Fist to the Heart

Chapter One -- I Always Win

He walked through the crowd of shouting men, focused on the task ahead. That was something he chose to ignore, every time - the stench of those places. It was a rubbery smell mixed with male sweat and the excitement rising for the bloody fight ahead. If he were to inhale too much, he was bound to get dizzy. Maybe overcome with rage.

In a way, he was doing this to himself, if he were fair. But Johnny Bryne was not known to be fair, the least of all people to himself. That was maybe the reason why he was fighting these matches made in hell. Or perhaps he just loved to win against all the odds.

In the cage, he was the one in control. His opponents lacked something important, something they didn't know they needed. Some underwent grueling training; others tried to fix the matches in their favors.

But no one dared to approach him and offer him a bribe in exchange for dropping to the floor and pretending to be broken enough not to get up before the count was done. Seeing how rigged and unlawful these fights were, it was a wonder he was allowed to have his fun like that.

Maybe they could sense it, the darkness that walked with him. They were clever men. They knew not to bet a losing hand against someone with a loose screw. Because he always won and that was not going to change. Ever.

He jumped into the ring and followed through the motions of what was expected from someone like him. At least, no one could blame him of being unable to throw a good show. There was no fun for the audience to see a man sent to the floor with just one punch.

Legal fights were not like this. But he wasn't interested in walking the straight and narrow. He knew well on which side of the tracks he had been born.

Johnny Bryne had earned a proper nickname for himself. He knew how to dance around his prey, fooling the other into believing that there was an opening, only to dash his hopes in a quick, execution-style, move, not meant to take the opponent out just yet, but enough to make him aware of the simple fact that he could not win.

The announcer walked forward, grabbing the mike, and roaring the names of the opponents for the tonight match.

"Snake! Snake! Snake!" the audience chanted as they had done from the first moment he had walked through the door.

Johnny saluted, raising one gloved hand.

"You know the rules," the referee shouted at them, as he touched fists with his opponent.

"No hit below the belt, no hit when the opponent's down."

No shit, Johnny wanted to say back. Everyone was paying to see these fights because they were dirty, without rules. It wasn't even a sport. They wore gloves only because hand fractures took too long to heal, and no one wanted to risk a good fighter over a thing like that. It made some frustrated.

They weren't regular boxing gloves, either. That had become a rule when some thought themselves clever enough to push metal plates into the lining, and not even the bloodthirsty audience had found it funny when too many fighters began leaving the ring looking like not even their moms could love them anymore. Rigged matches were one thing. Cheating in the ring with dirty tactics like that was also sanctioned by the lowlifes attending the games, no matter how hell-bent on throwing their month's wages on a bet.

So hand wraps and simple, tight fitting, fingerless leather gloves were the only hand wear permitted. Johnny examined his opponent, as the audience continued to chant his name. No one was betting against him because they knew the outcome. But the bookies were resourceful people. They knew how to make people bet. On how long the Snake's opponent was going to last, or how many times the unfortunate victim was going to try to get up from the floor for yet another minute in the ring. Whether Snake was going to be sent to the floor at least once. Johnny didn't bother himself with details. The money was good, and that was all that mattered to him.

Tonight's opponent was a super heavyweight. Well, maybe they had the costs for a new ring floor covered because he would make a dent after being dropped a few times.

The whistle caught him in a mid-air jump. The opponent's jowls trembled when Johnny sent his first punch straight into his bovine-like face.

***

Ruslan was trying to get comfortably seated, but it appeared that ergonomics was not precisely the type of thing the organizers of this kind of event were known for. By all means, the entire audience seemed to prefer standing up to sitting. The collective roar from the men in the building was making the air crackle with electricity.

Ah, but this was something he terribly enjoyed. He could almost taste the testosterone exuded by the male bodies aroused with the promise of blood and victory. Maybe tonight he was going to grab some random guy and show him a good time. Although these weren't his usual hunting grounds, he hoped the hook up he chose would not hold it against him that he had a dick between his legs. He had his means to be persuasive, such as a lean body that looked good naked, a wicked tongue, and, when his pleasing physical appearance was not enough, a fat wad of bills usually did the trick. Usually. He was not the kind to fight losing battles.

But, of course, tonight was all about business, and he needed to focus. Maybe later, he was going to call Yanis, see if he was back in town, and summon him for a quick fuck since it wasn't exactly a good time to go cruising.

"Who is this Snake?" he leaned toward the other, as the audience was chanting around him a single syllable. He had to scream the words in the loud noise so that his companion could hear him.

"Our guy," the old man replied. "We must make him sign with us. Rumor has it he's unbeatable."

"Really?" Ruslan quirked an eyebrow. "How come we've never heard of him? And, more importantly, how come he's not already ours?"

"Apparently, he prefers to waste his time in this dump," the old man replied, pulling his coat closer to his body as if he didn't want to touch the worn seat too much.

Just like Ruslan, he could not seem to find a way to sit comfortably.

"No wonder he's unbeatable," Ruslan commented. "If all his adversaries are small-time thugs, it's no surprise that the cleverest of the bunch manages to get on top. That still doesn't qualify him for our attention. So, come on, spill it. What's the deal with him?"

"Just watch," the old man pointed with his chin toward the ring.

Ruslan took in the man already in the ring. He looked strong like a bull and probably weighed well over 275 pounds, and, unfortunately for him, most of those pounds were lard, not muscles. Yeah, he had cardiac arrest written all over him. But he did have a brute's attitude, the way he was hunching forward, and he was tall enough to be considered a giant in his own right. Most probably he was dominating his adversaries by being a moving mass of such magnitude that no one could stand in his way.

"I don't see why they would call him Snake," Ruslan thought out loud. "Is that an inside joke?"

"That's not Snake," the old man snorted. "That's Snake," he pointed at the second man making his way into the ring.

Ruslan leaned forward to stare at the other combatant for the tonight's match. Someone hurried to take the man's robe, and he jumped a few times up and down, flexing both arms in the process, and then raising one to salute the audience.

Unlike the first one to get into the cage, this one was packing nothing but muscles. Ruslan had a trained eye. There was quite a critical weight difference between the two. This one probably weighed somewhere around 200 pounds or a bit less, but at his height, somewhere at 6.3, or 6.4, that was not a problem.

Definitely not a problem at all, Ruslan thought again, as he took in the man's strong, anatomically perfect muscles. He licked his lips. Their target was eliciting his interest all right. From the first row, where he was seated, Ruslan could see the man's face, although he would have liked to look a bit more closely.

Unlike his opponent's brutish appearance, this one deserved his nickname. There was grace in the way he moved, and Ruslan could almost feel a familiar prickle in his fingers to touch those perfect muscles, and another sensation, equally familiar, in his groin.

Hmm, there had been some time since he had felt stirred by merely looking at someone. The man made a full round of the ring so that the crowd could see him and cheer him on a bit more. Funny thing, he didn't seem a poser. His tanned skin seemed marred of few fading scars, save for several long, angry-looking, scars on his back. He wasn't tattooed, like other practitioners of the so-called sport. Ruslan wondered; what kind of man was Snake?

His hair was shaved closely at the back of his head, but a few loose black strands in the front were almost getting into his eyes. With a casual, unstudied move, Snake pushed the hair away from his forehead. His dark eyes, shadowed by thick, furrowed eyebrows, scanned the crowd one more time, and Ruslan, without being able to look at them properly, somehow knew they were filled with apprehension. Anyone could say all they wanted that Snake was relaxed, waiting to score another win on his personal board, but Ruslan saw something else.

His face was probably far from what could be considered a classic masculine beauty. His mouth was large, with firm, yet full lips, and it was clear his nose had been rearranged on his face a few times, at least, one of the consequences of too many battles. Yet, that didn't detract from his animal magnetism.

Ruslan sighed. If the old man was going to send him to negotiate with Snake, he wanted to get into that man's sports shorts. He only hoped Snake was at least a bit into dudes; with that kind of raw, fascinating masculinity, he didn't look like someone who had trouble getting laid. Seeing that he was unbeatable, probably he had enough money, too. That was a tough call, Ruslan knew. He could convince a lot of horny guys to fuck him into oblivion, but usually, he picked men against which he could have a bit of leverage, be it his money or their horniness and inability to get a warm body to fuck somewhere else at that exact moment.

The referee barely blew his whistle, and Snake proved in a single powerful jump how he had come to get that nickname. Ruslan didn't wince when the opponent's fat jowls trembled under the direct hit. He was enthralled.

***

Were they trying to insult him? The fatso was so easy to hit that it was getting on his nerves. Maybe they had chosen him based on his endurance. By all means, any other opponent should have been on the floor, squirming in pain.

Hmm, maybe this was a new strategy, Johnny thought. To tire him out. He grinned, making the other man's pig-like eyes flash with an understanding that this fight would be a loss for him. Johnny thought that he probably looked like a maniac. He counted on that.

Maybe it was the right moment to fake one of his so-called suicide moves. He intentionally made a clumsy move, to leave his opponent a small opening. Was the mass of lard in front of him capable of understanding what was offered on a silver platter?

Apparently, on the third attempt, the opponent seemed to see the only chance he had for a moment of careless triumph. Johnny pretended to gasp for air like he was too tired already.

Bingo. The opponent finally moved and sent Johnny to the floor with a heavy kick. Great. It was the perfect opportunity to rest a little, indeed. This kind of game wasn't played in rounds. So, the combatants had to grab at any chance they had for a reprieve.

He remained on the floor, to make the fight a bit less boring than what it had been so far. Also, it was a good opportunity to steal a glance at the audience and gauge their level of interest.

His eyes fell on someone seated on the front row. Seated? While attending one of his matches? That wasn't a good sign. The man was inspecting him with keen eyes, and, for a second, he lost himself in seas of blue.

Wow, he was a looker, Johnny thought. He was also apparently looking at him with unhidden interest. Somewhere, far away, he could hear the referee counting.

Well, there was enough time to indulge in admiring the male specimen in the front row. What was someone so well dressed, in what looked like a designer suit, matched with a coat most probably from the same collection, in a dump like that?

He was a perfect blond, and Johnny had a perfect soft spot for blonds. Of all the tasty morsels he had had in his life, the blond variety had been his favorite. And the stranger looked like royalty, with high cheekbones, perfect symmetric features, and deep blue eyes.

Johnny was dying to see more. The blue eyes blinked, and then their owner began showing him something. Johnny smirked when he understood that the pretty man was tapping his wrist, pointing at his watch. He winked and sent him a small kiss from the tip of his lips.

"Nine!" the referee's voice boomed.

The entire room was shouting at him, delirious. Johnny pushed himself up. Playtime was over. He didn't even need to look to realize where his opponent was. The asshole was already celebrating his victory against the unbeatable Snake.

"Hey!" he yelled. "I'm here!"

He opened his arms wide, fooling his opponent into another opening. When the bag of lard began marching toward him like a battery ram, Johnny jumped and caught the man into the chin with a perfect roundhouse kick. His opponent remained standing for two seconds, making everyone in the room hold their breath. The silence broke when he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. The audience exploded. And this time, he remained there until the referee finished counting.

Johnny turned around, searching for the pretty man in the front row. But he was not paying him any attention at the moment. Instead, he seemed to lend his ear to someone next to him, some old dude dressed up to snuff just like him.

Ah, damn. Rich man's toy boy. He should have known better. Well, he wasn't one to cry over spilled milk. He was going to find a warm and willing body tonight that he could fuck until he could feel his legs no more while thinking of the perfect blond in the front row.

The couple didn't look interested in other fights, as, when Johnny looked again, in the hope of catching another glimpse of that delicious stranger, they were already gone.

***

"I'm leaving this to you," the old man put on his gloves, and looked around with scrutinizing eyes.

"Sure thing. I have this one in the bag," Ruslan smiled.

It was his lucky night all right. Snake had blown a kiss at him and winked, so, in the universal language of flirting, that meant that he was interested in Ruslan. This was going to be both easy and pleasant. Seeing that he typically hated complications, things were going just as he wanted.

"Russy." The old man patted his arm to draw his attention. "Snake deserves his nickname. He's sly and slippery. Plus, he doesn't like being owned. So, be careful, okay?"

"Sure thing, papa." Ruslan leaned to kiss the man's cheek.

"I mean it," the old man added, caressing Ruslan's hair with affection. "Play safe."

Ruslan smiled. The old man had nothing to worry about. By the look in those dark eyes, Snake was probably hungry, and also in the mood to celebrate his victory, without a doubt. Ruslan just had the perfect tasty morsel to lure him in and then score the deal. Plus, this would surely be pleasant.

***

One thing about being the star of that dump was that he had a room with a shower, all his own. The short cold shower he took had calmed some of the battle rage and frustrated arousal over the pretty toy boy from earlier, but he still needed to go out and cruise for a piece of ass.

He stopped in the door of the bathroom, as he noticed there was someone in his room, seemingly fascinated with the displayed photos on the small bookshelf. So the owner of that dump had thought about letting the visitor in. That meant he was important enough to warrant such a thing. Usually, Johnny wasn't crazy about visitors. He had nothing worth stealing, either. Not there, in that dingy room, anyway.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked roughly.

The visitor turned around, and Johnny made eye contact with the good-looking man from before.

"Are you lost, blue eyes?" he drawled and leaned against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest.

He was only wearing a towel around his waist, and he was still wet from the shower. The visitor was eyeing him with interest. Excellent. Maybe he still had a chance with Mr. luxury toy.

"Care to share a shower with me?" he added, seeing that the other was too busy devouring him head to toes with his eyes to speak.

That seemed to bring his visitor back to reality. "A shower? It looks like you just had one."

"Well, I don't mean now. Later, after I'm done making you scream my name at least a dozen times," Johnny began walking toward his different kind of prey for the night.

The stranger laughed. "Snake, right? Smooth, man, smooth, what can I say? Actually, I'm here to offer you a deal."

"A deal?" Johnny frowned.

"It's a fantastic deal," his visitor began jabbering. "You fight for us; we pay you royally."

"Who is we?" Johnny asked roughly, all thoughts of getting busy between the sheets with the man in front of him gone from his mind.

"Efige. We run the casinos on the west side of the river. We also offer a wide array of entertainment ..."

"No deal," Johnny said brusquely. "And since when is Efige getting into this kind of dirty business? You know what? I don't need to know. See yourself to the door."

His visitor opened his mouth, hesitated for a second, then his beautiful lips stretched into a wide smile. "I can make it worth your while," he batted his eyelashes, cocking his head to the side.

"You guys have nothing I want," Johnny replied harshly, now bent on getting close to the other just so that he could throw him out the door.

"Not we. I," the man pointed at himself, "want to offer you something extra."

"Like what?" Johnny questioned, looking the other into his deep blue eyes.

From up close, he looked even more delicious. He smelled great, of expensive cologne, but also of something else that must have been his natural scent. Johnny dug his nails into his palms. He wasn't getting swayed so quickly now, was he?

"A blowjob," the stranger smiled and said casually, "from yours truly."

Johnny leaned in, now so close that his mouth was just inches away from perfect lips. The stranger was just a bit shorter, and, most probably, lean under that long coat. Just the right size, Johnny thought. Just how he liked his men.

"Nah." He shook his head, and leaned in more, making the other force his head back, to keep eye contact. "Aren't you that man's toy boy?"

"What man?" Blue eyes blinked in confusion.

"The old dude buying you these nice clothes and the expensive cologne," Johnny said.

A small laugh was the answer. "You could not be further from the truth. Now, that you know I'm not a toy boy, would you like that blowjob or not?"

"Add your skinny ass to that offer, and I might consider it," Johnny grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close.

"Skinny ass?" His visitor seemed revolted by that commentary, and not by the indecent proposal.

Johnny felt the slender waist with both hands. "You seem a bit underfed."

"I can assure you I'm not," the other said crossly. "Now, now, play nice, I mean it about that blowjob. Let's sit on the bed. I wouldn't want to give you the satisfaction of kneeling in front of you just yet. There will be time for that later after you win a few matches for us."

Johnny had to give it to the guy. He was sure of himself. Also, he knew how to push buttons, speaking so casually about blowing a prospective employee.