Page 9 of Knox

“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck is going on?” I try the door handle, but of course, the door won’t open. I’m jerking my head from the side window to the rear one, wondering if anyone saw me getting kidnapped. They don’t look like anyone from the rival gang, but who the fuck knows. All I know is this could be the final moments of my life, and no one will know—not even Ellis.

At least, for now, I don’t have a gun pointed at my forehead.

It doesn’t take too long before the huge car takes a turn, and we’re driving into an underground carpark. Oh shit, this is it. Do I tell them everything before the beating starts or what? What else can I do?

“I’ll tell you everything,” I say, ready to sing like a canary.

“Oh, we know,” the only guy to have spoken says. “Come with us.”

There isn’t anything I can do but go with them. As I walk, flanked by the two huge men, I am thinking that if this is it for me, I’m glad Ellis isn’t involved; that he’s got his new life, and he won’t be waiting for me. The stairwell has concrete stairs and paint-scuffed metal handrails, and I don’t have any idea where I am. Our steps sound out loudly in the silence, especially since no one has spoken another word. I keep my teeth clamped together so I don’t talk a load of shit and give away that I’m seriously freaking out. There could be a gun to the back of my head, maybe that’s why I’m on stairs that can be hosed down to clean up any debris my exploding skull may make. We climb up and up, passing many black doors with coded locks, until we reach a floor, and the man at the front stops abruptly, making me stumble into the huge guy in front of me.

“Shit. Sorry,” I sputter as I right myself.

No one replies.

The door opens into a corridor with plain white walls and an uninspiring utilitarian grey carpet covered floor. There are more closed doors and silence, only our footsteps padding on the floor. I’ve had enough. I no longer believe that I’m going to end up with a bullet through my head, not yet anyway. If they were going to do that, then it would’ve happened by now and my body dumped in a dingy alleyway.

“In here,” the first guy says, turning to face me for the first time. What surprises me the most is the almost smile that flits over his lips. He enters the room, and his follower steps to the side, making space for me. The room doesn’t give anything away. There don’t seem to be any cameras attached to the ceiling or corners. The table has what looks like Formica on the top. I didn’t think that was a thing that you could get anymore. Man-number-one, I’ve decided to label them numerically, pulls out a chair. “Take a seat, Dean.”

I don’t think refusing is an option, so like the good little troublemaker I am, I do as he asks.

“Someone will be with you in a moment. Can I get you anything? Some water, a coffee?”

“Just some answers,” I tell him and slouch in my chair, boredom showing in my expression and my body. Better than looking as shit scared as I feel.

“All will be explained in a moment.” He walks past me, pats my shoulder, and leaves.

The door closes, and I’m alone and have no fucking clue what’s going on or who the fuck is behind this, because this is not how the Alpha District works. They just shoot you.

I only have to wait a few minutes before the door opens again and a tall, thin main dressed in a grey three-piece suit—one that looks like it cost a pretty penny—with not a hair out of place walks in. “Good evening, Dean, I hope you were treated well.”

He pulls out a chair, but before he sits down, he holds out this hand. “My name is Pilkington, and you have something I want.”

It’s been a week since the soft rejection from Roman at Bound. It’s hanging over me like a dark cloud, not that anyone would notice. I’m very good at brushing any negativity away, and I don’t even think anyone ever notices. I pull out the folder I’d asked Drake to put together.

Maddox Levin. He shows up at some major fights and wipes the floor with his opponent. Sometimes, it looks like he doesn’t even break into a sweat, but there’s no background information. Nobody seems to know where he trained before he started to make a name for himself. He turned up with very few followers, and now, he’s some kind of fucking hero. There’s something about him that just doesn’t seem right. MMA fighters work so hard to be picked up and promoted. I should know; I’ve tried it. Not that I wanted to go pro or anything like it. I just did it as a way to decompress. It’s bloody hard, but it feels so good the moment I step in the cage.

What is it about Maddox Levin that has me wanting to know more? Because he has caught my eye and I’m not able to look away from him. I unlock the screen and watch Maddox fight; he’s got skill and, to me, looks like a real talent. He’s fluid, even relaxed, as he attacks his opponent. Why is he fighting in Europe, rarely coming to the UK? If he does, he fights, then leaves again, but to where?

I think about the first time I picked up one of the free weights; Saint and Dad were with me. The look of pride in Dad’s eyes as I followed his instruction, and as the years went on, he trusted me to run his life’s work. At this point, I’m unrecognisable as the kid who turned up fighting like an angry cat. I had days where I hated the way they expected me to turn my back on the past, to push away the memories of the people that broke me down.

Eventually, I asked for help, for someone to walk me through the dark parts of my life, especially when Dean was killed. My therapist, Teresa, was exactly what I needed. I don’t think I took a breath at my first visit, and all she did was ask me to let it all go.

I screamed, I shouted, I threw cushions around the room. I was panting by the time I calmed down. My cheeks were wet from all the tears, my nose was running and snot was dripping. I grabbed the box and wiped my nose and dried my face. When I sat down, Teresa smiled. “You did good, Knox.”

I haven’t thought about her for a long time. She helped me so much. I learnt how to control my anger and to think before I react. The gym does the same for me now, and Bound, although not so much these days. I wish I could put my finger on why that is. Bound has always been an escape, a way of letting everything go. But it doesn’t hold me the way it used to, even before Roman turned me down. Maybe because my blasted brothers are all loved up now. The fun we had playing together, messing around with cute subs who begged in the most delightful, yet filthy way.

I look out of my office window, and as if just thinking of him conjured him up, Roman walks past the office. His eyes flick to me as he does, and he winks. He’s a cheeky bastard—maybe a naughty boy looking to get his arse spanked bright red.

I stand up, the motion forcing my chair to scoot back behind me and bump the wall. I open the door with the same gusto, managing to catch it before it smacks the wall and makes people look. I stalk in Roman’s direction. He’s on one the mats, stretching out his hamstrings; he’s so flexible he could be a dancer. That has me wondering what he actually does for a job, and why I don’t already know this about him. I’ve had him on my cock, sobbing for release, and I don’t even know what he does for a living. Maybe that’s why he’s at a sex club: it’s not real life in there, and perhaps it the place he can be true to himself.

I walk up to him, standing to the side so as not to get in his way. He’s watching me approach, and for once, his eyes and posture reflect his hesitance. Why wink if he’s going to then look apprehensive.

“Roe, it’s good to see you. It’s been a while,” I say casually, knowing it’s only been about a week, but he’s normally here three or four times a week.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.” His cheeks bloom a pale pink, and I want to pull him up in my arms and kiss the fuck out him.

“You did nothing wrong, Roman. I made you an offer, and you turned me down. That’s your right, in and out of the club.”