Beneath the Surface (4 page)

He needed to smell something other than vanilla.

“I thought you were staying away from this joint for a while.”

Kyran shrugged as Sam wrapped his knuckles. “That was the plan.”

“And things didn’t go according to plan? That’s not like you, kiddo.

What’s the deal?”

Switching hands, he watched Sam wrap. He clenched his bandaged hand, testing its tautness. “I needed the outlet. Work’s been hell.”

“Work was the reason you were staying away.” Sam pointed out the obvious. “So I’m not buying that.”

“Buy whatever you want. I refuse to give you anything else.”

Sam stepped away, grumbling. Kyran slid off the bench and adjusted his shorts, resting them low on his hips. He punched out a quick combination, ending with an uppercut underneath Sam’s chin. He stopped just short of a connection. The old man’s eyes glinted, and he raised his own fists. “I could still take you.”

Kyran grinned, bobbing and weaving out of the way of Sam’s fists.

They always ended up like this. It calmed him and allowed him a quick warm-up at the same time. Sparring with the old man gave him the boost he needed to step out into the club and face his opponent.

“I see you picked an easy one tonight.”

It was clear to Kyran that Sam wasn’t about to give up his fishing. He wanted answers. The man had known him long enough to understand when something wasn’t quite right with him. Kyran often confided in him, sometimes wondering if Sam was the only person who knew the true him.

Tonight, however, he kept it to himself.

He wouldn’t know what to say about Dale Porter even if he did spill.

The woman had him lost for words.

“I picked who I could deal with without fucking up my face.”

Sam grasped Kyran’s chin, puckering his lips and making kissing noises. “And we can’t scar something so beautiful, can we, darling?”

“Shut it, Sam.”

Kyran ripped himself free of the man’s hand and repeated his punch combination: jab, jab, uppercut. He bounced on the balls of his feet, warming his legs up before stretching out his arms. “Okay, I’m ready. Bring it.”

Sam gave him a short clap and opened the door to the main bar.

It was always the smell that hit him first. The mix of beer, sweat, and blood filled his nostrils and flooded his lungs until he could almost taste it.

His adrenaline surged, pumping him up and increasing his excitement.

The patrons of the club cheered when they saw him, clapping at his entrance, and jeering at his competitor.

Kyran did a quick sweep of the club, assessing his surroundings. His opponent stepped into the ring, which was nothing more than a chalked circle on the concrete floor. Kyran stiffened his spine and stretched his neck from side to side.

Music pumped out from the speakers, slightly muffled by the sounds of the crowd but still enough to rev him up.

This was what he needed. This was what he lived for. No amount of buying and selling businesses could beat the buzz he got from it. Tomorrow would be better—his senses would be heightened and his rigid control would return.

Bouncing gently on the cold floor, he tested his feet. They were bare, but also bandaged. Kyran disliked the feel of any form of sneaker while he fought. It had cost him a broken toe or two in the past, but nothing compared to the feeling of leading himself by his baser instincts.

“You ready, kid?” Sam slapped him on the back. Kyran welcomed the sting and nodded. He twisted his head from side to side and entered the ring, greeted by a loud cheer.

His competitor stepped forward, and Kyran let his gaze drift over the man’s body. He’d known Cal for as long as he’d been fighting. They had sparred on many occasions, though Kyran would never describe them as friends. The man had a temper, and a fighter didn’t make friends with other fighters. He couldn’t really smash a guy he liked in the face.

A smirk teased the side of his mouth, testing the other man’s restraint.

Newbies would often snap at that point, lashing out on an early quest for blood. At that point, it took only one swift punch to gain a knock-out.

This one held still.

Assessing the man’s height and weight, Kyran gauged their differences, trying to find his Achilles’ heel. The man’s frame was thinner, not as toned, and his arm was strapped tight in bandages, seemingly supporting a previous injury. When he bobbed before offering a quick jab, Kyran noticed he winced.

Bingo!

They circled each other, eyes locked, fists raised. They were taking their time and jeers from the crowd started to rumble through the space.

Kyran ground his teeth. He would not be rushed; this cat and mouse segment was all part of the fight.

Sweat began to coat his skin, trickling from his temples down the side of his face. He blinked once, breaking the eye contact.

His opponent struck. Kyran weaved to dodge the fist that flew at his face. A wave of warm air followed, warning him how close he’d come to receiving the black eye he was trying to avoid. The crowd clapped loudly, shouts and hollers increasing in volume. He could do this. He’d beaten guys bigger than this many times before, though on those occasions he hadn’t been as distracted.

Another fist flew, this time connecting with his shoulder. The sting was enough to force Kyran into battle mode. He swung out, hooking his arm in an attempt to hit the side of Cal’s face. He bobbed, squatting a little so Kyran’s fist slipped over his head.

“Shit,” he said, spitting onto the floor and struggling to gain focus.

Full of rage, Kyran punched out a one-two combo, the muscles of his shoulder twisting and contracting in pain. The combo paid off—each one he launched made impact: eye, cheek, jaw. Cal’s skin reddened, a small cut giving Kyran the encouragement he needed.

With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Kyran belted out three consecutive hits, all connecting. His breath came in short bursts while he pummeled the man in front of him. There was little time to comprehend any pain he felt, although his ribs ached terribly.

The crowd grew closer, the circle around the men tightening. It made the air thinner and the smell of sweat and stale beer stronger. Kyran’s chest constricted, and each breath he took became a struggle.

Cal’s uppercut slammed into Kyran’s jaw, causing his teeth to crash together painfully. He growled, anger fermenting in his bloodstream as he turned and jabbed, the bandage slipping off his knuckles when he pulled his fist back. Blood coated the abraded skin, and whether it was his or the other guy’s, he didn’t know. Nor did he have time to contemplate it as he blocked Cal’s fist and bobbed out of the way to dodge another.

His feet slipped on the sweat-and blood-smeared concrete floor. He wobbled but remained upright. Cal’s punches were flying thick and fast.

However, for each one he dodged, he landed twice as many. The man’s face was a disaster zone.

A copper tang hit his tongue—one Kyran recognized very well. He was bleeding. The fucker had cut his face. His vision clouded red, and his pulse pounded in his ears. The next punch he delivered with a roar, launching his arm forward and hitting with every ounce of strength he |

could muster. Bones cracked as Cal’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed in all directions, wetting Kyran’s strapped hand and dripping down his arm.

Elation blasted through him. Nothing could come close to the feeling he had the moment he realized he’d won. Not even sex. An orgasm was satisfying, but beating a guy with his bare hands until he knocked him out gave him so much more. Here he was in complete control. He was good at it, and his ability was never questioned, unlike his father did at work. Kyran also needed this outlet to release every ounce of stress. It was a strange sport but one that worked well for him.

The crowd went crazy, and his opponent swayed as Kyran watched the man’s eyes dull then close. Cal sagged to the floor with a thunk, his head lolling at an odd angle, an action reminiscent of a rag doll. A bellow of remaining rage escaped Kyran’s lips, his fist clenching.

Sam slapped him on the back, his mouth close to his ear. “Good job, kid. Good job.”

Kyran’s whole body sagged, the tension that had been keeping his muscles taut finally fading away. Calmness surrounded him, the very feeling he’d been trying to get since Ms. Porter stumbled into his office in her silly heels.

“Let me see your face.” Sam turned his face to the side. Instinctively, Kyran tugged away, and then pushed past the excited crowd and grasping hands, heading back to the locker room. His feet slapped against the floor, his bandages slipping a bit. His torso was drenched in sweat, every inch of skin slick, every muscle pumped. Sam followed close behind.

“Later, Sam. I need to get clean,” Kyran said, opening the locker room door.

His pounding heart only now began to slow down. An ache had begun at his elbows, reverberating through his arms. He pushed past it with only the showers in his thoughts.

“Not later. Now.” Sam stopped Kyran in his tracks. Groaning and relenting, Kyran sat down and unwrapped his hands. The bandages were soiled, bloody like his knuckles. They hadn’t protected him. Cuts marred his skin, along with his feet. The floor of Metro wasn’t the best place to go barefoot, so his feet usually ended up cut. What must his face be like if his hands and feet were this messed up?

“Is it bad? I’ve got fucking meetings tomorrow.” Kyran snarled in pain as Sam inspected his forehead. He tried to stand and look in the nearest mirror, but Sam pressed on his shoulder, making sure he remained seated as he brought a cold cloth to clean the drying blood off Kyran’s face.

“I don’t know. Let me shift this shit, and I’ll be able to tell you.”

Not bothering to be gentle, Sam swiped the cloth around Kyran’s face.

Instantly, he felt the sting. It started at his eyebrow and zipped down the lid where his whole eye throbbed. Sam hissed at the same time as Kyran. “It’s not good, kid. It’s already starting to swell.”

“Swell? It feels like a cut.”

“Along with a mighty black eye. You’re gonna need to borrow your girl’s makeup to cover that up tomorrow.”

Kyran ignored the comment about a girlfriend and reached up to touch his swollen face. “Fuck!”

He shoved past Sam, stumbling over to the mirrors to get an eyeful of what he looked like. It wasn’t pretty, and it would be far worse in the morning.

“He only got one decent punch in,” Kyran said.

“That’s all he needed.” Sam placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Did you really think you could come here tonight and not get a little banged up? You know the score, kiddo.”

Kyran picked up a clean towel and stomped across to the showers. “Go away, Sam.”

The man laughed. “How many times do we need to have this conversation? I’m not your pet. Orders don’t work on me.”

Kyran ignored him by pulling down his shorts and turning on the shower.

“But I will leave you alone to clean up,” Sam added.

The slam of the door echoed around the room, which only added to the pounding in his temples. He stepped under the spray of cold water. Nothing had ever felt so good. The coolness soothed his heated skin and numbed his stinging cuts. Every part of him ached, and yet he was refreshed. The club had given him just what he required tonight. Minus the black eye.

Kyran washed up, cleansing every inch of his body. He scrubbed himself dry, as he always did, before patting the abraded flesh. Kyran smiled when he saw a clean hoodie and jeans laid out for him.

The noise from the club could still be heard in the locker room. Kyran listened to the sounds of another fight as he dressed. The fabric was harsh on his sensitive body, but he couldn’t go home naked, so he pulled the hood up over his head and hauled his gym bag onto his shoulder.

Thoughts of his comfortable bed filled his head as he walked out into the club. He hung his head, not wanting to be seen. All he wanted was to leave and get home. With the exit door within sight, he pushed past the crowd . . . until he heard
her
.

Ms. Porter.

Dale’s voice filtered through all of the background noise, slamming into him so hard he caught his breath. He spun around violently as he searched the room for her. He gave the room a long, slow sweep, finally finding his prize. Drinking her in, he became enraged. Dale’s short, very tight skirt and tiny top proved too much for his control. Did the woman have no modesty?

Glaring at anyone in his way, he thundered over to her, catching the horrified expression on her face.

“Why are you here? And what the fuck are you wearing?”

Her green eyes widened in shock as she faced him. He focused on her, ready to snap when pain burst at his temples. Spots appeared before his vision and a loud ringing clanged in his ears.

He was about to pass out, cold-cocked with a sneaky sucker punch.

Fuck.

“I think he’s coming around.”

Her voice started to clear the darkness that shrouded Kyran.

“Mr. Reese? Kyran? Can you hear me?”

Bells clanged loudly in his head. His skull pulsed as though it would shatter. Everything sounded too loud, each word causing him to flinch.

Trying to speak proved to be useless as it appeared that he had little control of his body.

What the hell had happened?

He recalled the fight and knocking Cal clean out. He even remembered Sam tending to his cuts in the locker room, but after that there was nothing.

Blank.

Something warm and soft touched his cheek, stroking his skin with what Kyran deduced as affection. He tried to mumble, but his mouth felt as though he was chewing extra sticky taffy.

“It’s okay, we’re here,” the gentle voice said.

Forcing himself to blink proved far harder than anticipated, but the fog began to lift and the ringing in his ears dimmed. Pain reverberated through his body, centering in his jaw, although his eye ached just as intensely. His head swam as he attempted to focus on the shadows before him.

“Kyran? How’s the head, kid?”

Sam. He knew without question that the voice belonged to Sam.