hephaestion2014's blog

ACHERON 4

The Market Harborough terrace stank of unwashed clothes and knock-off perfume. Mickey O’Shea didn’t know the girl’s name—something ending in an ‘a’, probably—but he knew the way her breasts felt. He was mid-thrust, his hairy gut slapping against her thighs, when the front door slammed.

"Saffron? You in there?" a voice roared.

"Oh shit. That’s Gaz. He’ll kill you. He’s a mentalist."

Mickey grunted, pulling out with a wet raspberry sound.

"’A little bit of love makes the world go round—’" Mickey scrambled for his clothes. "But a jealous boyfriend makes it spin a lot faster."

He threw his Barbour over his shoulders, bundled the rest, and headed to the window. He didn't leap; he tumbled with intent. Fifteen stone of wine-soaked dad bod found the wheelie bins. Plastic buckled. Gravel tore at his palms before Gaz even cleared the threshold.

It was a sight Market Harborough wasn’t prepared for at ten o'clock at night: Mickey thundering down the pavement in nothing but white briefs and a wax jacket. His meaty balls swung with every heavy stride; his cock, half-awake from the interrupted fuck, bobbed against his thigh.

"You fat bastard! I’m going to cave your head in!" Gaz burst out onto the street.

Mickey reached the street corner. He stopped, turned around, and stood his ground. His legs splayed, his briefs a beacon in the jaundiced light. 

Gaz skidded to a halt. Mickey took a moment to appraise him. Gaz’s hands were shaking, eyes darting down to Mickey’s cock.

"I'm going to kill you," Gaz hissed, though he didn't move.

Mickey's hazel eyes locked onto the lad’s. "Bit of a wasted run, that. Tell me something... looking at the state of us out here... you sure you didn't just fancy a threesome? Might have been a lot less cardio for everyone involved."

Three hours later, inside his kitchen, Mickey was hunched over the table, stripped to his waist, dabbing a rag soaked in witch hazel onto a plum-dark bruise on his ribs. The medicinal scent cut through the smell of stale grease.

Jax arrived in the doorway, citrus gym spray clinging to his skin like a second uniform. Under the harsh, flickering fluorescent strip of the kitchen, Jax’s skin was the colour of dark teak, tattoos of black geometric patterns starting at his left wrist and climbing up his arm to his neck —a stark contrast to Mickey’s own mottled, pale-pink hide.

Mickey looked him up and down. He’d seen a thousand boys come and go, but Jax was a premium product. He had that sharp, South Asian bone structure—high, sculpted cheekbones and a jawline that looked like it had been planed out of hardwood. His eyes were obsidian, framed by lashes long enough to be an insult, but the effect of the "pretty boy" was ruined by his ears. They were thickened clumps of cauliflower cartilage.

"Elena’s got me on the clock again tomorrow," Jax said, his voice a low Leicester drone. "Same old. I have to spend twenty minutes 'struggling' in a front-headlock before I let her choke me out for the wide-angle. She wants more 'desperation' this time."

"Then give it to her. You’ve got a rare look, youth. Deep skin, eyes like a silent movie star, and a body that looks like it was carved for a temple. That’s why she pays the premium. A hundred quid an hour to sit in a pair of shiny trunks and pretend a ten-stone woman is a giant. It's a gift. Use it before your nose matches your ears."

"It’s a fucking joke." Jax paced the narrow galley kitchen, the light catching the dense, functional cables of muscle in his forearms. "I'm a fucking purple belt. Now? I’m a professional victim. I spend my life 'selling' for a lens so some rich twat in Dubai can feel powerful wanking over a video of me losing."

Mickey let out a dry cough. "You're a jobber, Jax. Don't go getting a backbone now. It’s bad for business."

"I’m done with it, Mick. It’s dead. I look in the mirror and I don't see a wrestler anymore. I see a prop. I'm tired of the choreography. I’m tired of knowing exactly when I’m allowed to breathe and when I have to tap." Jax stepped closer to the table. "I want to know the stuff you were on about. Acheron. No scripts. No Elena telling me to look 'more vulnerable' while she smothers me with her tits. I want to feel someone actually trying to break me."

Mickey finally looked up, his hazel eyes cold. "Acheron? You think that’s an escape? I’ve got a match in Oxford end of the week. Come watch and see it's not a career move, youth. It’s a way to get your arse fucked by a man who doesn't know your name and doesn't care about your 'technique'."

He shoved a thumb into Jax’s chest, right over his heart. "You’re sick of pretending? Fine. But wait until you’re naked in a cold warehouse with someone who isn't checking the lighting as you choke on their cock. You won't be 'losing' for a camera then, Jaxy boy. You'll be losing for real. And there’s no director to call 'cut' when it starts to hurt."

Jax didn't flinch. "I’d rather be hurt for real than stay a ghost in a studio."

Mickey studied him, then let out a short, ugly laugh. "Then you're a fucking idiot. But you might just be our kind of idiot."

Oxford.

The Brazen Bull was a mahogany-panelled nightmare where people used the word 'problematic' to describe a lukewarm latte. 

Dane sat in a booth, skin prickling under merino wool. His hackles rising against the soft, suffocating luxury of the knit. His knuckles felt naked. He felt half-sunk in the conversation. Toby's umbrella leaned against the table. Dane wanted to snap it just to hear something expensive breaking. Every time Toby’s fingers brushed his arm, he envisioned the colossal wreck of the life he wanted to abandon.

"So," Julian began—a man who had never been punched in the mouth, but absolutely should have been. "Coventry. Was it as brutalist as they say? Or did you find some 'hidden' beauty in the concrete?"

"Very 'form follows function.'" Dane felt the scab on the bridge of his nose itch. He wanted to peel it off and drop it into Julian's drink.

"Precisely!" Julian was wearing a t-shirt from a "boutique" BJJ gym in London that cost more per month than a mortgage and smelled of lavender-infused disinfectant. "I’ve been doing a bit of the 'gentle art' lately. There’s something so... authentic about the struggle. It really grounds the intellectual pursuits. You should come down to the club, Dane. We could roll."

Dane looked at Julian’s unmarred ears and imagined his purple-wrapped abrasive fists against Julian's skin. You wouldn't like it. You’d call the police.

"You're white-knuckling the table, Dane," Toby whispered. "We can leave. Right now. Just us."

It was an offer of sanctuary, but the kindness felt like a chokehold. He didn't want a way out; he wanted a way through.

"I'm fine." Dane pulled his hand away.

His gaze drifted. In a corner, tucked in the shadows, sat a glitch in the Oxford matrix. Bryan was hunched over a table. He looked in high-definition while the rest of the pub was a blurry watercolour. His eyes met Dane’s in surprise. He gave a deliberate nod.

"You really should come down to the academy, Dane," Julian swirled his Malbec. "It’s fascinating. It’s essentially human chess. Most people think it’s about aggression, but it’s actually about negation. You use the other man’s energy against him. It’s almost... deconstructive. Derrida in a gi."

Bryan drained his drink and stood up to leave.

"I’ve got to go." Dane stood up, knocking the heavy mahogany table and making the drinks slop.

"What's wrong, Dane?" Toby tugged at Dane’s sweater to pull him back into the booth.

Dane’s heart hammered. Bryan's exit was a life raft drifting away.

"Did you not fancy another round?" Julian asked.

"Shall we go?" Toby's fingers touched the back of Dane's hand. "Is it the heat? Have you drunk too much, pumpkin?"

The word pumpkin choked him like a silk noose. Toby’s thumb stroked his skin in a soothing motion. It was a gesture without motion, a hollow attempt to domesticate the wolf.

"Fuck... off!" Dane barked. The sound was a low, guttural vibration that started in his gut—a sound that belonged in a den, not a gastropub.

The sound silenced the pub. He turned and bolted, his chair screeching against floorboards. He burst out into the street.

                          ***

Bryan was leaning against a side-street archway further down the road. "You look like you’ve just bolted from a funeral, lad. Or a cage. Hard to tell the difference with your lot."

Dane's phone buzzed. He didn't look at the screen.

Bryan gripped Dane’s chin, his thumb pressing into the fresh bruise from the Coventry match with the precision of a doctor. "You looked like a wolf trying to eat tofu in there," Bryan murmured. 

"You’ve still got the copper-taste on your tongue, and you’re trying to swallow it down with Malbec. It doesn't wash out, Dane. It just stains."

"How are you even here?"

"I'm meeting some friends. Come meet them, or do you have some other place you should be?"

                                ***

The alley by the multi-storey car park was damp brick and overflowing bins. Bryan spotted his man duck into it. Mickey O’Shea was in there, legs splayed, his piss hitting the wall with a rhythmic splash.

"The other lad is delayed. Trains. Me bladder was bursting." Mickey laughed. "You're late, Bryan. I was starting to think you'd finally checked yourself into a clinic."

"I’m here, aren't I? I brought a surprise. Dane. One of us. Just blown up his life. Thought you'd get on."

Mickey’s hazel eyes locked onto Bryan's for a second. A silent acknowledgment passed between them.

Mickey grunted, zipping up. "Stockport was a lifetime ago, Bry. Besides, you're still limping on that pin. Who’s the kettle and who’s the pot?"

"The pot's the one with the better engine," Bryan said, glancing at Dane.

"Nice fabric. Expensive." Mickey turned his gaze to Dane, struck a match. The flare illuminated the hazel in his eyes. "You look like the kind of lad who’d be mentioned in a will, not a police report."

Dane stiffened. "It’s just a jumper."

"It’s 'Starch.' You think I was born under a wheelie bin? I was raised in the Stone and Starch of the Church. My brother’s a priest. He wears that same expression you’ve got now: a man trying to pray the animal out of his system. Shape without form, shade without colour."

He exhaled grey smoke. "I spent my twenties performing desire for cameras—'mixed wrestling' for pay-per-view. I learned the world is just 'selling.' No cameras. No scripts. Just the Stone."
"We need to move." Bryan checked his phone. "The delayed train has arrived."

                             ***

The pick-up was a blur of movement. Jax emerged from the station, gym bag slung low, and climbed into the back. His scent of citrus instantly smothered the stale tang of Mickey’s Richmonds.

"You're late," Mickey grunted as Bryan pulled away.

Jax’s dark eyes raked over Dane. "Who's this? Another jobber?"

"This is Dane. He's having a bad night."

"He looks like he's having a bad life. All that wool. You trying to blend in with the sheep, Shaun?"

"I'm trying to figure out if you're as loud in a scrap as you are in the back of a car," Dane snapped.

Mickey clapped his hands—a dry gunshot in the cabin. "Easy, boys. Jax here is a specialist. He’s been earning his crust in the private studios. 'Mixed sessions,' they call it. High-end videos for clients with specific tastes and very deep pockets."

Bryan adjusted the rearview mirror, a ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. "Isn't that what you used to do, Mickey? Back when you could still see your toes? Has the game changed much since your day?"

Mickey let out a dry, rattling snort. "The game never changes, Bry. Just the design of the knickers." He turned his bulk in the seat. "I know the life, youth. I spent years in those same padded rooms, getting my head squeezed by girls. It’s a strange way to pay the gas bill. You spend your afternoon letting some lithe, ten-stone thing wrap a triangle choke around your neck while you gasp and bug your eyes out like a landed carp for the wide-angle."

Bryan hummed, taking a corner. "Sounds like a soft life to me, Mick. Beats a warehouse floor. I'm getting old—maybe I should give Elena a ring. Think I’ve still got the 'face' for it?"

"You'd scare the clients, you ugly sod. But you're missing the point. The client pays to see the athlete crumbled by the woman. They want to see those expensive, dental-floss panties pressed against your mouth while you 'struggle' to breathe. You’re selling that her lace is stronger than your muscle—and you have to enjoy the embarrassment. It rots the soul. You start to forget what your own strength feels like when it isn't being rented out to make someone in matching lingerie look like a UFC champion."

Jax shifted, his knee knocking against Dane’s. "Don't look so horrified, Shaun. It’s a growth industry, though I’m not sure they’ve got a costume in your size. Do they make wrestling trunks in 'Tweed'?"

"I’ll stick to the wool. I'm not the one who spends my Tuesdays in shiny spandex panties for a camera."

"Careful, mate," Jax grinned, though his eyes stayed cold. "You’ll get a real good look at the shine on those trunks later when you're kissing my arse."

Bryan muttered into the rearview, "Stop dancing."

Mickey slapped the dashboard. "In a ring? My boy Jax would tie you in a pretzel. But a scrap in the dirt? I think your lad gives Jax a run for his money. He's got that cornered-animal look."

"I’m not waiting for those two to fall in love. Got you a twin room, Mickey. I’ll drop you and get you later. Got to see a man about a twitch."

"Wanna come with, or burn more bridges, lad?" Mickey asked. Jax glowered at the window. Dane realized he had nowhere else to go.

                            ***

The hotel was an exercise in sensory deprivation. Mickey O’Shea dropped his jacket. "Right. I’m going to make myself presentable. You two stay here. Try not to break anything."

Mickey disappeared into the en-suite. The sound of him on the toilet echoed into the room, followed by the scrape of a razor. The roar of the shower kicked in.

 “I say, hey boy, sittin' in your tree! Mummy always wants you to come for tea!”

Mickey’s voice rose in a baritone over the water. Dane sat on the edge of the twin bed. Fourteen missed calls on his phone.

Across the gap, Jax was unpacking. He pulled a pair of green wrestling trunks from his bag—high-cut, shimmering spandex—and tossed them onto the pillow with indifference.

Dane gazed at the emerald. "Mickey says you 'sell'. What’s the rate for that? For losing on purpose?"

“I'll show you mine, if you show me yours! Gotta let me in, hey, hey, hey!”

"More than you make reading dead people's books," Jax snapped. "You're just sitting here waiting for a Twink to get rough with you again?"

 Jax's dark eyes tracked the yellowish bruise on Dane's neck.

"It’s a bruise from a real fight. Not the play-acting stuff you do."

"You? You look like you’d gas out if the lift broke."

“Say you will, say you won't! Say you'll do what I don't! C'est la vie!”

Dane reached out, two fingers hooking the elastic waistband, lifting the shimmering fabric into the light. "I was wondering, does the studio give you a specific set of bra and stockings to lose in? Or do you bring your own?"

"You're so desperate. You're practically begging me to put a hole in you."

"Then do it, pretty boy."

Jax’s hand twitched.

"I’m sure you'd look lovely in lace, though," Dane said, his blood singing with ill-natured heat.

The shower cut off with a metallic clunk. Mickey stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam billowing behind.

"Still standing on ceremony? I’ve had a shave, a shit, and a shower, and you two haven't even drawn blood yet. It’s a damn waste of a good room." Mickey looked at the emerald trunks on the pillow, then at Jax. For a second, the mask of the rowdy veteran slipped.

"I had a pair like those," Mickey's voice was unusually thin. "Red silk. Tore 'em in a basement in Leeds when the lass decided she didn't want to follow the script. Best thing that ever happened to me."

He checked his phone, the moment vanishing like steam. "Get your boots on. Bryan's outside."

                     ***

The Ford Focus groaned as Mickey hoisted his bulk into the front. In the back, Jax claimed space, legs splayed wide. Dane shoved into the remaining gap. Jax sat a statue of unmovable muscle, his thigh burning heat into Dane’s.

The car swung into a hard left, throwing them together. Jax didn't pull away when the car straightened. His breath puffed hot against Dane’s neck. Their breathing wasn't a conversation; it was the huffing of two predators in a burrow.

The skeletal remains of a development project sat near the M40. It was a graveyard of rebar and concrete, lit by the orange pulse of high-mast floodlights. Mickey led them past a "Danger: Keep Out" sign like he owned the deed.

Bryan drifted towards a cluster of men leaning against a generator. But for Jax and Dane, the air was a sharpening blade.

Mickey nodded towards a man flattening an opponent. "Look at Gabe, in those tiny white knickers—practically screaming for someone to tell him how pretty his arse looks. He’s the sort to start a fight in a chippy because someone looked at his hair wrong. He thinks he’s angry, but he’s horny as a goat and doesn’t know where to put it."

Gabe's thighs tightened around the opponent's waist. Jax watched, a heat settling in his gut. He was tired of being a "pretty thing" for someone else's narrative. He wanted to be a blunt instrument.

"Tell me, Jaxy boy. You reckon your fancy stuff can handle a lad who wants to beat the cum out of you?"

"I just want to feel someone actually trying to stop me."

Mickey slapped Jax on the shoulder. "A spirit-stirring and a wild delight. That's the spirit, lad. Blood and thunder."

Mickey tossed his jacket onto a stack of pipes and reached for the button of his jeans. "Right then. Let's have a bit of 'hell-fire' to clear the lungs."

A lad detached himself from the crowd—Piotr, lean, whip-corded, and compact. His vibrant blue wrestling trunks with sharp black trim sat high on his hip.

"You're late, Mickey." Piotr's dark, cropped hair framed a face that was already beginning to flush with anticipation.

"Just making sure you had time to do your hair, flower." Mickey kicked his jeans aside and stood in nothing but his white briefs, his fifteen-stone frame looking like a slab of pale, weathered granite. "Wouldn't want you losing your 'look' on my account."

Mickey claimed the center. Piotr moved with a caffeinated energy. He flicked a slap at Mickey’s shoulder, then dropped, his crown burying into Mickey’s solar plexus. Arms snapped shut around the gut—a double-leg drive that sent fifteen stone backward.

Mickey steered the fall, his heels digging into the dirt to anchor the momentum so they hit the ground with a single, controlled, bone-shaking thud. Writhing in the mud, they became a tangle of bare flesh. Piotr’s hands snagged the waistband of Mickey's white briefs, knuckles raking skin as he dragged the fabric down Mickey’s thighs. Mickey didn't fight to keep them; he reached for the blue spandex of Piotr's wrestling trunks and peeled them away.

Mickey drove his ribs across Piotr’s chest to knock the wind out of him. They fought for the inside tie, knees digging into the muck, foreheads grinding for leverage. The air was freezing, but where their skin met, it was a furnace; sweat acted as a lubricant as they sought a dominant grip. Their hard cocks pressed together—a point of searing heat that anchored the struggle against the cold damp of the earth.

Mickey seized Piotr’s nipples, his teeth scraping the sensitive points with a predator's precision. Piotr’s spine arched, eyes squeezing shut. In a surge of desperation, his legs whipped around Mickey’s waist in a body-scissors that clamped shut like a garrote.

Mickey’s thumb drove into the pressure point at Piotr’s perineum, making the lad gasp and buck. The world contracted to the mud as they milked each other for every drop of adrenaline and seed.

Piotr broke first, a cry ripping from his throat as his spine arched and he fractured into a series of helpless, violent shudders. 

Mickey followed him a heartbeat later, his own bulk shuddering.

White-hot cum erupted between them, cooling instantly against the dirt. Mickey stood, hauling a flushed, gasping Piotr to his feet with a sharp, stinging slap on the backside.

Piotr stood there, his dark hair matted with grit and his chest heaving. He gave a small, jagged grin, wiped a streak of cum from his chest, and stepped into the shadows of the generator.

Mickey caught a glimpse of the two on the edge of the light. Dane was white-knuckled, his fingers twitching against his trousers. Jax was still, his pupils so blown they looked like holes in his head.

Bryan found Dane. "You’re at a loose end now, aren't you, Scholar? Burnt the library card?"

"Something like that." Dane didn't look at him; he was still watching the steam rise from Mickey’s shoulders in the cold air.

"There’s a unit over in Osney. Private. No rules, tag matches. Fancy it? We’re heading there in a bit."

"I need my kit. And my boots. They’re at the flat."

Bryan headed for the car, his limp more pronounced on the uneven gravel. "We’ll drop you. Make it quick. Get your bits and get back. We aren't waiting for the milkman."

                         ***

Inside the car, it smelled of damp earth and the tang of adrenaline. Mickey was asleep before the end of the track. A snore began to rattle through the car, leaving the two younger men isolated in the dark of the backseat.

"Tag matches?" Jax’s voice was a flat, dangerous blade. "I don't carry dead weight, Bryan. Especially not weight that's wearing a jumper."

"And I don't babysit," Dane replied. "Maybe we'll get lucky and have different partners."

Jax’s right knee was a persistent weight against the fabric of Dane’s trousers.

Dane didn't move away. He pressed back.

The car swung into a hard, aggressive right. In a sudden crush, their breathing fell into a jagged, involuntary lock. Jax drove his weight back against Dane—a physical "fuck you."

Dane reached out, his hand searching for leverage on the seat, and instead clamped his fingers onto Jax’s thigh. He didn't let go. He squeezed, feeling the muscle shift and the heat of the skin. It was half-strangle, half-caress.

Jax let out a sharp intake that was more snarl. He leaned his head back against the headrest, exposing the tight lines of his throat. 

In the rearview mirror, Bryan’s eyes appeared. He saw the white of Dane’s knuckles against Jax’s skin. He saw the way Jax’s chest was heaving. Bryan didn't say a word.

                  ***

"Right. Be quick." Bryan idled on a double-yellow line.

Dane hopped out, the rain hitting his face. Jax followed, half out of curiosity and half to keep the knife-edge of their tension sharpened.

"Is it a big flat? Student digs or Live, Laugh, Love?"

"Big enough. Big enough to kick your arse in it."

Dane fumbled for his keys. Jax was right behind him. Jax leaned in, his mouth against Dane’s ear as he peered at the dark house. "Are you going to invite me in to test that theory?"

Dane shoved the key into the lock.

An umbrella appeared—a black silk dome cutting through the yellow streetlamp light. Toby didn't say a word at first; he just stood there, his eyes darting between Dane’s flushed face and the tattooed stranger practically breathing down his neck.

"Is this the new project?" Toby’s gaze raked over Jax, lingering on the tattoos. "He looks like something you’d buy by the hour. Does he even know your middle name, or is he just here to help you pretend you're interesting?"

"Toby, I don't have time for this."

"Don't you dare look at the floor. Look at me. I’ve been the one lying to everyone because I thought I was protecting you. But you’re not the one being hurt. You’re the one seeking it. And I don’t know how to compete with that." He stepped closer, the silk dome of the umbrella shielding them from the rain for one last second.

"Tough break, fella," Jax interjected.

Toby turned to Jax. "You’re pathetic. You're just a hole. You’re a placeholder for a mid-life crisis he's having a decade too early."

Jax watched him with a bored curiosity. "You're confused, mate."

"I’m the only one who isn't." Toby swung back to Dane. "Do you think I enjoy the silence? Waiting until you come home, then having you look through me. Knowing I'm an option, not a choice. Our life. I’ve spent two years trying to keep your head above water while you try your best to drown."

His eyes spilled over. "Come with me, pumpkin. Please. Just stop this."

"Pumpkin? Really. That's peak, that." Jax let out a sharp laugh.

"Shut up!" Dane barked.

"Pumpkin, please—" Jax's voice was a cruel, high-pitched mimicry. 

Dane didn’t go for Toby; he went for the laughter. He lunged. 

Toby reached out—a desperate, clumsy grab to pull him back. Dane’s elbow cleared the path. Bone met jaw—a wet, heavy clunk. Toby folded.

CRACK. The spine of the silk umbrella snapped under Dane’s boot as he charged.

"Dane, no!" Toby’s cry was lost instantly to the roar of the violence.

Dane threw a heavy, head-hunting right. His knuckles caught Jax on the temple with a dull, meaty thud. Jax didn't slip it. He staggered back and slammed into the brickwork.

Jax lunged back, his face a mask of sudden, focused rage. They collided and lost their balance—a tangle of limbs and wet merino wool. They bounced off the wall and into a row of wheelie bins. Plastic buckled and toppled. Glass bottles spilled across the pavement with a shattering roar.

Jax pinned Dane against the edge of a bin, his forearm pressing into Dane’s throat. Dane didn't reach for Jax’s hands. He turned his head and buried his teeth into the meat of Jax’s forearm. He bit down through the sweat and citrus until he tasted the metallic tang of blood.

Jax let out a raw, jagged howl and shoved Dane off. Dane stumbled and fell hard against the wing of a parked BMW. The alarm cut through the night—a rhythmic, high-pitched scream. Indicator lights flashed amber, strobing over them in jagged pulses.

As Dane tried to scramble up, Jax caught him with a sickening, liver-seeking left hook. The air left Dane in a wheezing ghost of a sound. He didn't back off. He anchored his weight against the car and hammered a double-shot of punches into Jax’s midsection. Thud. Thud.

Jax grunted, his breath puffing hot against Dane’s ear as they fell into a clinch over the bonnet. Metal flexed under the combined weight of their hatred. Jax rained short, piston-like digs into Dane's already-bruised ribs. Dane answered in kind, his naked knuckles driving into the hard sheets of Jax’s abdominals.

Their breathing was a ragged synchronization of gasps. Jax’s fingers hooked into the corners of Dane’s mouth, pulling with sickening force. Dane reared back—eyes fixed on the amber flash—and drove his forehead into the bridge of Jax’s nose.

Blood sprayed—hot and salty. Jax let go, clutching his face. But instead of backing away, they surged back into each other. Jax reached for the collar of the jumper and twisted. He bunched the expensive wool, turning the garment into a garrote. Dane reached up, his large scholar’s hands clamping firmly around Jax’s throat.

They stayed there, pinned against the flashing car. The BMW alarm wailed, but neither heard it. They were locked in a mutual stranglehold. In the amber strobe of the indicator lights, they looked like a bronze sculpture—frozen in an impossible, intimate hatred.

Suddenly, a massive hand clamped onto the scruff of Jax’s neck. Mickey was there.

"Enough! We're burning daylight and the coppers will be crawling all over this street in five minutes." Mickey yanked their heads back like he was pulling weeds. "Come on, youth. You’ve had your fun."

Bryan grabbed Dane by the collar. "Get in the fucking car, Dane! You’re staying at mine until you calm the fuck down."

Mickey steered a dazed, bloodied Jax toward the main road, Jax's fingers tracing the deep, hot throb of the teeth marks on his arm.

Dane fell into the passenger seat. Bryan threw the Focus into gear and pulled away.

"Osney's gone," Bryan said, his voice flat. "You can't tag with a man whose throat you just tried to crush, and Jax can't fight  with a hole in his arm the size of a fifty-pence piece."

Dane leaned his head against the cold glass. He tasted the blood on his lip and let out a short, jagged breath that was almost a howl. He watched his trembling, raw knuckles. He wasn't a scholar anymore.

 He was a wreck, and he was smiling.

The red glow of the tail-lights swept over Toby—a small, broken figure clutching a shattered umbrella in the rain. 

Around him, the Oxford night felt like a desert of wet stone, where the lone and level shadows stretched far away into the dark.