The Lion's Share is a stand-alone sequel to Bearding the Lion. Both are collaborations with Sween McDervish. We hope you enjoy them.
1.
“You come around any more, I’m charging dues,” Ken Kelly tells David Levy, cracking his thick neck after he nearly collides with the reporter while striding out of his office.
David isn’t sure if the gym owner is joking or not, given Coach Kelly’s perennial scowl. But he does have a point. Since quitting his job for the e-magazine Zeitgeist, David’s spent more and more of his time at the Triple Hit MMA Gymnasium. And given the story he accidentally ran denouncing mixed martial arts, he can hardly expect a warm welcome.
But hell, it’s been months since the story and his very public resignation and apology. It was Kelly’s nephew, Connor Ryan, who took the lion’s share of damage from the story—if he could get over it, why can’t the rest of them?
As if in answer to his own question, David’s eyes wander to the center sparring ring, where he and Connor had their first after-hours fuck following an inordinate amount of tequila. He can remember it vividly.
“I wanted you to see,” Connor said that night, “how soft my ass is.”
David remembers pawing the muscle there and moaning, “Yeah right, soft. Fuck, that’s the hardest ass I’ve ever touched.”
Connor looked David in the eye and smiled. “Not on the inside.”
Kelly clears his throat impatiently, bringing David back to the present.
“If I start paying dues, are you going to spar with me a little?” David asks, nodding to the center ring. He’d once let Kelly in on what happened there, and he can’t resist rubbing it in.
Kelly’s eyes narrow in response and his tough-guy jaw rolls. David smirks a little, knowing he landed a solid blow.
Kelly reaches out and takes hold of David’s skinny black tie. The motion causes the short sleeve of his ringer tee to pull back up to the curve of his deltoid, exposing the full splendor of the MMA coach’s robustly muscled arm. He rubs the knit beneath his thumb and forefinger, a thick callus grating across it like sandpaper.
“You think you throw me off with that shit—” Kelly starts. His voice is a low rumble.
His forearm swells as he closes his fingers into a fist. David jerks forward, dragged down a few inches by his own tie, the hold nearly as tight as the lock Kelly’s keen blue eyes have on his own.
“—but you got no idea what I’ve seen in my life.”
Kelly releases the tie and looks away. “You’re lucky he likes you.”
David clears his throat, trying to reestablish a dignified posture.
“I was only kidding,” he replies, pressing his tie flat against his chest. “Just dropping by to get Ryan.”
“Yeah yeah, what else is new?” Kelly yawns and stretches, then turns to head back to his office.
David straightens his tie, his heart hammering a little. Lucky indeed.
“David!”
He turns to see Connor in one of the sparring rings, raising his chin in greeting.
David nearly grunts. The "Driver" nickname has mostly faded, replaced by his actual name, spoken with that boyish, breathless grin that catches the air in David's chest. Connor’s in loose trunks and a sleeveless white cotton T-shirt that shows off the copper dusting of hair on his arms.
David adopts a loose posture and waves casually, as if he doesn’t half melt every time he sees the fighter.
“Gimme five,” calls Connor, cocking his head.
David nods, checks his watch. He’s fought his own nature to force himself to be late. But as usual, Connor manages to be just a little bit later.
If David has to wait, there are worse places to kill time than the Triple Hit, especially with the parade of hard-muscled jock bodies passing by. The air is thick with testosterone and sweat and the sound of flesh on leather. Even after David learned that a lot of the swagger and machismo covers some surprising insecurities, the facade is still appealing.
A story opening forms in his thoughts. The Triple Hit MMA Gym is humid, and with every blow of skin on leather you can sense the spray of sweat humidifying the air yet more. Loud rap music plays, matching the rhythm of muscular bounces and jabs. Most inside are tattooed, to enhance a menacing appearance or to express what can’t be easily said in words. A standout is young upstart Connor Ryan. The affable fighter doesn’t ink his skin, more wary than most of broadcasting anything to anyone in a match against him. He plays his cards very close to the vest, this one.
David catches himself. He’s doing it again—writing the story in his head because he can't write it on paper.
As he alters his gaze, his eyes land on the one person who might look more out of place at the Triple Hit than himself: Kelly’s lady Jameelah, an attorney-at-law. As she approaches, he notes that as usual she’s impeccably styled, today in grays and rich shades of plum, wheeling a single carry-on travel bag that looks more expensive than most full luggage sets.
If she were anyone else, he’d say she was a lucky lady to have landed Kelly. Even in his 50s he’s a good-looking guy, a blond version of Connor with another 50 pounds of muscle and the kind of quiet confidence and self-awareness you can feel in his presence. But this is Jameelah, equally self-possessed and regal, and as handsome as her man. If either could be described as lucky, it’s in that they were each able to find someone as formidable as themselves.
“Jameelah,” David says with a nod of deference.
“Mr. Levy,” she responds, her voice thick as honey. “Take good care of our boys. I’m back in three weeks.”
David feels a warm surge at hearing “our boys.” The acknowledgment that Connor is his—not just casual friends but something more, something like her and Kelly—fills him with a satisfaction he doesn’t dare to invite on his own. Whatever they are, he and Connor, has eluded naming so far, but if Jameelah can see it, it must be real.
“Safe travels,” he says.
A massive hand claps his shoulder, nearly toppling him.
“Good news, my friend, ” says a warm voice, in a deep, East African accent.
David turns to see Jefferson, one of the few regulars at the Triple Hit he’s gotten to know a bit. He grins with a dazzling smile that belies the absolute lethality of his physique. He’s more powerfully muscled and cut than almost anyone else, Connor included. Gentle as a lamb outside the ring, but a force to be reckoned with when the punches fly.
“I am now a driver for Uber,” Jefferson announces proudly, twirling his keys. “So I am the Driver now. You are just Levy.”
“Hey, awesome!” David says, patting Jefferson’s bulbous tricep. He would compare its size and hardness to a sports ball of some kind, if he knew anything about sports . “Good for you, man.”
It stings David’s conscience a bit that the driving job is so important to Jefferson. They’ve both been unemployed, but David’s had the comfort of his trust fund. It’s not enough to live on in perpetuity, but enough to cover rent and living expenses while he figures out his next move. It feels like a dirty secret when he thinks about someone like Jefferson making his own way, and that makes his own indecision about what to do next so much more of a ridiculous privilege.
“If I did not have to go I would spar with you,” Jefferson says with a smile, putting up a fist half as big as David’s head.
It goes without saying he’s joking, as the full 150 pounds of David’s 6′2″ frame wouldn’t make for much of an opponent against a physique like Jefferson’s.
“Too bad,” David replies, holding up his own lanky arm with a barely formed fist. “But I’d hate to send you to the emergency room on such a nice day.”
“I will take my chances,” Jefferson laughs, throwing his fist in a slow-motion jab at David’s face.
“Hey!” David ducks and bobs. He’s learned a trick or two from Connor, and wonders if the fighter is noticing him putting them to use.
“Not bad, Levy,” Jefferson offers, picking up speed.
David works harder to stay in sync, waiting for Connor to notice, putting on a show.
David grins, dodging again. But as he moves, his eyes drift past Jefferson’s shoulder.
Across the gym, Connor is wiping his face with his shirt. He lifts the white cotton hem, exposing the washboard abs and the trail of red-gold hair leading down into his shorts.
Holy fuck.
The sight derails David completely. He forgets to duck. He forgets to breathe.
He doesn’t even see Jefferson’s fist coming.
“Oww!”
The impact is like a flashbulb going off inside his skull. David staggers back, clutching his eye. He feels his heels catch on the edge of the mat, and the room tilts wildly.
“Whoa! I’ve got you, Buddy!” says someone. A gravelly voice. Kelly?
Did Kelly just call David “buddy?”
Strong hands grab him as he tips, but the world is already spinning. He’s resting on something flat—the floor, he supposes. But how did he get there?
He blinks, one eye refusing to open. He sees Jefferson—a huge hand over his mouth, eyes wide. And Jameelah’s eyebrows knitting. And behind them, the blue sky, clouds, through the high industrial skylights.
“You’re okay, kid,” says Kelly’s voice, moving into his line of sight, but he sounds far away.
Then they’re all blocked out by a golden eclipse.
Connor’s there, hovering over him. The industrial lights behind his head catch in his messy copper curls, turning them into a blazing halo. His face is flushed, a single bead of sweat tracking through the gold stubble on his jaw to drip onto David’s cheek.
But it’s the eyes that get him—mossy green, hyper focused. On David.
“David?” Connor breathes, his voice tight.
David stares up at the angel in the sweat-stained t-shirt, the sky behind him.
“Hey, handsome,” David mumbles, a giddy, irrational giggle bubbling up in his throat. “Why are the clouds spinning?”
2.
“You’re fine,” says Jameelah, after studying David in Kelly’s office. He’s seated on the heavy oak desk, no longer giggling, with an ice pack pressed to his face. “Just a contusion, and a mild one at that. The black eye is only cosmetic.”
“I have a black eye?” David asks. He whips his phone out of his pocket and flips the camera app so he can see his face. There’s a purple map spread over the right side, a darker shade of purple than Jameelah’s lips, centered on his puffed eye. He snaps one photo and then another, turning to get the best angles. “Holy fuck! I look like I got in a bar fight.”
“Not the worst one of those I’ve seen here,” she says, snapping the medical kit shut.
“Not that I don’t appreciate your legal counsel,” David says without looking away from his phone, mesmerized by his first black eye. “But I kinda wonder if I should see a doctor. You know, a medical one.”
“Mmm, if you want to waste your day at the ER,” Jameelah responds. She steps back to her full majestic height. “But I am a registered nurse.”
“Really? A nurse attorney?” David asks, finally pulled away from his phone.
“Yes, Mr. Levy,” she answers. “Once upon a time I thought nursing would be a good way to fix people.”
“Whoa. I just assumed you went straight into law. You seem so… I don’t know. Command and control.”
“Well, sometimes it takes a little bit to find the thing you’re meant to do,” she says distractedly, assessing his bruise. “When I realized being a nurse wasn’t going to afford me the lifestyle I wanted, I had some choices to make. I could marry a surgeon, or find a more lucrative way to help people. I prefer making my own money. And as it turns out, I’m very good at this. Very good.”
He thought he knew what he was good at, David wants to say. Instead he murmurs, “This has been happening a lot.”
“Getting hit in the face?” she asks with a wry smile.
“Heh, no, not that. Getting… distracted. Daydreaming. I wonder if I need a prescription for something.”
“What you need, Mr. Levy, is to get yourself a job. You’ve moped long enough, if you ask me.”
“Ouch,” David says, “that hurts more than the eye.”
“I’m not here to baby you. You had a little self-inflicted injury. There are people with real damage in the world, I represent them every day. And you’re doing better than most.”
“No justice for self-inflicted injuries?” David jokes, but Jameelah isn’t playing along.
“The system’s not divine, Mr. Levy. It can’t heal the scars, not the visible ones or the invisible ones. It’s the best restitution we can manage, but it’s still only our frail human attempt at justice.”
“Well it’s depressing when you say it like that.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she replies firmly. “I get people money when it’s the only redress for what they’ve lost. You have a shot at the honey. You know: love. Friendship. Purpose.”
David goes silent. He’s worked so hard to keep his doubts to himself—about his work, about Connor Ryan. About what exactly they’re doing. But it’s like Jameelah can see right through his curated disaffected writer image to the terrified guy underneath.
“Do you mind if I ask about these?” she asks, tracing a finger over the typewriter font tattooed on his forearms.
“Oh,” he says, holding them out. “Oscar Wilde. ‘Rarely pure, never simple.’ It’s the best description of the truth I’ve ever read. And its mate—‘1/10,000’—is from his lover. About braving the violence of public opinion.” He takes a deep breath. “That’s the balance I was going for in my writing. Scrutiny and understanding. Boy, did I screw that up.”
He sighs and shakes his head. He thought he was a writer, but lately he wonders if what he thought was a gift for journalistic writing was only a talent for dogged determination. And with no focus, that’s not very useful.
“Get to work, Mr. Levy. That’s my prescription,” Jameelah says, gathering herself up. “Idleness doesn't suit you.”
She turns to Kelly, who has been leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the interaction with a dark, unreadable expression.
“And I need to get to the airport, Kenneth. You and Connor sit with him for an hour, in case my diagnosis is in error—which it is not. If he starts vomiting or slurring, get him to St. Vincent’s.”
“You’re asking Kelly to babysit me?” David groans. “He’s gonna love that.”
Kelly ignores David, his eyes locked on Jameelah. “I got him, J. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried about him,” she says, her voice dropping an octave, meant only for Kelly. “I’m worried about you. Be nice.”
Kelly grunts, shifting his weight. It’s a small movement, but David catches it—the heavy, burdened slump of a man who feels responsible for everyone in the room. “Now come tell Jefferson you’re sorry for getting in the way of his fist,” Jameelah commands David. “He’s beside himself, and I like my driver to be focused.”
David emerges from Kelly’s office and spots Jefferson, who returns his look with a pained grimace, as if he were the one who got hit.
“Levy! Does it hurt very much?” Jefferson asks, his massive hands wringing a towel.
“Nah. You should see the other guy,” David jokes, but he can see the idiom is lost on Jefferson. “I’m kidding. I’m fine, Jefferson. Totally my fault. I zigged when I should have zagged.”
They give each other a quick manly hug to convey no hard feelings. David is in awe of how broad and solid Jefferson’s back and shoulders are. He’s lucky to have only gotten a black eye from a punch from this powerhouse, however playful.
“You should go,” David says, patting Jefferson’s solid shoulder. “Traffic might be bad.” Seeing Jefferson lift Jameelah’s bag as if it were made of paper, he adds, “And if it is, you can always get out and carry the car.”
Jefferson shakes his head, appeased that David’s unharmed.
As he leaves to get his car, David’s attention returns to Jameelah. His reporter’s instincts bubble up, concussion or not.
“Y’know,” he says, “you’re the only one who calls Ryan by his first name—Connor..”
“Well,” she says with a wistful look, “I tend to think of people the way I was introduced to them. I’ve known that one since he was a gap-toothed 12-year-old bent on ruining his life. He’s always Connor to me.”
“That was a long time ago,” Kelly grunts, as he approaches.
“But you call me Mr. Levy,” David says, certain Kelly never introduced him that way.
“Mmm, well I suppose I first met you through your byline. ‘Mr. David Levy, reporter at large.’”
“You read my work?” David asks, hoping this isn’t another of his daydreams.
Jefferson pulls the car up front. Jameelah slides her sunglasses onto her face, glamorous as any classic movie star. “I read everything that impacts my family, Mr. Levy. Good and bad.”
She steps out, and Kelly follows to open the car door for her.
As he watches the car pull out, David is awestruck. Jameelah read his work? She considers him a threat—or an asset—to her family?
Then the other thought bubbles up, filtering through the throb in his eye.
Ryan was gap-toothed?
3.
“I’m really fine,” David insists, sinking into a tattered chair opposite Kelly at his desk. The upholstery is threadbare and the springs are shot, placing David significantly lower than Kelly, who sits upright in his rolling chair.
He hates the angle. It makes him feel like a truant student in the principal's office, or a patient Kelly has to babysit.
“I’m really fine,” he insists.
Connor straddles a stool he brought in and placed at the edge of the desk. His muscular thighs are spread wide, the denim of his jeans straining against his quads. Even though he’s changed out of his gym gear into a thermal shirt, he radiates a heat that David can feel from three feet away.
David blinks. The room tilts slightly to the left.
Connor’s thermal shirt dissolves.
The fluorescent hum fades, replaced by the warm, white light of David’s bedroom. Connor is standing over him, pulling off David’s tie. He lifts David’s arms, running his teeth along the sensitive skin of the wrist, tracing his tongue over the typewriter font of the tattoo. He spins David around, his heavy hands gripping David’s waist. He pulls, and the black material of David’s slacks splits loudly at the seam along the crack of his ass.
“Yeah, well, I’m stuck with you for a couple of hours,” Kelly says
The voice snaps David back like a rubber band.
The bedroom vanishes. The gray file cabinets rush back into focus. Kelly is holding out a cold bottle of beer.
“Huh?” David manages, rubbing his eyes.
Kelly eyes him suspiciously. “I’m supposed to watch in case you got a concussion.”
“I don’t,” David pleads, taking the bottle. His hand shakes just a little.
“They say you never forget your first,” Connor chuckles as he pops the top off his bottle. He discreetly swaps it with David’s unopened one, opening that one for himself.
“You’ve had one?” David asks.
Silence fills the room for a heartbeat.
Then, Connor snorts. Kelly chuckles.
Suddenly, both men are roaring with laughter, looking at each other like David just asked if they’ve ever breathed air.
“Have I had one?” Connor wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye. “David, I’ve had two since Christmas.”
“Only two?” Kelly scoffs, taking a swig of beer. “I got knocked out cold in ’04. Woke up in the locker room trying to order a pepperoni pizza from the medic.”
Connor leans in, tapping a small, jagged white line just above his hairline.
“See this? 2023. High kick. Lights out for ten minutes. Woke up and puked on my shoes.”
“That’s nothing,” Kelly counters. He tilts his jaw, pointing to a faint ridge on his chin. “Right hook. ’I finished the fight, but I don’t remember the drive home. Or the next three days.”
“Oh! And the rib!” Connor says, lifting his shirt to show a knot on his side. “Fractured. Didn’t even feel it until the adrenaline wore off.”
They’re grinning at each other, trading war stories like two shark-hunters comparing bites. It’s a language of violence that David can’t speak, a bond forged in blood and breakage.
“What was your first,” David asks, trying to break into the conversation.
Across the desk, Kelly freezes. The beer bottle stops halfway to his mouth.
Connor doesn't notice. He’s grinning, lost in the storytelling.
“My first memory of my asshole father,” Connor says, his tone breezy. “He told me to get him a beer from the kitchen. I—I don’t know, I got distracted, took too long. Whatever. He got pissed, and when I handed him the beer, he kicked my legs out from under me.”
Connor mimics the motion with his hand—a sweeping slash.
“I hit my head on the coffee table. And when I got up—” He giggles. “I was walking wobbly. That’s when my mom knew something was wrong.”
“He kicked your legs out from under you?” David asks, astonished. He was never even spanked by his parents.
He looks at Kelly, expecting the outrage to return. But Kelly isn't angry. He’s staring at the label on his beer bottle like he wants to dissolve into the glass. For the first time since David walked into the Triple Hit, Kelly looks old. Tired.
“Pfft,” Connor shrugs. “I told you he was an asshole.”
“So what happened?” David asks.
“Eh, my mom took me to the hospital,” Connor replies. Then he giggles again, followed by a full-blown laugh. “But not before Kelly picked him up by the collar.”
He turns to his uncle, grinning.
“Tell him what you said.”
Kelly doesn't smile. He takes a long pull of his beer, his eyes dark.
“I told him if he ever touched the boy again, I’d break every bone in his body,” Kelly says quietly. It’s not a boast. It sounds more like a confession.
“And then we went to the hospital,” Connor finishes, beaming.
“Wow,” David says. “Did he stop?”
“Nah. He got more sneaky after that, though,” Connor says soberly. He taps his bottle against his knee. “No way did he want to deal with the Irish Jackhammer.”
Kelly rolls his eyes, finally looking up. “Shoulda done more. Sooner.”
“Kelly, tell him the story,” Connor says, eager to keep the vibe going.
“What story?” David asks.
“How he became the Irish Jackhammer,” Connor answers, already wriggling in anticipation.
“Nah,” Kelly begs off, but Connor and David both lean in.
“I feel a little dizzy,” David says, feigning weakness. “I’d hate to ask you to take me to the ER. I think I could settle in if you’d tell the story.”
One of Kelly’s eyebrows rises. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you?”
Connor laughs proudly and gently nudges Kelly’s foot with his own. “Come on. We got nothing but time to kill.”
Kelly settles back in his rolling wooden desk chair. “So if you go back, I was in a band at the time.”
“A band?” David asks.
“A metal band,” Connor interjects. “Or more kind of skinhead punk. Punch Drunk.”
“I was the drummer,” Kelly begins again.
“Hold on,” David interrupts with a raised hand. “You were a drummer in a skinhead punk band?”
“It was the ’90s,” Connor answers for his uncle, visibly wound up to share in the story with David. He pulls an athletic-shoe box off a file cabinet that looks as old as Kelly and opens it to sift through the old photos it holds. He finally pulls one out and passes it to David.
The photo is a candid shot of three guys in a rough-looking band. David zeroes in immediately on one, recognizing a young Ken Kelly. Hell, he looked even more like Connor closer to the same age.
He’s got a tuft of pale blond hair on an otherwise shaved head, a sort of modified mohawk. His grin is really more of a punkish sneer, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, that leaves his pale, very muscular arms bare. His legs are in snug black jeans, and he wears a black leather armband on the wrist of the hand where he’s holding drumsticks.
Though his body is slimmer than now, he’s more ripped, and his broad shoulders contrast with his tight waist to form a virile vee-taper that nearly takes David’s breath away.
“Holy fuck,” David says. He glances from the jacked, handsome young drummer in the photo to the rough-hewn gym owner and then back again. “Is this real? How hard did I get hit?”
“Am I telling this story here or not?” Kelly asks, snatching the photo back.
As Connor and David settle down again, he adds, “You two are hereby under oath. You will never repeat this story to Jameelah. Or I’ll shove my foot so far up your asses you’ll taste my toes for the rest of your lives!”
4.
The Secret Origin of the Irish Jackhammer, as told by Ken Kelly
I’d been keeping the rhythm on the snare. I kept one eye on Noah, our bassist, and the other on Ritchie, the lead singer and guitarist. Our songs had a formula, sure. Ritchie’d scream a couple of verses into the mike, and each time in the space between I’d go wild pounding on the toms. Yeah, that was my favorite part of drumming, just being able to cut loose like that. The crowd that night was super into it. There was a chick pressed up against the stage in a black shirt. I could see it was one of our band T-shirts, but she’d cut down the front of it so her nice tits would show. Ritchie’d be mad if he saw it, cause that basically cut him out of the picture of the three of us. But it made me look like I was giving the side-eye at her jugs. Kinda like I was doing now from the stage.
It was our last song of the night, so that meant I’d taken off my shirt. And my pants. The crowd always seemed to like that, even though it annoyed Ritchie. Man, like it wasn’t enough that he was the lead and wrote all the songs, he had to get all the attention too? Fuck that.
We’d been performing since we were juniors in high school, though to be honest that was mostly an excuse to hang out and get high. But things were getting pretty serious. We were turning twenty-one soon, all three of us. And it seemed like this was what we were gonna do.
You ever think we’re all here for a reason? But you got no idea what yours is? I had this energy in me. I was always a toe tapper. A finger tapper. My ma said I kept her up at night when she was pregnant, tossing and turning before I was even born. However much energy you’re supposed to have, I had surplus. When I was a kid I used to have this fear of, what do you call it, spontaneous combustion. Like if I didn’t find a release, I was just gonna crack through my skin and go poof.
When I got older I’d hear these beats in my head. Like rhythms. I’d lie awake in bed with it in my head. Bam bam bam bam BAM. So I took up drums. Didn’t get it all out of my head, but they took the edge off. Gave me something to do with my hands. Even at the end of a long gig like this, when sweat was running down my face and my sides and my arms were heavy, I could still pound out a solo, hard. Guess that’s why they called me the Jackhammer.
I caught the signal from Ritchie and started building up to the big finish. I could feel the pump in my arms as I pounded like crazy on the toms and banged on the crash cymbals till I could barely hear anything else. I always liked when punk bands broke their equipment at the end of a show, so I kept a beat-up old tom that I got from the dump by my side, and after I would hit the last thump on the drums I’d step up on the stool and press the tom over my head before throwing it onto the front of the stage. That was the cue for all three of us to pump our fists in the air and shout: Punch Drunk!
The small crowd cheered and yelled, and I thought, This rocks! I loved that feeling that gets your blood pumping and you got a room full of people losing their shit too. It was a high better than the one you could get from blow. Never liked that shit anyway—I got amped enough as it is. Course, the thing about a high is that you gotta come down sometime. And that was usually after the show, when we got our pay. Ritchie always took the larger share, which was hard to argue against but still sucked.
Back at home that night in my childhood bedroom, I emptied my pockets onto my A-Team bedspread. I smiled at the five scraps of paper with phone numbers. Jennifer, Lisa, Christy, Janet, and Regina. That last name I’d never heard of before, and I kind of blushed when the girl in the homemade crop top introduced herself, since it sounded like… you know. I asked her what the name meant and she said Queen, which seemed just about right. It’d be great to take Queen out on a date, but I looked at the few bills mixed in with the paper scraps and scowled. Mr. T scowled back at me: I pity the fool! You said it, brother.
So even with the band I needed extra cash. I didn’t wanna live with my ma forever, I don’t care what they say about Irish guys. And I had an eye for the ladies, and they for me, it seemed. Didn’t know how to say the first thing to them, but if I ever grew the stones to call one of ’em, I’d need some bank to buy movie tickets and dinners and stuff. Had to work on that. Right now, the only girl I knew how to talk to was my sister. Most days I thought she was the only person who really knew me. I grabbed the newspaper from downstairs and brought it back to my room to look through the want ads. With a pen I circled one:
“BOUNCER - Big man with small ego wanted. Calm under pressure, not easily ruffled. Call Hank.”
That description seemed to fit, and within a few days I had the job at Hank’s Place. It was a classier place than what you’d find here in the Den. That was good, because the fuck if I knew what I was supposed to do if there was trouble. See, even growing up in the Den I never had much trouble. I was big, kinda naturally athletic. I picked up weights early just for something to do, kinda like drums, and got pretty built. Maybe intimidated some guys, so they left me alone. They didn’t even know it was me who was intimidated. But that was okay.
I had it easy at Hank’s. I mostly sat on a stool by the door and screened IDs. I’d watch guys go in and out of the bar in their nice clothes, and I’d see them drive by in their fancy cars. Now and then I’d shake my head and frown at young guys with obvious fakes. That was my Let’s not do this, okay? face. No one took me up on it, which was just fine.
Then one night came where that wasn’t gonna be enough.
These three guys show up at the door and I can see right away they’re trouble. They were loud in that way guys get sometimes. And they were big. One especially. Big corded arms, wide lats that stretched out their shirts. Even their fucking jeans were snug on their muscled thighs. Fighters, I’d say if I saw them now, from their builds and how they carried themselves. I didn’t know then. But I could see they were drunk. Fuck me, if there’s anything I hate, it’s a drunk. I saw enough of that in the Den. Asshole guys who spent too much on drink and took out their shit on their wives and kids.
They steered clear of me if they noticed me at all. It was the customers they fucked with, guys going in and out, easy targets for hassle. This wasn’t the Den, right? Guys at Hank’s, a lot were gym-built like you wouldn’t believe, but they never took on a fight in their lives. More show muscles than go muscles, y’know?
I kinda sized them up. This Latino guy turns out to be Ramirez. He’s not the worst of them. Black guy, later I find out he’s Johnston, tall and muscled but kinda slim. And the big fuck, Wojic, blond, half a head taller than me and a fucking brick shithouse. Must have been 230 pounds at least. He’s also the one with the the fucking attitude, bumping into customers pretending like it’s an accident, making like they’re challenging him.
So I sidled up to them like we’re buddies, “Hey, how’s it hanging, you guys plan on coming in? On your way somewhere else?” I blew off Hank’s to them, told them that yeah, it’s a scene but maybe try Duke’s. “Nah, this looks fun,” Wojic said. He’s sizing me up, I can tell that much, and I’m starting to see where this was going.
“Hey man, don’t mess with the customers,” I said. “I got a job to do here.” We’re maybe more alike than not and I’m banking on some, y’know, buddy-to-buddy courtesy.
Wojic was laughing like it’s a big joke and then he cocked his head to the side, looked right at me and said, “I do what I want. No punk is gonna tell me otherwise.”
Fucking bullies.
I got more serious, because what else could I do? I got in close to Wojic, talked low so it’s not public, just two guys talking. “Don’t be like that man, I’ll take you to Duke’s later, buy you a beer.” But while I was trying to be buddy-buddy with my words I made sure my eyes said something else. You ain’t coming in.
He shook his head, chuckling. “You think you can take me?”
“Ah man, don’t be that way—” I said, and before another word was out of my mouth his fist was coming straight at me. I can’t say I saw it in slow motion, but I was like… aware of it, and leaned back hard. All I can think is this bully asshole just tried to sucker punch me, and when I was being respectful and shit.
This is happening, I thought. A real fucking fight. Against a guy bigger than me, and two of his friends.
Now, you gotta know what it means to be a big guy. It means you gotta hold back, or else normal-size people think you’re scary. And I told you about all the energy inside me, so holding back had always been hard. But now, I thought, I can let loose. It’s three on one and they’re fucking bullies. I planted my feet and brought my fists up. I could feel the muscle in my forearms swell and suddenly all eyes were on me. All these gym-built Hank’s regulars with ‘show’ muscle were about to see what ‘go’ muscle could do.
I punched Wojic in the face with my left fist. That was easy enough. So I punched him in the face three more times with the same fist. It was only by that fourth punch that he got his own arms up to block. So I stepped in and with my right I swung around from the side to crush my knuckles into his jaw. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was throwing jabs and hooks. I had no technique, but I was fast and had power behind my punches. My right hook rocked him off balance, so I popped a left into the center of his chest. His feet couldn’t compensate and he fell on his ass.
The other two, Johnston and Ramirez, moved in on the sides, so I had to take care of them too. They weren’t as big, or as mean, and their hearts weren’t in it. Putting Wojic down, I learned something: You can’t fight without your feet. So I swung my shin into Johnston’s leg right at the knee. He buckled and then my right fist bounced him away. I knew Ramirez was right behind me, so I continued twisting my torso around and my left elbow caught him right on his jaw. By the time I’d spun all the way around, all three men were on the ground.
Everyone nearby looked stunned and confused, but inside I felt fifteen different kinds of fuck yeah! I dropped my fists.
“Take your time getting up, gentlemen, I ain’t going anywhere.”
The taunt got to Wojic and he launched himself at me from a crouch. He tackled me at the waist, and I shifted my weight instinctively, twisting left. I somehow had a totally sure sense of exactly where I was in time and space. I moved my right hand down to his head and used it to direct the motion of his skull straight into the painted brick of the bar’s facade. At the last second, I kept myself from using too much muscle. Not even one minute into this fight and already I had to start holding back. Oh well.
Pain exploded in my back as I felt Ramirez and Johnston pummeling me from behind. I was pushed forward and my crotch crowded right into Wojic’s dazed face. Awkward. I hitched both elbows back, catching Johnston hard, but Ramirez had seen this trick before and dodged. I spun around fast and—no shit—just the hard look on my face made Ramirez back off. For good measure I pumped my foot into his abs and kicked him a good three feet away from the action. I rounded on Johnston, who was down on one knee, and dropped a swinging haymaker from on high that flattened him like a pancake.
I turned to see Wojic on his feet. And man, was he pissed. No more joking around, he had his fists raised and his feet planted, and his nostrils flared. I had knocked the drunkenness right out of him, and his eyes focused on me like lasers.
My heart was pounding in my ears like you wouldn’t believe. I could see that somehow I was gonna have to take this big mean motherfucker down. He moved in and it was totally different from before, he punched with precision and power. Slower than me, but when his punches landed, damn, they hurt like hell.
I took some hits. But I gave the lion’s share.
Finally I saw Wojic’s shoulders droop, his arms didn’t quite stay high enough to block. He’s tiring, I thought, while I felt like I could go forever. I just let loose, thumping him again and again like his face was a drum. I stopped when I saw he wasn’t defending himself anymore. He kinda swayed on his feet, then fell forward and slumped against me, his bloody face running down my shirt front. He dropped to his knees right in front of me.
The other two guys were just watching by now. I stepped back, ready to take them on again, but they both shook their heads: no. You’d think I’d be relieved. I would have thought it myself. But I was let down. I wanted to go again. I didn’t care if I got hit, I didn’t want to ever stop. They pulled their big friend to his feet and led him off into the night, staring back at me a couple times with this odd look on their faces.
I couldn’t even sleep when I went home after my shift. I kept hearing the rhythm of my hits. BambamBAM! Drumming was close to what was in my head, but this was it. This was the real thing. I kept running over it, replaying the fight. How I could have done better, what I should have done, what I’d do next time. Jesus God, please let there be a next time.
The night after was just a regular night at Hank’s, a Sunday, so kinda slow. I was still going over in my head what happened, choreographing it slightly different each time, when two of the same guys showed up, Ramirez and Johnston.
I folded my fingers into fists; they still hurt from the night before. But whatever.
“No no,” said Johnston, his hands up. “We’re not here to fight, man. We were a little fucked up last night. Our friend was really fucked up.”
“So just go somewhere, then,” I said. “Unless you want trouble. ’Cause if you want it…” Oh man, it was me that wanted it.
One of the guys extended his hand to shake. “I’m Ramirez,” he said. “We train at the Triple Hit. You know it?”
I looked at his open hand in confusion and disappointment. “In the Den?” I asked. I knew it was an old boxing joint I’d passed dozens of times, in the old warehouse strip.
“That’s the one,” Ramirez said. “Man, who taught you your moves?”
“Moves?” I said. “I don’t have moves.”
“The fuck you don’t, you took on the three of us, and you put Wojic down.”
“You were drunk,” I said, blowing it off.
“Not that drunk,” said the other guy, extending his own hand, which I also just stared at. No fight, really? “I’m Johnston.”
“You should train with us,” Ramirez said. He mimicked my flurry of punches from the night before. “What the fuck do you call that shit?”
This wasn’t a joke; these guys were impressed with me, with what I could do. What do I call that? I thought for a moment of how I beat Wojic’s face like a drum. “I dunno. The Jackhammer?”
Johnston was in awe. “Fuck, even the name is sick. That’s a gift, brother.”
I could feel blood rush into my cheeks, and had to take the focus off me. “So you guys are boxers?”
“Kinda,” answered Ramirez. “It’s a new thing. Some boxing, some kickboxing, some judo. Doesn’t matter what you call it, just mix it up. Improvise.”
Mix it up. Improvise. I liked the sound of that. “Yeah, I might give it a try.”
They say the most important day after you’re born is the day you figure out why, and it’s true. I knew I was done with the drums. From then on, I was a fighter.
“What happened to your friend, the big guy?” I was suddenly worried I overdid it and hurt Wojic in a major way.
“He’s, uh…” Ramirez hesitated. “He’s waiting for you. Out back.” He thumbed over his shoulder to the nearby alleyway.
“Huh,” I said. I wasn’t stupid, but I figured if anyone oughta be scared of meeting anyone in a dark alley, it was him that oughta be scared of me. I thought of my Jackhammer pummeling his broad blond mug and the tension came right back into me. Maybe Wojic would wanna get into it again.
I waited until the other two left, just to be sure this wasn’t some revenge trap. Then I signaled to LJ that I was going to take a break and went through the club to the back door that led to the alley.
I shoved the door open, hard. A little too much muscle, ’cause the autoclose mechanism snapped and the fire door did a 180, bouncing off the brick wall. I caught it sharply on the rebound with my left hand, and turned to stare daggers at Wojic, who’d spun around. He was startled by the noise, like I’d hoped; he’d been expecting me to come from the other direction. I slammed the door shut and moved down the alleyway with a confident strut. He had four inches and probably 50 pounds on me, but when I crossed my arms over my chest, his eyes dropped to my veiny biceps and I saw it. Fear. And… something else. I’d intimidated plenty of guys before with my physique, but something about this was different. I mean, the dude was jacked himself. But the look he gave me right then, it was like a wolf exposing his throat to the leader of the pack.
I can’t really explain it. But that look of surrender made me hard as a rock.
Look, I was 20, and I got hard when the wind blew a certain way. I dunno, I just felt powerful in a way I never did before. I walked right up to him and stared hard up into his face. He had two black eyes and a bruised jaw, but his lips were intact, which was perfect for where I could see this was going.
“Too tall,” I said.
And just like that, the man was on his knees in front of me. He looked up at me, stunned. Like he didn’t understand himself what he’d just done. Like he had a sense memory of his crumpled body sliding down my shirtfront last night. I smirked and held one finger in front of his face, which just seemed to confuse him more.
Dazed, he followed the finger as I dipped it into my waistband, popping open my 501s’ fly button by button. A big bulge of cotton-clad dick burst out and Wojic took a sharp breath. Damn, the look in his eyes when he saw my cock fighting to get out of my Calvins. That was hot.
Now look, I was as straight as they come; I’d seen a lot in my time working at this club, and nothing I’d seen had made me think I’d ever be into doing anything with a guy.
But I knew in that moment that Wojic was gonna suck my cock and I was gonna enjoy it.
Wojic brought his quivering fingers up to touch the cotton, but then paused to look up into my eyes, pleading. I nodded, giving him permission to pull down my briefs, and when my big cock sprang out he latched his hand onto it and gasped. Wojic felt my meat growing huge and steely right in his grip. He looked shocked and his voice trembled.
“I-I-I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“Like this? What are ya doin’? Tell me.”
“I-I’m on my knees. Jacking your cock in my hand. It’s so huge… and hard.”
“I know. Why are you doing it?”
Wojic was silent and just kept staring at my dick sliding in and out of his fist.
“I asked you a fucking question.”
“B-because you kicked my ass.” That was interesting. I brought my right hand into his sightline, the knuckles scraped from where they’d kicked ass all over his torso and face yesterday. His eyes widened.
“What’s the connection?” I kept my voice flat for some reason, even though I really wanted to know the answer.
“I have to… thank you. I was a shithead. I’m… a shithead a lot. And I get away with it because I’m big. I… needed that ass-kicking. Needed to know… someone will keep me in line.”
I didn’t think my cock could get any harder, but it did. I started leaking precum like a faucet, and Wojic saw it and swallowed nervously.
“You got self-control issues, huh?” I pressed my boot into the big dude’s full crotch. He groaned and his eyes glazed over. “What do I look like, your daddy?”
Wojic gasped, and I swear this 230-pound muscle jock looked like he might cry. Yep, those pale blue eyes were getting watery all right. Ah shit. I couldn’t tell Freud from Fred Flintstone, but one thing I could damn well tell you is I could think of better uses for my dick than some kind of magic therapy wand.
“So open up and thank me already,” I growled. I figured I had something that’d make his eyes water for real.
He leaned in and began licking the head of my leaking cock like it was an ice-cream cone. It was okay, but I’d had better from girls the size of one of Wojic’s legs. “You got a jaw like a moose and that’s the best you can do?”
He popped off my dick and panted. “I never done this before, boss.”
Boss. I liked that. “So you said. I’m beginning to believe it.”
The look on his face said it all. In that moment, I think Wojic would’ve rather choked to death than disappoint me. He screwed up his face and planted his big hands on my quads. Then he swallowed half my dick in one gulp.
He blew air out his nostrils and I could feel the back of his throat fold over like he was about to gag. He looked up at me, and I could see his eyes were really watering now. But it felt good now, real good, and I nodded at him and cracked a smile. I thought for sure he’d pull off, but instead his hands left my thighs and palmed my ass. He pulled me in, inch by inch, his eyes locked on mine, until his lips kissed my pubes.
“Good job, sport,” I whispered, truly impressed. Now it was my turn to focus so that I didn’t blow my load too soon. Wojic regurgitated my cock and fell back on his haunches, breathing hard with his tongue out, sucking in air. My hard dick was coated with his slobber, which also ran down his chin.
“I want it,” he said hoarsely.
“Want what?”
“The Jackhammer. Please. Do me good, boss.”
Magic words. I stepped forward and planted my hands on either side of his big skull. Wojic took a deep breath, opened wide, and inhaled my cock again. But this time, I was in control. I pulled my cock out of his mouth sharply, only to plunge it back in just as fast. Wojic was keeping up, making sounds like a dog wolfing down a meal. I thought of my drums and tried to get a rhythm going. I pulled one hand off his head so I could pull my jeans further down my quads. My balls flopped out, fully freed, and the cool air felt good. I didn’t miss a beat while I adjusted my clothes, I kept face-fucking the big guy like I was drilling for oil. My balls now slapped noisily against his spit-coated chin. Damn, this felt good.
Wojic’s blue stare bore into me and I instinctually understood what he was getting at. “Faster? Blink once for yes.”
Blink.
“Fuck yeah,” I grunted. He wanted the Jackhammer, he was gonna get the fucking Jackhammer.
SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP
Fuck, I didn’t know how much longer I was gonna last. Which was too bad, ’cause I was enjoying this a lot.
SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP
Then I saw it—another slow, deliberate blink. You fucker, I’ll show you faster. I’ll set the Jackhammer on pulverize.
SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP
“Aw fuck,” I growled. I was so close. The feeling of dominating another man like this unlocked some part of me I never knew before and the shit-talk spilled out a’ me: “Fuck yeah you fuckin’ cocksucker… gobble that fuckin’ monster meat… you’re gonna take my big load… of Irish cream… right down your gullet... gonna dump… so much fucking spunk… in your belly… I’ll knock you up… and the kid’s… gonna come out… your ass… singing ‘Danny Boy.’”
Wojic’s eyes looked like they were gonna pop out of his head. My balls tightened and I could feel the rush as I exploded—
5.
“Best story ever,” gushes Connor, perched on his stool, near wiggling. He reaches out his leg to nudge David. “Right?!”
David blinks. The drum solo in his head screeches to a halt. The alleyway dissolves, and the gray office ceiling slams back into view. He sits up with a jerk, jarring his neck.
“Whoa,” David breathes, his face flushed hot. “So… he swallowed it?”
The silence in the office is absolute.
Kelly stares at David, his mouth slightly open. Connor looks from David to his uncle, then back to David, his brow furrowing.
“Did who swallow what?” Connor asks.
“The big guy,” David says, still groggy, the vivid image of Wojic on his knees refusing to fade. “In the alley. You said he went down on you.”
Connor’s eyes go wide. A second passes. Then two.
Then, Connor explodes.
“HAHAHAHAHA!”
He nearly falls off the stool, doubling over, clutching his stomach. “Oh my God! Oh my God, Kelly! Did you hear him?”
Kelly isn’t laughing. He looks horrified. “I said I stared him down, you pervert! I said he backed off!”
“You… you didn’t get a blowjob?” David asks, the reality of his own daydream finally sinking in along with a wave of mortification.
“From Wojic? That meathead?” Kelly scowls, crossing his massive arms. “I’d rather stick my dick in a blender.”
“He hallucinated a blowjob!” Connor howls, wiping tears from his eyes. “Driver, you are messed up. That is… oh man. That is the funniest shit I’ve ever heard. ‘Did he swallow?’”
David sinks low in the tattered chair, wishing the springs would just snap and swallow him whole. “I… I think I drifted off. Maybe I do have a concussion…”
“Drifted off into a porno!” Connor gasps. He leans in, gripping David’s knee, his face red with mirth. “So, in your version… was he good?”
“Shut up,” David groans, burying his face in his hands.
“I’m never gonna live this down,” Kelly mutters, taking a long, aggressive pull of his beer. “The point was, that was the day I knew I was done with drums.” His solid jaw shifts side to side. “That I was a fighter.”
Connor runs the toe of his chunky sneaker against David’s shin. He’s so deft in his body that the same leg that can deliver a devastating roundhouse kick can as easily convey such tender concern.
David rubs his temples, trying to separate the fantasy from the facts Kelly actually told. One detail sticks out, glowing neon in his reporter’s brain.
“Wait,” David says, sitting up. “Did you say that was at Hank’s? Hank’s on Elmwood?”
“Yeah,” Kelly says, shooting a discreet glance at David’s fingers playing over his nephew’s leg. “So?”
“Holy shit, the Hank’s?” David asks. “In the ’90s?”
“What’s the Hank’s?” Connor asks, pulling his leg back.
“Just the most infamous gay bar in city history,” David answers. He looks back and forth between Kelly and Connor. “It got targeted by the homophobic mayor in office then. He couldn’t shut it down, but he hassled it until they gave up and closed. There was a whole exposé about it years later.”
Connor stops laughing. He looks at his uncle.
“That’s the one,” Kelly says with a shrug. “Hank’s. Shut down not long after.”
“I heard that story a hundred times,” Connor says, his voice losing all its humor. “You never mentioned it was a gay bar.”
“Didn’t seem important,” Kelly shrugs.
“Man,” the young fighter reels, the color draining from his face. “All that time I… I didn’t think you’d be okay with it.”
David watches the realization hit Connor—imagining the years of the fear, the assumption that his tough-guy MMA uncle would reject him—all while Kelly was standing guard at the door of the community’s sanctuary.
“I ever say anything to give you that impression?” Kelly asks flatly.
“No,” Connor replies. His furrowed brow is pale against his face. “I just… I don’t know. I assumed.”
“Assumed wrong,” Kelly says.
The silence now isn't awkward; it’s heavy. Weighted.
“So, uh,” David says, trying to bridge the gap. “You just knew fighting was your thing?”
“Pretty much,” Kelly responds, latching onto the pivot. “Boy was Ritchie steamed when I quit the band. But nothing in this world lasts forever.”
“Then you opened the Triple Hit?”
“Nah. Bought it from old Joe LaPaglia. He opened it in the ’60s.”
“How long did you fight?”
“As long as I could, kid. Till the day I couldn’t no more. Like I said—nothing’s forever.”
David looks around the office. The putty-gray file cabinets, the old basic corkboard, yellow linoleum flooring. It could still be the 1960s. “Love what you’ve done with the place.”
Kelly’s eyebrow raises. “Why’re you always such a smart-ass?”
“Just how I am,” David laughs. It’s true, too.
He sits back, satisfied that he’s purchased Connor some time to process. More than satisfied, in fact: proud. It feels to David like the most useful thing he’s done in a while. I’ve got your back, he thinks to the still-silent young fighter.
Curiosity—the one thing even a quasi-concussion couldn't kill—takes over. David leans forward and flips through the shoe box. Band photos. Kelly fighting. Kelly and Jameelah, in photos that must be a dozen or more years old. She slays the style of every era, and somehow never looks dated.
One photo catches David’s eye. At the center is a homemade cake, complete with a numeric 10 candle. Behind it is a boy grinning so hard he looks like he’ll explode.
Even with spindly boy arms, even if not for the telltale red hair, David would know him anywhere. Connor Ryan. His face, his smile, is just the same. But for one thing—in the middle of that broad smile is a dark gap between his two front teeth.
And standing over him is a man with the same gap in his smile, the same red hair.
Connor’s father. It has to be.
David stares at the man in the photo. He’s handsome, in a jagged, rough way. He’s smiling, too. But even though their mouths are shaped the same, the smiles are different.
David remembers Kelly talking about the difference between Go Muscle and Show Muscle.
Connor’s smile reaches his eyes. It’s pure Go—authentic, joyful, real.
His father’s smile is all Show.
He can feel a story coming into place in his head, as he so often does. The man’s lips were turned up, his teeth bared, in what was only technically a smile. The attention paid to his 10-year-old son rubbed him the wrong way. ‘Too much attention ruins children’ is a common refrain among toxic parents, who…
Kelly clears his throat, drawing David’s eyes and then Connor’s away from the box of photos. David senses purpose in the action, and it occurs to him for the first time that he and Kelly have been complicit in managing Connor’s attention, in distracting him.
“If you’re good enough to bust my balls, you’re good enough to go home. Let me know when you have a real concussion, not some skanky daydream.” Kelly says, then turns to Connor. “You want to shut things down?”
Wordlessly, Connor rises to his feet to do as asked. But as he turns out of the office door, he pauses and slowly turns to face Kelly. “I guess I could have told you a long time ago, huh? If I’d known.”
“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” Kelly answers.
Connor takes most of the tension in the room with him, leaving David and Kelly looking at each other, aware of their unspoken partnership.
“So,” David says, holding up the birthday photo, full-on reporter. “Ryan had a gap tooth.”
“Guess so,” Kelly says.
“He got it fixed?”
“Yup. People do that.”
“Yeah, people-people. But not Ryan-people. Doesn’t seem like him to do something…cosmetic, does it?”
“You should ask him about it if you got a burning question,” Kelly says sarcastically.
“But I’m asking you. Because you know how private he is.”
Kelly clears his throat—a heavy, grating sound.
“Not for me to say. But the way I see it, if you were him,” Kelly says, his voice low, conspiratorial, “knowing what you do about his old man… would you want to see that smile staring back at you every time you looked in a mirror?”
David always thought Connor was the spitting image of Kelly. But looking at the photo of the man who kicked his son’s legs out from under him, he sees the man who gave Connor that grin.
“I guess not,” David whispers.
He drops the photo back into the bottom of the box and carefully piles a stack of others on top of it, burying the past deep. It’s a silent pact.
“He’s okay, you know,” David says, looking Kelly in the eye. “Ryan. He’s good.”
Kelly nods slowly. The shared secret—the understanding of Connor’s past—hangs between them like an unspoken contract.
“Go on,” Kelly says. “Don't keep him waiting.”
6.
As the door to David’s apartment opens, laughter breaks the threshold and Connor asks, “And then he said what?”
“He had the guy on his knees, jackhammering his mouth, and says, ‘Faster? Blink once for yes.’” David rolls his eyes at himself. “It was just a daydream!”
“Kelly got blown? By a guy?” Connor howls. “Fuck, I’ve heard that story a hundred times. I would have remembered a blow job!” He pulls David close by the belt loops. “Maybe you really do have a concussion.”
“I swear, I’m just having these—flights of fancy lately. Daydreams… stories I can’t get out of my head…”
The fighter exhales hot breath through his nostrils as he scrutinizes David’s bruised eye. His thumb traces the swelling gently.
“What do you think? Is it sexy?” David asks.
“Yeah, tough guy,” Connor snarls, the erection in his jeans pressing up against David’s thigh. “Off the charts.”
He dives into David’s mouth and they make out aggressively. Connor’s hands pull on the tie at David’s neck, sliding the skinny end out of the knot and whipping it out of the collar.
“Did my story get you in the mood?” David asks against Connor’s lips.
“Fuck, I’m always in the mood.” Connor looks like he wants to rip David’s shirt open. But he restrains himself and starts unbuttoning instead, looking into David’s eyes as his fingers work. “You okay though? The head?”
“I can take my licks,” David answers. He raises an eyebrow. “Try me.” The young fighter pushes himself up against David and presses his full lips against his, plunging his eager tongue in. David can’t help but trace his tongue over Connor’s teeth, feeling the smooth, expensive perfection of them.
No gap.
Connor wraps his hands under David’s ass and pulls him in tighter. David loves the feel of Connor’s strength, how willing he is to use it. He knows David won’t break.
“I wanted to ask about something,” David says, pulling back just an inch as Connor grinds their packed crotches together.
“Shoot,” sighs the fighter, nipping at David’s jawline..
“You had a gap tooth?”
Connor’s posture stiffens. David can feel the heat between them instantly cool.
“Yeah. It’s such a big gap.” Connor pulls back, baring those perfectly even teeth in a grimace. “Fuck.”
“Not now,” says David, warily. “But you did. I saw a photo in the shoebox.”
Connor’s hands drop to his sides. The space between them grows, filled with a sudden, prickly tension. His face goes red and his jaw flexes from side to side. The fighter who refuses tattoos so he doesn’t signal anything to his opponents, is betrayed by his own skin anyway.
He turns around and heads into David’s kitchenette. David follows and hears the cupboard doors banging.
“You got any booze around here?”
David enters the small kitchen and squeezes past Connor, who leans against the counter with his arms crossed defensively on his broad chest. He pulls a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from a low cupboard and pours a dram each into two glass tumblers.
“Ice?”
Connor downs the liquor in one gulp and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He stares at David. “Save it for your black eye.”
David sips from his glass and returns Connor’s angry gaze evenly. “Which one? You look like you want to give me another.”
Connor’s face scrunches in disbelief and he shakes his head.
“Jesus.”
He slams the tumbler on the counter and David flinches at the bang.
“Yeah, I had a gap tooth. Writing a story about dental work, Driver?” Connor asks, his voice dripping sarcasm. Slowly his mouth widens in a huge grin.
David gulps. Even without the gap, Connor’s smile is the same as his father's in the photo. A show smile, with nothing like happiness or joy under it.
“It’s not a big deal, Ryan,” David says, reaching out to run a finger over Connor’s ear, feeling the heat just beneath the scarlet skin. Trying to draw him back in. “I was just curious.”
“Yeah, you’re always curious,” Connor says sharply, torquing his neck to twist free of David’s touch. The motion isn’t enough to hurt David, but it’s enough for him to feel the strength underlying it. “I don’t need everyone knowing my shit,” he says, each word like a smack in the face.
“Hey, I’m not everyone,” David snaps back. “And don’t forget who you’re talking to.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’m the guy who published my own resignation in… in disgrace—”
“Disgrace my ass.” Connor rolls his eyes.
“Yeah. Disgrace. Total disgrace, Ryan. Everyone knows my transgressions. And in the most public way possible. I just asked about your braces or whatever.”
“Well not everyone’s as brave as you, Driver,” Connor says, backing away and shaking his head.
“Fuck you, Ryan. Fuck brave. I’m terrified.”
The confession tumbles out before David can stop it. The adrenaline from the punch, the bourbon, the heat of Kelly’s office—it all crashes down.
“I flushed my whole career down the toilet and I have no idea what to do with my life,” David says, his voice trembling. “What credible news source would ever have me? I ruined everything.”
Connor stops. The anger drains out of his face, replaced by confusion.
“Dude, you’ll figure it out,” Connor offers, softening. He steps back into David’s space, nudging him with a broad shoulder.
David’s legs go weak—like when Jefferson punched him. He leans into the touch.
“I always thought I was born to do something—to write something no one else ever did,” David says, his breath catching “But I’m so afraid. I think I’ve been making a fool of myself.”
“A fool how?” Connor asks, crooking a finger in David’s belt loop, tethering him.
“I let myself think I could do something worthwhile,” David whispers. “Be someone worthwhile.”
Connor’s eyes run over David’s face—the bruising, the fear.
“Worthwhile to me,” he whispers.
He pulls David in close and wraps around him. He holds him there, solid as a rock.
It’s the kind of thing that would never occur to David—just holding someone in a kitchen. But Connor is always most eloquent with his body. He says in three words what David would take an essay to explain.
Worthwhile to me.
David runs his fingers through the cropped red curls, thinking how this precious head was concussed when he was just a boy. He feels the tension in the fighter’s neck, the history in his muscles. He thinks about the gap-toothed boy in the photo, and the man with the dead eyes standing over him.
He senses two paths for Connor, who wavers between them with such unpredictability—his father, and Kelly.
Maybe your father isn’t the guy who kicked your legs out from under you, he longs to say. Maybe your real father is the guy who defended you.
Instead he holds onto the fighter and whispers in his ear: “Fuck me, Connor.”
7.
Connor doesn’t answer with words. He shifts his grip, sliding one arm down to hook behind David’s knees, and lifts him effortlessly against his chest.
“Gotcha,” Connor murmurs against his neck.
He carries David into the bedroom, not with the showy theatrics of a romance novel cover, but with the efficient, functional strength of a man used to moving heavy weights. He sets David down on the edge of the mattress, his hands lingering on David’s waist.
The room is dim, lit only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds. It turns Connor’s skin into a landscape of shadows and pale ridges.
Connor steps back to strip. He pulls the thermal shirt over his head, revealing the torso that David had been ogling in the gym earlier. But here, in the quiet, it’s different. It’s not a display for an opponent. It’s a map of his history. The knot of the healed rib fracture. The jagged line near his hairline.
Go muscles, David thinks. Every inch of him is real.
David fumbles with his own belt, his hands shaking slightly.
“Easy,” Connor whispers.
He kneels between David’s spread legs. He undoes the buckle himself, his eyes locked on David’s.
When they’re skin to skin, the heat is immediate. Connor covers David’s body with his own, a heavy, grounding weight that stops the room from spinning.
“Careful of your head,” Connor breathes, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush David, creating a sheltered cage of muscle.
He kisses David—the corner of his mouth, the jawline, and then, with agonizing tenderness, he presses his lips to the swollen, purple skin around David’s eye.
Connor keeps his face close to David’s, his breathing heavy, while one hand blindly sweeps the nightstand beside the bed.
He finds the small squeeze bottle by touch alone. With a practiced flick of his thumb, he pops the cap.
David gasps into Connor’s mouth as he feels the slick warmth of the lube, followed immediately by Connor’s fingers sliding between his legs. Connor pushes inside, confident and deliberate, curling his fingers to find that sweet spot, stretching him open.
“You’re so tight,” Connor groans against David’s lips, adding a second finger to work him loose.
“Please,” David begs, his hips bucking involuntarily against Connor’s hand.
“I’m here,” Connor grunts.
He withdraws his fingers and replaces them with himself. When he enters David, it’s a slow, steady slide that knocks the breath out of David’s lungs. It’s not the frantic, fast-paced fucking of their early hookups. This is deliberate. Connor moves with a rhythm that David can feel in his teeth, so deep it anchors David to the bed, to the moment, to reality.
David wraps his legs around Connor’s waist, pulling him deeper. He runs his hands down the expanse of Connor’s back, feeling the sweat slicking the copper hair, feeling the muscles bunch and release.
“You’re okay,” Connor whispers, the rhythm accelerating into a faster, harder beat. “You’re good.”
David’s back arches, his breath coming fast as the friction builds to an unbearable peak. He looks up at Connor—at the flushed face, the green eyes wide and unmasked, the straight, perfect teeth clenched in pleasure.
David doesn't see the gap. But he sees the boy who survived the man who gave it to him. And he sees the man who’s saving David right now.
David shudders, his hips thrusting forward as he shoots through his fingers, messy and hard. The sudden, involuntary clench of his insides grips Connor like a vice.
It pushes the fighter over the edge instantly. Connor groans, driving deep one last time to follow suit, pouring himself into David.
Connor collapses on top of him, burying his face in the crook of David’s neck. David holds him there, feeling the rapid hammer of the fighter’s heart against his own chest, beating in time.
It’s almost 3 AM when David blinks awake. The room is still.
He turns his head. Connor is sprawled on his stomach, taking up three-quarters of the bed. One arm hangs off the side, knuckles grazing the floor. His face is smashed into the pillow, his mouth slightly open, a faint snore rattling in his throat.
He looks younger like this. Less guarded.
David watches him for a long time. He thinks about the unspoken pact with Kelly—to protect this man who thinks he’s the one protecting everyone else.
Careful not to wake him, David slides out of bed. He pulls on a pair of sweats and pads softly into the living room.
The apartment is quiet.
The empty bourbon glass is still on the counter.
David sits at his desk. He opens his laptop.
The screen glows white, a blank page. For months, this blankness has terrified him. It felt like an indictment of his failure.
But today, it just looks like space.
He looks down at his arms. Rarely pure, never simple. 1/10,000.
He thinks about Jameelah telling him to stop feeling sorry for himself. He thinks about the "Irish Jackhammer" story—not the funny version, but the real one. The story of a kid from The Den who had to fight three guys just to hold a job.
And mostly, he thinks about the gap. Not just the one in a ten-year-old boy's smile, but the gap between the world David came from—where mistakes are smoothed over with money—and the world Connor survived. The Den. The places where kids get their legs kicked out from under them and have to learn to stand back up on their own.
David realizes he can’t fix Connor’s past. He can’t un-break the bone or un-hear the insults. But he can do something to make the world see the people living in those cracks. He can intervene the only way he knows how: with words.
David’s fingers hover over the keys. He isn't writing for Zeitgeist anymore. He’s writing for the gap.
At the top of the page, he types:
1/10,000
He hits bold. Beneath that, he types the subtitle:
Because truth is rarely pure and never simple.
He takes a breath. He doesn't look for a clever hook or a snarky lead. He just types the truth.
This is disgraced reporter David Levy. Welcome to my news blog.
For a long time, I thought the news was about what happened at City Hall. But the real story is what happens in the places City Hall forgot. It's about neighborhoods like The Den, where survival is a daily audit and 'equity' is a foreign language.
I'm going to write about the fights you don't see. Not the ones in the ring, but the ones in the kitchen, in the alley. In the system that breaks a kid's smile and expects him to say thank you.
David stops. He reads it back.
It’s rough. It’s raw. But for the first time in months, it’s not performative. It’s transformative.
From the bedroom, he hears a groan, followed by the heavy thud of feet hitting the floor.
David feels a warmth at his back before he hears the voice. Connor leans his heavy frame against David, wrapping a thick arm around David’s shoulders, chin resting on the top of David’s head.
“What’s this?” Connor croaks, his voice thick with sleep.
David feels Connor’s chest expand against his back as he reads the screen. He waits, suddenly nervous.
“Getting back to work,” David says.
David feels Connor’s chest expand against his back as he reads the screen.
The fighter goes still.
David waits. He waits for a joke, or a deflection, or for Connor to tell him to stop digging.
But Connor just stays there, heavy and warm, reading the words. He doesn't say anything—he just tightens his arm around David’s shoulder—a slow, solid squeeze.
“Coffee?” Connor murmurs against his hair.
David smiles, looking at the cursor blinking at the end of the truth.
“Yeah,” David says. “Coffee.”
END
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
