by Carol Lynne
Table of Contents
Legal Page
Title Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
New Excerpt
About the Author
Publisher Page
A Totally Bound Publication
The Brick Yard
ISBN # 978-1-78430-220-7
©Copyright Carol Lynne 2014
Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright September 2014
Edited by Sue Meadows
Totally Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN
Warning:
This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 1.
What’s his Passion?
THE BRICK YARD
Carol Lynne
For Lucky Gunn, the hardest fight of his life happens outside the cage.
On the south side of Chicago sits an old gym called The Brick Yard.
Ten years ago, on a bitterly cold day, Lucky Gunn wandered into The Brick Yard dressed in a threadbare jacket, looking for refuge. He hadn’t expected the owner, Tony Brick, to welcome him with a job and a place to sleep when Lucky’s abusive and drug addicted mother made it too dangerous to return home.
Dray was a gay man living in a world of straight fighters. When his secret was exposed to the media, he dropped out, giving Lucky a piece of advice—if you want to make it as a MMA fighter, bury the part of yourself that won’t be accepted.
Lucky discovered the cage was the perfect place to keep his demons at bay, but when he learns his trainer and mentor, Brick, is suffering from end-stage cancer, he begins to spiral out of control. After eight years, Dray returns to help Lucky and Brick deal with the devastating news.
With Dray so close, Lucky’s old desires return, and Dray teaches him more than how to fight. Torn between his career and the passion he feels for Dray, Lucky finds that his past demons resurface in full force, threatening his sanity and his budding relationship with Dray.
Despite leaving the cage years earlier, Dray finds himself in the battle of his life with the only man he’s ever loved. Will he stand and fight or walk away like he did years earlier?
Dedication
For my dad, Asa Gillette. Although it’s been eight years since I lost you, you will forever remain in my heart and memories. Love you, Dad.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
The Great Gatsby: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Vaseline: Conopco, Inc
Corona: Cerveceria Modelo
The Waterboy: Buena Vista Pictures
Steri Strips: Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Company
Rock ’em Sock ’em Robot: Mattel, Inc.
Battleship: Hasbro, Inc.
Super Elastic Bubble Plastic: Nowstalgic Toys, Inc
Silly String: Just For Kicks, Inc.
Coke: The Coca-Cola Company
Clorox: The Clorox Company
UFC: Zuffa, LLC
Charles Sumner: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (public domain)
Prologue
Lucky Gunn knocked on his boss’s door before sticking his head into the messy office. “Hey, Brick? Okay if I crash in the back room again tonight?”
Tony Brick glanced up from a dog-eared UFC magazine. “Sure, kid.”
“Thanks.” Lucky didn’t need to explain why he needed a place to crash. His mother, Alana, loved men and meth a hell of a lot more than she loved him. It wasn’t something he hated her for, although he should. Instead, he blamed his father, the bastard who had sold her the shit in the first place. Yeah, he was the product of a whore and a drug dealer. Queue the tiny violin that would bleed out a tune for him.
Lucky snorted and shook the thought away. His home life sucked, but the tiny apartment he shared with his mom was a world away from the gym where he’d practically grown up. Thanks to Brick, the sixty-something ex-fighter who’d taken him on as a charity case years earlier, Lucky had managed to stay off drugs while making enough money to pay the rent and keep the lights on. Not bad for a teenager, he reckoned.
He was halfway across the gym when Brick called after him.
“Lucky? You get that book report finished?”
“Not yet.” Lucky said over his shoulder. “But I’m workin’ on it.” Truth was, reading didn’t come easy and writing his thoughts on The Great Gatsby had proven even harder.
“Take your work to the laundry room while you wash the towels,” Brick ordered. “That report’s due in two days, and if you don’t get a decent grade, you’ll flunk that damn class of yours.”
“Sure thing.” Lucky groaned to himself. Laundry was his least favorite chore outside of cleaning the locker room, but he’d jump into a steaming pile of shit if Brick asked him to.
He thought about the book while he walked around the weight room, gathering the dirty towels people were too fucking lazy to drop into the bin. Jay Gatsby had started his life as a poor kid from North Dakota who’d wanted more. He’d climbed his way to wealth and power by doing anything and everything he had to. Lucky knew he was supposed to write a report on how the money Gatsby had worked so hard to obtain had shriveled his soul, and that was the problem. Lucky didn’t see it that way. He knew what it was to yearn for more—to dream of a day when he didn’t have to turn on the kitchen lights and wait for the roaches to scatter before fixing a sandwich that was more bread than meat. In his opinion, Gatsby’s actions had been justified, and someone who didn’t understand that hadn’t been forced to dumpster dive as a seven-year-old to find something for dinner.
A deep laugh caught his attention and he glanced up just in time to see Drayton Cruz, better known as The Dragon, walk into the gym with that asshole friend of his. Dray was cool, but his buddy Vince was a piece of work. The fucker always made a point of talking down to Lucky.
“Hey,” Dray said, acknowledging Lucky.
“Your face is healing nicely.” Lucky winced. Why the hell did he say shit like that to Dray? It was bad enough he was obsessed with the fighter to the point of distraction, but did he need to turn into a chick every time Dray was around?
Dray touched a finger to the bandaged cut on his coal black eyebrow. “Gettin’ there. Although, I have another fight next weekend, so it won�
��t last long.”
Lucky couldn’t help but stare at the tattoos covering both Dray’s arms below the stretched T-shirt sleeves. The designs were incredibly intricate and inked in nothing but black.
“Are you getting a boner?” Vince asked.
Before he could think better of it, Lucky peered down at his fly. “No,” he mumbled, although he’d been close before the asshole called him on it. “I was checking out Dray’s tats.”
“Really?” Dray asked. “You thinking of getting one?”
Lucky nodded. He didn’t have the money for anything half as nice as what Dray had. “Something simple. Irish. Maybe a four-leaf clover.”
“Like a fuckin’ leprechaun?” Vince laughed. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Once again, Lucky cursed his red hair. It didn’t matter that the shade was more mahogany than fire engine. It was still red, thanks to his mother who was one hundred percent Irish.
“Lay off,” Dray warned Vince before returning his attention to Lucky. “When you decide what you want, come by the shop and make an appointment. I’ll give you a discount.”
Lucky warmed. Dray was an excellent artist and had made quite a name for himself out of the cage for his intricate designs. Lucky wanted to ask how much a small tat would cost, but no way would he do it in front of Vince. “Thanks. I’ll have to save up, but I’ll let you know.”
Dray grabbed a fresh towel off the stack and draped it over his shoulder. “You are eighteen, right?”
Lucky felt like a giant weight had settled on his chest as he shook his head. Although he’d taken care of himself for years, he still had nearly sixteen months before he’d turn eighteen. “Not quite.”
“Oh, shit, man, sorry, but it’s against the law in Illinois to tattoo anyone under the age of eighteen,” Dray explained. “But find me on your eighteenth birthday, and I’ll give you something you can be proud of.”
Lucky wished Dray was the kind of man who would bend the rules, but he supposed no artist who was any good would jeopardize his career over an underage tattoo. Unfortunately, Dray was moving up in the UFC ranks, so Lucky doubted he’d still be tattooing by the time Lucky reached his eighteenth birthday. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Dray pointed at Lucky, a stern expression on his handsome face. “Promise me that you won’t let some asswipe do it just because he’s willing to ignore the law?”
“I promise.”
Dray gestured to the raised ring. “If you see Brick, tell him I’m going to pull one of his fighters to spar with.”
“He’s in his office. You want me to get him?” Lucky knew how much Brick hated it when Dray trained without him.
Dray blew out a frustrated breath. “Sure. No sense in getting my ass chewed over it. But tell him I’m going to take it easy, so if he has something else to do, it’s not a problem.”
“Okay.” Lucky leaned the towel bin back on its two wheels and pulled it toward Brick’s office. He wished he could forget the laundry and watch Dray train instead, but he still had his report to write up, and Dray usually trained for hours. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to get Dray off his mind long enough to finish his homework and still have time to watch the training session.
* * * *
Lucky shot up, blinking his eyes at the sound of knuckles rapping against the table he’d fallen asleep on. “What?”
Brick chuckled. “I’m calling it a day. Dray’s in the shower, so do me a favor and lock up when he leaves.” He eyed the spiral notebook Lucky had used for a pillow. “How’s it coming?”
Lucky shrugged. “I’ll get it done.” He still had more than half the report to write, but at least he’d started the damn thing.
Brick laid his hand on top of Lucky’s head and mussed his hair. “I’m proud of ya, kid.”
Uncomfortable with the tender gesture, Lucky swiped at Brick’s hand. “I haven’t been a kid in a long time, old man.”
“And for that, I’m truly sorry,” Brick said, slapping Lucky on the back. “Don’t stay up too late.”
Lucky got to his feet and stretched his arms over his head. “Can we train this weekend?” It wasn’t often Brick had spare time to work with him, so he tried to train on his own, but he knew how important it was to learn from the best.
“Yeah. You been keeping up with the routine I wrote down for you?” Brick asked from the doorway.
“Every day.” There were times when Lucky’s days had been so busy he’d had to do the circuit training at night after the gym closed, but he was starting to see the difference in his body when he looked in the mirror. He’d never been big and would probably never bulk up enough to compete in anything beyond the welterweight class compared to Dray’s light heavyweight status, but he was proud of his muscle definition.
“Keep it up, and you’ll go far. You’re quick and hungry and those are two things you have in your favor.”
“Thanks,” Lucky acknowledged the compliment. Brick didn’t give them out easily when it came to fighting, so to hear his mentor’s praise meant everything.
“Get some sleep.” Brick gave Lucky a surveying glance before turning to walk away.
Lucky opened the dryer and began to fold the towels. They were cold, which meant the dryer had finished its cycle while he’d been sleeping.
Towels folded, he lifted the stack and left the laundry room, secretly hoping he’d catch Dray in some sort of undress in the locker room. He’d done just that several weeks earlier. Dray had walked out of the shower while Lucky had been mopping the locker room floor. Instead of waiting for Lucky to finish the job, Dray had dropped his towel and had started rifling through his gym bag before pulling on his clothes. It had been one of the best and worst moments of Lucky’s life. He’d been struggling for a while with his attraction to men. The girls he went to school with were okay for a blowjob behind the equipment shed, but he didn’t dream of putting his hands all over them like he did with Dray. He hadn’t said anything to anyone—and he’d definitely never acted on his desire—but it was always there in the back of his mind.
Hoping to catch a peek of Dray, Lucky entered the locker room and was assaulted by steam and the sounds of fucking. Holy Hell. He quietly loaded the shelf with the clean towels before sinking onto one of the benches. It wasn’t Dray’s grunts that surprised him. It was the echoing moans of an equally deep voice that shocked him. Fuck, was that Vince? He shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Dray was with another man.
“Fuck,” Dray drew out, his voice lower than Lucky had ever heard it. “So fuckin’ tight.”
“Yeah,” Vince answered. “Fuck me with that big cock.”
Lucky pressed the heel of his hand against the growing bulge in his jeans. If he’d had doubts of his true sexual preference before, he didn’t anymore—he wished he was Vince. He couldn’t think of anything he’d ever wanted more than to be bent over while Dray drove his cock inside him.
After unzipping his jeans, he felt a moment of guilt, but shoved his hand down the front of his underwear anyway. He wrapped it around his aching dick and squeezed as Dray groaned again. Fuck. He’d had a few sexual experiences in his life, but he’d never made noises like Vince and Dray were making. He wondered if it had something to do with his partners.
The steady slapping sound of skin on skin drove Lucky to pump faster. There, among the smells of Clorox, sweat and clean towels, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of Dray fucking. What would it be like to have access to Dray’s muscular, tattooed body? Would he sink to his knees and worship Dray’s cock with his mouth or just bend over and open his ass?
“Tell me I’m the best,” Vince begged between moans. His voice echoed in the tiled locker room, and Lucky suddenly hated the asshole more than he ever had.
“Drop it,” Dray ordered, sounding out of breath.
“I’m tired of being your secret,” Vince continued. “At least acknowledge me to your friends.”
Lucky heard a loud slap followed by a cry
of pain. Shit! Had Dray slapped Vince’s face or had it been his ass.
“I said, fucking drop it,” Dray growled.
Lucky’s balls drew tight, seconds before his cock shot a volley of cum into his hand. “Fuck!” he ground out, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He continued to squeeze his cock, milking his dick for every drop of seed.
The shower shut off. “Did you hear something?” Dray asked.
“What the hell, man? You can’t just pull out like that. I was close,” Vince complained.
With one hand still down the front of his jeans, Lucky jumped up and raced out of the room. He didn’t stop running until he reached the storage room he’d called home more nights than he cared to think about. There were only three people in the entire building, so if Dray’d heard him cry out, he’d know exactly who’d been listening.
Lucky stripped out of his soiled jeans and underwear, and reached for his jock and the only pair of workout shorts he owned. Once dressed, he hurried to the laundry room and began to transfer another load from the washer to the dryer.
“Hey,” Dray said from the doorway.
Lucky glanced over his shoulder. “Hey,” he replied, before returning his attention to the job. He silently prayed Dray wouldn’t mention the most embarrassing situation of his life.
“I know you heard me and Vince.”
Lucky cringed. He shut the dryer and switched it on before turning to face Dray. He hoped his pallor had returned to its normal Irish pale instead of the embarrassed crimson it had been when he’d caught a glimpse of himself in the storage room mirror. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t say anything.”
Dray held Lucky’s gaze for several seconds. “I’d appreciate that. Things could get messy if word got out.”