The Brick Yard
A Totally Bound Publication
The Brick Yard
ISBN #
978-1-78430-220-7
©Copyright Carol Lynne 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright September 2014
Edited by Sue Meadows
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing,
Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a
heat rating
of
Totally Burning
and a
Sexometer
of
1.
What’s his Passion?
THE BRICK YARD
Carol Lynne
For Lucky Gunn, the hardest fight of his life happens outside the cage.
On the south side of Chicago sits an old gym called The Brick Yard.
Ten years ago, on a bitterly cold day, Lucky Gunn wandered into The Brick Yard dressed in a threadbare jacket, looking for refuge. He hadn’t expected the owner, Tony Brick, to welcome him with a job and a place to sleep when Lucky’s abusive and drug addicted mother made it too dangerous to return home.
Dray was a gay man living in a world of straight fighters. When his secret was exposed to the media, he dropped out, giving Lucky a piece of advice—if you want to make it as a MMA fighter, bury the part of yourself that won’t be accepted.
Lucky discovered the cage was the perfect place to keep his demons at bay, but when he learns his trainer and mentor, Brick, is suffering from end-stage cancer, he begins to spiral out of control. After eight years, Dray returns to help Lucky and Brick deal with the devastating news.
With Dray so close, Lucky’s old desires return, and Dray teaches him more than how to fight. Torn between his career and the passion he feels for Dray, Lucky finds that his past demons resurface in full force, threatening his sanity and his budding relationship with Dray.
Despite leaving the cage years earlier, Dray finds himself in the battle of his life with the only man he’s ever loved. Will he stand and fight or walk away like he did years earlier?
Dedication
For my dad, Asa Gillette. Although it’s been eight years since I lost you, you will forever remain in my heart and memories. Love you, Dad.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
The Great Gatsby
: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Vaseline: Conopco, Inc
Corona: Cerveceria Modelo
The Waterboy
: Buena Vista Pictures
Steri Strips: Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Company
Rock ’em Sock ’em Robot: Mattel, Inc.
Battleship: Hasbro, Inc.
Super Elastic Bubble Plastic: Nowstalgic Toys, Inc
Silly String: Just For Kicks, Inc.
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
Clorox: The Clorox Company
UFC: Zuffa, LLC
Charles Sumner
: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (public domain)
Prologue
Lucky Gunn knocked on his boss’s door before sticking his head into the messy office. “Hey, Brick? Okay if I crash in the back room again tonight?”
Tony Brick glanced up from a dog-eared UFC magazine. “Sure, kid.”
“Thanks.” Lucky didn’t need to explain why he needed a place to crash. His mother, Alana, loved men and meth a hell of a lot more than she loved him. It wasn’t something he hated her for, although he should. Instead, he blamed his father, the bastard who had sold her the shit in the first place. Yeah, he was the product of a whore and a drug dealer. Queue the tiny violin that would bleed out a tune for him.
Lucky snorted and shook the thought away. His home life sucked, but the tiny apartment he shared with his mom was a world away from the gym where he’d practically grown up. Thanks to Brick, the sixty-something ex-fighter who’d taken him on as a charity case years earlier, Lucky had managed to stay off drugs while making enough money to pay the rent and keep the lights on. Not bad for a teenager, he reckoned.
He was halfway across the gym when Brick called after him.
“Lucky? You get that book report finished?”
“Not yet.” Lucky said over his shoulder. “But I’m workin’ on it.” Truth was, reading didn’t come easy and writing his thoughts on
The Great Gatsby
had proven even harder.
“Take your work to the laundry room while you wash the towels,” Brick ordered. “That report’s due in two days, and if you don’t get a decent grade, you’ll flunk that damn class of yours.”
“Sure thing.” Lucky groaned to himself. Laundry was his least favorite chore outside of cleaning the locker room, but he’d jump into a steaming pile of shit if Brick asked him to.
He thought about the book while he walked around the weight room, gathering the dirty towels people were too fucking lazy to drop into the bin. Jay Gatsby had started his life as a poor kid from North Dakota who’d wanted more. He’d climbed his way to wealth and power by doing anything and everything he had to. Lucky knew he was supposed to write a report on how the money Gatsby had worked so hard to obtain had shriveled his soul, and that was the problem. Lucky didn’t see it that way. He knew what it was to yearn for more—to dream of a day when he didn’t have to turn on the kitchen lights and wait for the roaches to scatter before fixing a sandwich that was more bread than meat. In his opinion, Gatsby’s actions had been justified, and someone who didn’t understand that hadn’t been forced to dumpster dive as a seven-year-old to find something for dinner.
A deep laugh caught his attention and he glanced up just in time to see Drayton Cruz, better known as The Dragon, walk into the gym with that asshole friend of his. Dray was cool, but his buddy Vince was a piece of work. The fucker always made a point of talking down to Lucky.
“Hey,” Dray said, acknowledging Lucky.
“Your face is healing nicely.” Lucky winced. Why the hell did he say shit like that to Dray? It was bad enough he was obsessed with the fighter to the point of distraction, but did he need to turn into a chick every time Dray was around?
Dray touched a finger to the bandaged cut on his coal black eyebrow. “Gettin’ there. Although, I have another fight next weekend, so it won’t last long.”
Lucky couldn’t help but stare at the tattoos covering both Dray’s arms below the stretched T-shirt sleeves. The designs were incredibly intricate and inked in nothing but black.
“Are you getting a boner?” Vince asked.
Before he could think better of it, Lucky peered down at his fly. “No,” he mumbled, although he’d been close before the asshole called him on it. “I was checking out Dray’s tats.”
“Really?” Dray asked. “You thinking of getting one?”
Lucky nodded. He didn’t have the money for anything half as nice as what Dray had. “Something simple. Irish. Maybe a four-leaf clover.”
“Like a fuckin’ leprechaun?” Vince laughed. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Once again, Lucky cursed his red hair. It didn’t matter that the shade was more mahogany than fire engine. It was still red, thanks to his mother who was one hundred percent Irish.
“Lay off,” Dray warned Vince before returning his attention to Lucky. “When you decide what you want, come by the shop and make an appointment. I’ll give you a discount.”
Lucky warmed. Dray was an excellent artist and had made quite a name for himself out of the cage for his intricate designs. Lucky wanted to ask how much a small tat would cost, but no way would he do it in front of Vince. “Thanks. I’ll have to save up, but I’ll let you know.”
Dray grabbed a fresh towel off the stack and draped it over his shoulder. “You are eighteen, right?”
Lucky felt like a giant weight had settled on his chest as he shook his head. Although he’d taken care of himself for years, he still had nearly sixteen months before he’d turn eighteen. “Not quite.”
“Oh, shit, man, sorry, but it’s against the law in Illinois to tattoo anyone under the age of eighteen,” Dray explained. “But find me on your eighteenth birthday, and I’ll give you something you can be proud of.”
Lucky wished Dray was the kind of man who would bend the rules, but he supposed no artist who was any good would jeopardize his career over an underage tattoo. Unfortunately, Dray was moving up in the UFC ranks, so Lucky doubted he’d still be tattooing by the time Lucky reached his eighteenth birthday. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Dray pointed at Lucky, a stern expression on his handsome face. “Promise me that you won’t let some asswipe do it just because he’s willing to ignore the law?”
“I promise.”
Dray gestured to the raised ring. “If you see Brick, tell him I’m going to pull one of his fighters to spar with.”
“He’s in his office. You want me to get him?” Lucky knew how much Brick hated it when Dray trained without him.
Dray blew out a frustrated breath. “Sure. No sense in getting my ass chewed over it. But tell him I’m going to take it easy, so if he has something else to do, it’s not a problem.”
“Okay.” Lucky leaned the towel bin back on its two wheels and pulled it toward Brick’s office. He wished he could forget the laundry and watch Dray train instead, but he still had his report to write up, and Dray usually trained for hours. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to get Dray off his mind long enough to finish his homework and still have time to watch the training session.
