He swiped his leg against mine under the table and leaned in. “Good boy.”
***
Weeks passed of training. I was obedient and submissive without a single flaw—except when I would talk to myself, that’s when I let it all out. Donovan ragged on at me about my punches against the bag, or the time it took me to reload a handgun. Iknew those were the basics, but I was ready to break free and hit some serious players.
What I wanted was a look at Mercy’s list and a chance to take on a hit. From Donovan’s own words, some of the people on that list had been there for years, and with each passing year, another million was added to those at the top.
We were done training for the day, my body exhausted from punching at a heavy bag and being screamed at to punch harder. I sat in front of the heavy bag and slowly pulled at the wraps around my hands.
Donovan squatted beside me, offering his helping hand, softly touching me as he unwound the wraps. “Knowing how to punch with power on a soft jab could save your life in close quarter fights,” he said. “I’m not gonna be with you out there.”
My tongue as drained as me, unable to speak freely.
In the large grey space with spotlights over individual punching bags, the noticeable heel click came across the tile. I wanted to stand but Donovan place his hand on my head, helping himself onto his feet and my hands half-unwrapped.
“Mercy,” he said.
“I have a job for you,” she said, walking into the spotlight. She held a manila file and pressed it against Donovan’s chest. “I want to test the waters. Don’t worry, you’re not working for free.”
He glanced at me. “You think he’s ready?”
“It’s a simple delivery job, Don,” she said, staring at me on the floor. “I like the progress you’re making with him.” I didn’t know if that was a comment about how quiet I was now, or the fact I was on the floor looking like a lump of mass and sweat.
“He’s still learning,” he said, and I heard all of it. Either he was putting on a show to get me to prove myself, or he really didn’t believe in me.
As Mercy walked off, I finished undoing my wraps and stared up from my knees at Donovan reading from the file. Shaking his head and humming. Every part of me was being tested right now, I didn’t know if I could say anything, and with the idea of these punishments becoming more embarrassing every time they were brought up, I didn’t want to anger him.
“What’s it for?” I asked.
Flinching, he pinched the file closed. “Go to a shower,” he said. “It doesn’t concern you yet. Don’t even think about it .”
And yet, it was all I could do. Using the punching bag, I pulled myself to my feet. Every muscle in my body ached, ever with all the protein he was putting in me, my muscles continued to just roar in pain. The only protein I wanted from him was—probably something he wasn’t even thinking about anymore, and yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The tablet beeped near Donovan, telling him my heart had been raised once more. I walked away from the sound, throwing my wraps into the large group laundry pile by the door. My feet stomped and hurt with every step, but it was the only way I could actually make sound without him threating to punish me.
Once I was out of the gym area into the large men’s changing and shower room, the sound of all the shower splashing against tile were enough to cloud my voice. “Fuck,” I let out, walking into a free changing cubby. Each one came equipped with a laundry bag and a towel. Each time resorted by thefairiesas Donovan put it.”Fuck him, fuck this. Fuck not being trusted. Fuck having to do this every single day. Fuck it all.” I started to strip when the door opened.
Donovan stood there, head cocked, tongue dragging across his upper lip. “Fuck what?” he asked. The tablet in his pocket beeping. “Tell me how you really feel Art.”
My jaw tightened. “Fuck you.”
He smiled. “Finish getting undressed,” he said.
“No.”
“Strike two,” he said.
The steam and warmth were actually making me need to undress because it was suffocating otherwise. I pulled my t-shirt up over my head and Donovan pushed me while I wasn’t looking back against the wall of the cubicle.
“Stop it,” I said, throwing my t-shirt at him.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Strike—whatever.” He smiled. “I’ve been waiting for this. You’ve been really good, Art, but I know deep down this is what you want.”
I didn’t know if he was a mind reader, but if this was going where I thought it was—maybe eating that light lunch was working in my favor. “What are you gonna do?”
