call you direct. Well done, man. Well done. So, rematch in four months? New York? Same purse?”

“Fifty percent pay-per-view and fifty percent ad revenue. I’m getting what you’re getting.”

Thorne laughed. “Shit, I’m too bruised to laugh right now. You’ve quite the soft touch in negotiations, huh?”

“I’m penniless, Dragan. I got nothing. No house, no yacht, no golf clubs, and no Alice Cooper.”

“So what are your plans?”

“I might have a family I need to take care of. Give me ten million and fifty percent, and I’ll fight you whenever and wherever you like. And I’ll beat you this time.”

A family. God, if only. Nathaniel. Hazel. It was still all a dream. But it could probably work out. He wanted it to. He knew Nathaniel was expecting his move, knew Nathaniel was still waiting for the right answer to “I love you.” He’d give him that. Maybe meet up before the Cubans. A night of sex afterward. He’d try that caressing thing too. He rather liked that.

“Save your empty promises for the promo interviews. Okay, I’ll be generous. Even though you broke your word.” Thorne chuckled. “I’ll be in touch with the paperwork.”

“Run it past Cash. I don’t have a fixed address yet.” Or even a promoter. He needed to give Cash a call and hire him outright. Jesus, being out was complex.

“But you’re not living under a bridge, are you?”

“No. Or rather, it’s a five-star bridge in the centre of London. With a big bathtub and a phone.”Get the hint, Thorne, I’m dead on my feet.

“Good.” Another chuckle. “I’ll set things up. Can’t wait to punch your lights out in New York City.”

“You can try.” Brooklyn grinned. “Good fight, Thorne, thanks for that.”

“Four months, Brook. It’s a deal.” Thorne laughed again. “New York City is practically home for you.”

“Hah. Funny. Good night.” Brooklyn waited for the huff of laughter and put the phone down. Dead on his feet? He felt knackered and then microwaved. Nothing penetrated the thick fog in his brain.