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“Face me like a man, lad. Never let yer opponent see weakness.”
Opponent… what a joke. He’s my fucking father. He’s supposed to be on my side. He’s the only man on earth that can intimidate me. With everyone else, I’m fearless.
Rule 2—Never let your emotions show.
He stares for what feels like forever, searching my face for something. Looking in my eyes as if they hold the answers to all of his questions. I wait, not daring to move an inch. You never, ever flinch.
He narrows his gaze. “Did you have a shag?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Did you get fucked?”
I shake my head, hardly able to move with his thick fingers still squeezing my chin.
“Did you have a wank?”
“Dad! No!”
Horrified, I try to pull my head out of his tight grip, but it only makes him clamp down harder. His normally light eyes are nearly black as he scowls.
“You know the rules, aye?”
“Yes.”
Of course I know his bloody rules. They’ve been beaten into me since I was a kid.
Rule 3—No fucking, shagging, wanking, sucking, or getting off for seven days leading up to a fight.
You want your reward? You better win.
Dad shoves me away by my chin, making me stumble back, disgust clearly written all over his face. “I want ya ready for Friday night, Dax.” My dad’s thick finger points at me, “No slappers, no fucking, keep yer hands off yer dick.”
I nod, swallowing down the rage that boils in my gut. He’s a fucking genius. He wants me furious, determined…an outright demon in the ring. He knows the best way to get results is to keep me angry and horny.
“Go’n do the bag. An hour. Not a minute less.”
“But—”
“Don’t bloody argue with me, lad!”
The venom in his voice keeps me from talking back. Silently, I leave the cage, stalking over to the heavy bag in the corner, and start punching it, pretending it’s my father’s face I’m hitting instead of cracked old vinyl.
As I do the various punches and kick combinations, each one in a specific order long ago committed to memory, I allow myself to imagine getting out of this place to have a life of my own. Where I get to choose what I do, who I fuck, and where no one else will have a goddamn say.
For now, I go along with dad’s way simply because it’s easier. The money is good and I get pussy brought right to my feet. Regardless, I cannot wait until my gig Saturday night. It’s the beginning of my plan to leave Hackney, and the club, behind.
Sweat is pouring off my face and body, making it difficult to see, but I keep pounding that sodding bag, too stubborn to back off and let my dad think he’s broken me.
“Oi!”
I give the bag one last good whack before snatching up a towel to wipe myself off. I need my brother giving me a pep talk like I need a second cock—It seems like a good idea until you realize it’s fucking useless.
“What do you want, Ethan?”
“Hey! Who put a goalpost up your arse?” He holds his hands up in mock offense.
I glare at my oldest brother. He can be so fucking stupid sometimes. Of all of us, Ethan is the only one who looks like dad—dark hair, light eyes, intimidating as fuck all. The rest of us are big like them, but blonde with dark eyes like our mum.
