In the Ring

by James Lear

  There was no one else in the room so I said, “Morning, hot stuff,” and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pushing my biceps up. Only a few hours ago Jackson had been licking them while I pumped into his hole from behind.

  Jackson barely looked up from the papers on his desk.

  “Morning, Greg.” His voice was neutral, his face blank.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  He was trying to freeze me out.

  “Want to get a coffee later?”

  He scowled. “I’m very busy at the moment, as you can probably see.”

  “Running the empire?”

  “Something like that. So if you don’t mind . . .”

  “What’s the big event?”

  “What?”

  “This thing you’ve been planning for the last few days, while Vaughan’s been away. Not a fight. Something else.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Okay.” I turned to go. “Suit yourself.”

  “Although, actually . . .” His tone changed. “Close the door for a minute, Greg.”

  I did as I was told. “So?”

  “I have a problem, and you might be the solution.”

  “I was last night.”

  He brushed that away with an impatient gesture. “I have a job for you.”

  “Go on.” Was I about to be pimped? “Can you wrestle?”

  That was unexpected. “Wrestle? What, you mean like . . .”

  “Holds, throws, all that stuff.”

  “Of course I can wrestle.”

  “Okay.” He thought for a while, drumming his pen against the desktop. “You’re not busy tonight.”

  “I don’t think I have any plans.”

  “Good. I need you for a match.”

  “What’s the venue?”

  “It’s a private event.”

  “I see. That kind of wrestling match.”

  “We put on events for some of our valued clients and their invited guests.”

  “You don’t have to bullshit me, Jackson. What’s the deal? Some rich guy wants to be beaten up?”

  “It’s genuine wrestling. Four contestants. Two heats and a final.”

  “And one of your guys dropped out?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and waited.

  “Okay, Greg. I suppose I have to spell it out to you.”

  “That might be best.”

  He lowered his voice. “The winners fuck the losers.”

  “While the rich old guys sit around and watch.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a bit risky for the Vaughan Corporation to be involved with.”

  “Stop calling it the Vaughan Corporation, Greg. There’s no such thing.”

  “I keep forgetting. He’s just a boxing promoter. A straight, married boxing promoter.”

  Jackson’s professional mask was back in place. “Are you sure you really fit in here, Greg?”

  Ah, threatening me with the sack. “No, I’m not.”

  That took the wind out of his sails. Presumably most of the guys at City Fitness quaked in their boots if they thought they might lose their jobs, and, more importantly, their connection to Alan Vaughan. They’d do anything, swallow any humiliation, for that shot at the big time. Not Greg Cooper.

  “The thing is, Jackson, I like to know what I’m getting involved with. If I’m going to be a whore . . .”

  “Have you been spying?”

  “Spying? Jesus, a child could see it. Vaughan’s running a sex ring. That’s what the papers would call it, right? Recruiting vulnerable young men, and exploiting them.”

  “That’s not how it is at all.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  I could hear the cogs turning in Jackson’s brain. In Vaughan’s absence, he had to make decisions—the boss trusted him enough for that—and right now he was calculating whether or not to take me into his confidence. Was I a security threat? With no leverage in terms of dismissal or blackmail, how could my discretion be assured? What was to stop me going straight to the police? Boys like Oz would never talk to the cops: they had too much to hide. And if they didn’t when they first arrived at City Fitness, they soon did. Photoshoots, secret videos, implication in blackmail, drugs, and prostitution . . . It would take a brave man to blow the whistle on all of that. And I knew what happened to those who did. They disappeared.

  “It’s true that we provide services for some of our investors that might appear . . . unorthodox to outsiders,” said Jackson, choosing his words with care.

  “You mean boys for rich old men.”

  He pursed his lips. He hadn’t been so fastidious this morning, when he was begging me to come in his mouth. “We prefer to call it companionship.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “And if you don’t have any problems with that . . .”

  “What exactly do you want, Jackson? Let’s cut the crap.”

  “I need to be confident in your . . .”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You want to know if I’ll go to the cops.”

  “That’s one thing.”

  “Or sell my story to the media.”

  “That’s another.”

  “Anything else, while we’re at it?”

  “You won’t try any . . . independent transactions.”

  “Blackmail, you mean?”

  He smiled. “Well?”

  “I signed a contract, remember? It’s all covered in there.”

  “Then I’m going to have to trust you, aren’t I?”

  “What will Vaughan say?”

  “Mr. Vaughan thinks you’re a safe bet.”

  “And what if he finds out I’ve fucked his boyfriend?”

  Jackson blushed. “He won’t find out. Will he?”

  “Not from me.”

  “You put me in a very difficult position, Greg.”

  “I put you in a lot of positions.”

  “Very funny.” He picked a hair off my shoulder with his fingertips, brushed his hand against my jaw. “You’re a dangerous man.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And I might be making a big mistake.”

  “You don’t need Vaughan. You can do better.”

  “You mean you?”

  “I can’t afford an expensive piece of goods like you. But there are plenty of men who can. Or you could just get an honest job.”

  Jackson hung his head. When he looked up, his face was pale, his brows contracted. “Don’t lecture me.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” I kissed him on the lips. “You’re hard fucking work, Jackson, you know that? Now, what about this wrestling match? Do you want me to do it, or not?”

  “You’d be helping me a lot if you did.”

  “And who do I have to fuck?”

  “There are three other fighters. Kieran, Dakota, and Oz.”

  I tried not to react when he mentioned Oz. “And who am I replacing?”

  “Craig Lukas.”

  “What? You’re fucking kidding me. I didn’t think he was on the . . . I mean, in the companionship program.”

  “All City Fitness employees help out when necessary. And these are very special clients.”

  “So why isn’t he doing it?”

  “He’s being . . . difficult.”

  “Really? With this big fight coming up? I’d have thought he’d be eager to please.”

  “That’s why Mr. Vaughan is flying back tomorrow. He’s cut his meetings short.”

  “Does that mean the American fight isn’t going ahead?”

  “I won’t know until Mr. Vaughan gets back from Florida. He will brief me then.”

  “Florida? Is that where he’s been?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Like hell; he’s somewhere up in New Hampshire building bombs with crazy extremists. This doesn’t add up. “Who’s his opponent, by the way? Anyone I’ve heard of?”


  “I don’t remember the name off the top of my head.”

  “I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

  He was saved further embarrassment by a phone call.

  “Yes! Hi, Mr. Vaughan!” Jackson signalled me to stay put. “Yes I have. Yes. Absolutely. He’s here right now. No, I’m sure. Do you want to speak to him? Oh, okay. Well, thanks. See you tomorrow. You’re welcome. Bye.” He ended the call. “Mr. Vaughan is pleased that you’re on board.”

  “And what was he asking? Whether you’ve done all the background security checks?”

  “That sort of thing.”

  “What do you guys think I am? An undercover cop?”

  “We can’t afford to take risks.”

  “Does this mean you trust me then?”

  “Mr. Vaughan trusts you, that’s all that matters.”

  “And will I get to fuck you again?”

  “Not if you keep your client waiting. Now get out of here, and let me get on with arrangements for this evening.”

  It was nearly twelve when I checked my phone for messages. Nothing from Oz. Poor bastard must be sleeping it off. I had a few hours to kill: better check up on him. Perhaps, despite my best efforts, he was in a coma.

  I took a taxi back to my apartment, my heart beating fast, half expecting to find him choked to death on his own vomit.

  “Oz? Oz!” My voice sounded dead in the stillness of the apartment. The empty apartment. Oz had gone, the bed was made, the bathroom clean, the towels dry. There was no evidence of his ever having been there.

  11

  I tried his phone. A message said that the number was unavailable. I texted him—call me asap, are you ok, where are you—but there was no response. With a growing sense of dread, I emailed MI6. Panoply had gone missing. Tracking device obsolete. Cell phone not responding. I gave them the number, in the hope they could work some magic. I did not tell them that I had started to care about Oz. Did someone know that he had been telling me things about Vaughan’s business dealings? Last night he’d been beaten and drugged—was that a warning, or a failed attempt at murder? Was it a message to me—this is what happens to people who snitch? Had they come for him?

  Why would Vaughan care so much about Oz? How could he be a threat? Had he told me more than I realized?

  I racked my brains. Had he said anything about America, or about the Lukas fight? Anything at all that might suggest Vaughan was communicating with terrorist groups in the US? Sure, he told me about the sex work, he turned up at my apartment off his head on drugs, but that was hardly classified information. Jackson himself, the most trusted of Vaughan’s inner circle, was recruiting me into the same profession. Perhaps Oz was just the victim of a sex game that had gone too far. He came running to me, and then, when he woke, he tidied up and disappeared. Perhaps he’d run away from all of us—including me. Maybe, by now, he was far away, starting a new life.

  But there was another, more compelling theory. Oz, like other Vaughan boys before him, had been disposed of. He was out of control, and that constituted a threat to the whole Vaughan operation. Whatever happened last night, someone had decided to terminate him.

  Why hadn’t I stuck another tracking device inside him? Oh, shit, Dan, you’re a thoughtless bastard. This made me angry for about ten minutes. Then I got myself back on mission.

  Time to get ready for the show. Get into character. For Greg Cooper, this was a chance to get some extra pussy and to ingratiate himself with Alan Vaughan. To prove that he was trustworthy, to penetrate the inner circle of the organization. A little light wrestling, which he would easily win, and three holes to fuck. Kieran, Dakota, and Oz—that’s what I’d been told, and that was what I must expect. Maybe, despite my fears, Oz would show up.

  I sat on the floor and cleared my head. Focus on your goals, Greg. Focus on their holes. I thought about each of the boys, lying defeated on the mat as I pinned them, my cock ready to slip inside them, one after the other, and the faces out there in the dark watching me, wishing they could be me. Kieran, with his pale skin, his freckles, his rose-pink nipples. Dakota, all cocky arrogance until the dick was inside him, then he squirmed around like a cat in heat. And Oz . . . no, Greg, don’t let yourself worry, just focus on that hairy ass, the cheeks held open, his eyes closed, black eyelashes fluttering as he feels me opening him up, pain and pleasure on his face . . .

  My cock was hard, my mind was clear, and that was the moment when the balance tipped in favor of Greg Cooper. Dan Stagg was dead, wasn’t he? Let him stay that way.

  I got to City Fitness at five; I was early. Jackson called me into the office.

  “Good news,” he said. “Craig Lukas is back in the match.”

  “So you don’t need me.”

  “Oh, yes, we need you. Mr. Vaughan says it’s a dream lineup. You and Lukas versus Kieran and Dakota. The audience will love it.”

  “What about Oz?” Damn: the words were out before I could stop them.

  “We bumped him. He was always the weak link in the chain. He’s no good at fighting.”

  Think like Greg Cooper. Don’t show concern. “He’s a good fuck, though. Very good.” Jackson looked nettled by that remark. “One of the best, in fact.”

  “I’m not the jealous type, so don’t try.”

  “Don’t worry, boy. There’s plenty of me to go around. You’ll always be top of the list.” I grabbed his ass and pulled him towards me. “Want a little taste?”

  “Are you fucking mad?” Jackson’s face was dark with anger, or possibly lust. Either one suited me.

  “Okay, okay. What can I do to help? Is there a van that needs loading, or anything?”

  “You can help the others get ready.”

  “What does that involve?”

  “You should know better than anyone. Make sure they’re washed and . . . you know. Clean.”

  “Seriously? You want us to douche?”

  “You’ll find the equipment in there.” He jabbed a duffel with his expensively shod toe. “Mr. Vaughan insists that these events are hygienic.”

  “Fuck me. He’s scared of a bit of shit?”

  “It’s not just him. It’s the clients.”

  “I fucking hate closet cases.” Jackson said nothing. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not paid to think,” whispered Jackson. “Now please just . . . get on with something, and leave me alone.”

  I went out to reception to wait for my fellow sportsmen, content that I’d found the chink in Jackson’s armor. He was growing tired of the lies and evasions of Vaughan’s world. Money is a great anesthetic, but like all anesthetics, it wears off.

  Kieran and Dakota arrived together, and I sent them off to the bathrooms with their little individual enema kits. Neither of them complained.

  Craig Lukas was late. Six thirty, six forty-five, seven o’clock came and went. The party was due to start at eight, and it was a half hour ride out to the suburbs. If Lukas didn’t get here soon, we were one man down. An idea occurred to me. I went through to the office.

  “Lukas isn’t here.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jackson was furious.

  “Call Oz instead. He’ll be fine. I’ll make it look real.”

  “No, no, he’s . . . on another job.” There was just enough hesitation to confirm my fears: Oz had been removed. “Lukas will be here.”

  “How are you going to make that happen, Jackson? You going to wave your magic wand?”

  “If you don’t mind, I have a few calls to make.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Private calls.” He pointed towards the door. I let him sweat for a minute, then left him to it. He couldn’t be calling Vaughan, who was, as far as I knew, in transit over the Atlantic. What was the urgent, secret business? Last-minute party arrangements? Or was there more? Was Jackson deeper into Vaughan’s criminal activities than he let on?

  Lukas arrived, scowling, hunched, like an angry child. He was wearing a suit and tie, as if he’d just been dragged away from a bo
ard meeting. Beads of sweat were shining on his forehead.

  I went on the attack. “Where the fuck have you been? You’re over an hour late.”

  Lukas bunched up his fists and lowered his brow, then thought better of it. Someone—I suspected Vaughan himself—had done a good job of persuading him that cooperation would be very much in his interests.

  He said “I’m sorry,” and stared at the carpet.

  “You’d better go to the bathroom, and make it fast.” I handed him an enema kit.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “You know what it is. Do you want to do it yourself, or shall I do it for you?”

  “I won’t fucking need it.” Ah—he knew the rules, then. Loser gets fucked. He was planning on beating me. But my combat training could whip his boxing any day of the week, and he knew it.

  “I don’t think our client will be very happy if you shit all over his expensive carpet.”

  Poor bastard looked as if he was going to burst into tears, but he trotted off to the bathroom like a good boy. Kieran and Dakota looked at me with something like reverence on their faces.

  The party was in full swing by the time we got there; nobody seemed to notice that we were late. They were all in the lounge—or one of the lounges, there seemed to be several of them. As we unloaded the gear (crash mats, clothing, towels, oil, a set of scales borrowed from the gym) we could hear them talking, laughing, the braying sound of a large group of men. Captains of industry, successful retailers, senior police officers, football managers: it looked like a Masonic lodge. I glimpsed them through the half-open sliding doors, all silver hair, shiny foreheads, cashmere sweaters and open-necked shirts. There was a whiff of aftershave and cigars, a clink of glasses, the popping of corks. Vaughan knew how to entertain. A waiter in tight black pants, white shirt, and black vest came strutting through the hallway with a tray of empty glasses perched in his upturned hand; I wondered if he, too, was on the menu.

  We set up in the dining room. Chairs had been pushed to one end and arranged in a semicircle, and the table was against the wall. This left a large space for the performance. We laid out eight large mats, and dragged the scales into position near the chairs. They were the old-fashioned type with a vertical stand, a horizontal crossbar, and sliding weights. I had been instructed to get them right up at the front, near the audience.