House Phoenix Shorts:
THE TWINS
S. W. Vaughn
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 by S. W. Vaughn
Discover other titles by S. W. Vaughn at www.swvaughn.com, and look for more shorts from the House Phoenix series coming soon to Smashwords.com!
Smashwords Edition License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
Welcome to the organization.
In this ring, there is only one rule…don’t lose.
NEW YORK: Beneath the streets of the brightest city in the world, the underground thrives. Here, among the criminals, there is a symbol that means something more than what it appears—a five-colored star. Five colors, five boroughs. Five warring gangs run by five ruthless men, each with his own agenda, each breeding and grooming fighters for a blood sport that generates millions in cold, hard cash, and far more in the currency they all covet: control.
In the organization, street fighting is king. Protected by crooked cops, bathed in the blood of men hard enough or desperate enough to compete, the ring welcomes all—to glory, or to ruin. There are no referees. There are no rules. There is only the mob, and they are hungry for blood.
* * * *
HOUSE PHOENIX SHORTS: THE TWINS
On the television screen above the bar, Sol Jakes fumbled the ball and the game screeched to a halt. On the bar stool beneath the television, Sol Jakes drained his drink and slammed the glass down on the counter, where it shattered.
“Hey, take it easy, bro.” The man on the next stool—Sol’s mirror image, his twin—turned to him with a frown. “You’re gonna get us kicked out again.”
“Who gives a fuck,” Sol growled. He glanced up to see the bartender sidestepping in their direction, rag in hand. When the man neared, he bared his teeth and lunged forward, then laughed when the little runt flinched. “Gimme another one,” he said. “This one’s defective.”
“Come on, Sol. Lay off.”
Sol’s head turned, directing bloodshot eyes at his brother. “I’m just havin’ a little fun with him. Christ, Apollo, what’s your problem?”
“You.” Apollo’s features drew inward, and he looked up at the screen to see himself sprinting toward the end zone, the ball tucked under one arm. “We still won, damn it. And you’re pissed because I scored and you didn’t.”
Sol snorted. “So you got lucky,” he slurred. “You still wouldn’t be nothin’ without me, and you know it.”
Apollo shot to his feet, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m sick of your shit!” he shouted. Every head in the vicinity turned to regard the large, angry man at the bar—and just as quickly turned away before his attention could wander. “You wanna whine ’cause you weren’t the big-shot star today, fine. Walk your ass back. I’m leavin’.”
“Good fuckin’ riddance!” Sol yelled after Apollo’s retreating form, snickering despite his annoyance as the crowd dove out of his brother’s way. He shook his head, and turned back to the counter to find a fresh drink in front of him and the bartender as far away as he could get. “Fuckin’ chicken-shit,” he muttered as he picked up the glass. He drained the drink in one swallow, then set the empty down and lifted glazed eyes to the television.
Someone had changed the channel. Now there was a UCLA-Boston game on.
Sol sat with his synapses misfiring for a few minutes until his brain finally received the message that his bladder was full. Grunting, he got up from the stool and lurched toward the restrooms—but before he reached them, he found his path blocked by a figure almost as big and imposing as himself.
“Hey, move it,” he managed. “I gotta piss.”
The guy in front of him, a white kid with no neck and shoulders like a pickup, stood his ground. “Aren’t you on the Jersey team?” he said.
“Yeah, and I ain’t signin’ no fuckin’ autographs. Beat it.”
The kid let out a scathing laugh. “I don’t want your goddamned autograph,” he said. “I just wanted to congratulate you on the game today. Nice going, big shot.”
Sol squinted at him. His addled brain struggled to piece together the fact that the kid was being sarcastic, and to figure out where he’d seen him before. At last he recalled the face as he’d seen it beneath the grid of a football helmet: he was on the opposing team.
“Fuck off,” he snarled. “You lost. Get over it.”
“No thanks to you,” the kid said with a vicious grin. Behind him, Sol made out two more looming shapes and guessed they belonged to a couple teammates of his. “Me and my buddies heard you talking with your shadow there, and we just thought there was something you ought to know.”
Sol glared at him. “What?”
“Your brother’s right. You whine too much.”
Later, he would swear that his arm moved on its own, that he watched the kid’s mouth erupt in a shower of blood long before his fist made contact with it. A blinding rage overcame him, and he failed to get out of the way when one of the kid’s buddies came at him with a broken bottle.
Far too drunk to beat three-to-one odds, Sol passed out long before the police arrived.
* * * * *
The crutches tucked under Sol’s arms were about as effective as toothpicks. Cursing under his breath, he levered himself into the crowded elevator and tried to remember which floor he was supposed to be going to.
Fucking anger management, he thought, scowling at nothing in particular. He wouldn’t have kept the appointment the court set for him if it weren’t for Apollo’s threat to never speak to him again if he didn’t go. He felt like shit—not only because he’d never play again, but because Apollo would almost certainly be dropped at the end of the season without him.
So he’d play along with the shrink, say whatever he was supposed to say. Maybe cut the six weeks’ worth of sessions he was scheduled for down to three or four. And he’d try to make everything up to his brother, somehow.
At the moment, he had no idea how he was going to do that.
The elevator made a surprisingly smooth stop, and Sol glanced at the lighted number above the door. Tenth floor...was that right? It did ring a bell, so he pushed his way to the door and hobbled out just as it was closing.
To the left, the hallway ended abruptly in a paned-glass window, and there weren’t any offices in that direction. Sol headed slowly to the right, scanning the names on the doors. He couldn’t quite remember the one he was looking for. But it was something long and hyphenated, so he’d probably know it when he saw it.
KIMBERLY LYONS, Ph.D. No, that wasn’t it. He didn’t think it was a woman...but the name was foreign, so he couldn’t be too sure. HYMAN, JENKS & POLICANO, LTD. Wrong again. It was only one guy. He passed what looked to be an insurance agency, a lawyer or two, a loan corporation.
SUNIL DAS JHYANESHWAR-JANA, B.A., Psy.D.
Bingo. He looked at the name again, frowning. How the hell was he supposed to say that? Hoping the guy wasn’t some shriveled-up moron with an accent thicker than rush-hour traffic—like all the cab drivers with names like that seemed to be—he pushed the door in and held it open with his good leg, then swung himself the rest of the way in.
The room that greeted him was elegantly appointed. And empty. No secretary sat behind the oversized, polished wood desk before the window. No crazy twitching patients occupied the small waiting area to the right of the door, flipping through stale issues of Reader’s Digest and Psychology Today. In fact, no magazines at all, old or new, graced the surfaces of the tables between the cushioned chairs. And most noticeably, no Doctor Janey-Whatsitz acknowledged his arrival.
His gaze swept the room impatiently. Maybe there was a sign, or a bell to ring, or something. But other than a door set in the right-hand wall, slightly behind the waiting area, he saw nothing that might lead to the discovery of the missing shrink.
For some reason, he didn’t want to open that door.
Grumbling to himself, he hobbled halfway to the cluster of chairs and stopped. Would he satisfy the court requirements if he reported back to them, told them he went but no one was there? It sounded ridiculous, even in his thoughts, but it was the truth. This place was empty. Silence seemed to grow from the thick carpeted floor as though it had been planted there and tended with loving care...and Sol got the feeling that it did not wish to be disturbed.
This is stupid, he told himself. Suddenly angry that he’d come here for nothing, he maneuvered himself around and headed back toward the entrance—and then a voice slithered through the sepulchral air.
“Leaving so soon, Mr. Jakes?”
Sol pivoted slowly, searching for the speaker. His gaze was drawn to the door he’d noticed before, and at first his mind refused to believe that the man standing in front of it was real. Impossible. The door hadn’t moved, yet the figure occupying its frame appeared to have just emerged from whatever lay beyond it.
“You the doctor?” he managed to say, unable to stop staring.
“I am.” The man stepped forward, out of the shadow of the door, and Sol’s breath caught in his throat. Shriveled definitely didn’t apply to the specter standing in the soft glow of the wall sconce behind him. Gaunt and lean, maybe, but in the context of a grizzled gunslinger. He could place the name now as East Indian—that much was obvious in the dusky skin and slender build—but the eyes that impaled him, even from across the room, were a clear and striking gray.
“I got an appointment,” Sol sputtered in a voice that was nowhere close to his own.
“Indeed.” The man arched one thin eyebrow. His unnatural eyes panned deliberately over Sol, and at last he said, “Follow me, please,” and turned toward the door.
Swallowing hard, Sol started across the room toward him. Halfway there, he noticed with a start the long steel-gray rope that hung down the length of the doctor’s back—it was his hair, fashioned in a thick, impeccable braid.
Christ, what a freak, he thought, his mouth twisting in unconscious distaste. His initial fear gave way to anger at the man’s seeming deliberate attempt to intimidate him—and he resolved to be as uncooperative as he could. If it came down to it, he could probably break this guy in half with little effort.
He took his time moving to the door. The doctor appeared in no hurry. He said nothing as Sol dragged into the room, and then he merely motioned toward a large black chair in the center of the floor. Grunting, Sol went to it and settled his bulk in, leaned the crutches awkwardly at his side.
He forced himself not to flinch when the door closed them in together.
There was something unusual about the room’s arrangement, and it took him a minute to realize that the chair he occupied was the only one. Bookshelves lined the wall to his right, and behind him was yet another door that probably opened on a closet—he hoped—but other than that, the room was bare.
He uttered a strained laugh. “Where you gonna sit, Doc?”
“I am not going to sit, Mr. Jakes.” The doctor circled to stand in front of him, and a faint frown marred his brow. “Do not address me as ‘Doc’.”
A sarcastic snort wrenched itself from Sol’s throat. “Okay then, doctor. How do you say your name?”
“You cannot pronounce my name properly,” the doctor said. “You may call me Jenner.”
The sound of the name sent a spike of fear into Sol’s gut. What the hell is wrong with me? This guy was treating him like a world-class moron, and he was letting him. Well, Sol Jakes kowtowed to no man, least of all some skinny little court-appointed shrink who couldn’t afford two fucking chairs.
...with metal eyes, sharp enough to kill with a look...
“Shit!”
Sol didn’t even realize he’d spoken aloud, until Jenner glared at him. “Is there a problem, Mr. Jakes?”
“Yeah, there’s a fucking problem.” Struggling to hold onto the spark of fury within him, he said, “I don’t like you.”
Incredibly, Jenner smiled—and the ghoulish expression torqued Sol’s panic. “That is a shame,” the doctor said in almost a whisper. “Like me or not, you are mine for the next six weeks. Unless, of course, you would rather be jailed.”
“Yes...no!” He couldn’t think straight. His heart pounded a deafening staccato in his ears, his wide eyes refused to leave Jenner’s.
“Of course you don’t. It would take you away from Apollo.”
Sol’s mouth opened, then closed. No words emerged.
Sneering, Jenner turned and drifted toward the bookshelves as he continued. “You feel terrible for taking away your brother’s chance of success, almost as terrible as you feel over ruining your own chances. You want to blame the boys at the bar for your failure, but you cannot. Because you know that it is your own fault. If you did not drink so much, or take so many drugs, you would never have been as helpless as you were that night.”
The doctor paused, then selected a volume from the shelves. “Furthermore,” he said without turning around, “you are afraid that Apollo will never forgive you. You want desperately to make it up to him, but you are aware that you will not be able to.” Replacing the book, he pivoted to face Sol with glittering eyes. “You are here only because of him.”
“How did you—” The voice that crawled from his mouth shimmered with shock.
“I make it a point to know my patients. Such as the courts insist on calling those like you.” The lingering smile fled Jenner’s face, and he stepped forward. “If I do not understand you, I cannot expect to...help you.” In a voice laden with contempt, he added, “You are disgustingly simple to read, Mr. Jakes, and very nearly a waste of my time.”
Sol simply nodded and waited for Jenner to continue.
* * * * *
Sometime around his fourth session with Jenner, Sol lost himself.
The process was so gradual, he barely noticed that he was slipping away. But his sharp temper dulled until virtually nothing angered him. In fact, every emotion began to fade, until his feelings became the stuff of memory.
He had no idea what transpired during his time in the silent sanctuary of Jenner’s office. From the first visit, he’d been given some sort of tranquilizer and then hypnotized. The doctor said this was the fastest way to solve his problems—and since he awoke feeling refreshed and satisfied, he didn’t protest the methods.
On his way to the fifth session, Jenner met him in the lobby. Sol was neither surprised nor worried at this change in the routine, and when the doctor told him to bring his brother to the Marquis-Grant Hotel on Fifth Avenue that evening, he agreed without comment.
Apollo, however, was less than enthused.
“What’s wrong with you?” Apollo demanded when Sol imparted Jenner’s directives to him at the tiny apartment they shared. “You’re acting like you’re brainwashed or somethin’. If this guy told you to jump off fuckin’ Lady Liberty, you’d probably do it.”
Sol shrugged. “Jenner is helping me,” he said. “I’m better now than before.”
“If you say so,” Apollo grumbled, giving him a wary glance. “All right, I'll go with you. I want to meet this doctor of yours anyway.”
After a dinner of cheap Chinese takeout, they walked the fifteen blocks to the hotel. Apollo remained on edge, with latent anger simmering just below the surface. In contrast, Sol was impassive, almost resigned. The well-lit brick structure bore no sign announcing its name or purpose, but Sol knew it was the right place. Taking the lead, he mounted the steps and pulled open the glass door, holding it until Apollo followed reluctantly.
Not a soul greeted the brothers’ arrival. Sol stood to the side, waiting, but Apollo strode across the richly appointed lobby to the deserted desk, glaring impatience at its bare surface. “Don't these people have a bell or somethin’?” he said. “I don't feel like hanging around here all night.”
“Patience, brother. He’ll be here.”
Apollo whirled to face him, a sarcastic retort forming on his lips. But before he could move toward the door, a voice behind him said, “Good evening. I trust you found your way here without difficulty.”
Sol nodded in response to the statement, his blank expression unchanging. Apollo looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but shadow and emptiness. “Hey,” he called. “Where the hell are you?”
“Follow me, please.”
Sol started obediently across the room while Apollo watched, slack-jawed. When the silent twin moved into the space to the left of the desk and all but disappeared, Apollo hastened after him.
They passed through a door and entered a short hallway. Beyond Sol, facing away from the twins, stood a slender man with iron-gray hair braided down the center of his back and falling past his waist. Dwarfed by the brothers, the man nevertheless appeared in control. He turned to the side and opened another door on the right-hand side of the hall, then gestured to indicate they should enter. Sol went into the room without question, but Apollo stopped to stare at the man beside the entryway.
“So, you're the doctor, huh.” He snorted down at the man, who looked at least fifty years old and probably weighed one-twenty soaking wet. “What the hell did you do to my brother?”
The man met his eyes, and Apollo was suddenly aware of an impending sense of doom, as though he’d just told Satan himself to lay off the soul corruption racket and cut back on fire and brimstone production.
“Absolutely nothing.” Dark gray eyes penetrated him, daring him to refute the statement. Apollo swallowed and took an involuntary step back, then after a moment's hesitation, followed Sol's lead into the room. Once he entered, the doctor slipped in behind them and closed the door.
“You've done well, Jenner.”
The new voice, smooth and confident, came from a blond-haired man seated behind an oversized desk. Dressed in a black suit, leaning casually back in his chair as though he owned the world, the man's intensely blue eyes swept with appraisal over Sol and Apollo, in the same manner as one inspecting cuts of meat in a butcher's shop.
Apollo hated him already.
Before he could voice his thoughts, the doctor spoke from behind him in tones dripping with venom. “Do not attempt to placate me with your ridiculous banalities, Marcus. I have no need for validation from the likes of you.”
The blond man shot to his feet as fury eclipsed his chiseled features. Snarling, he started around the desk toward Jenner—only to be stopped by the immovable bulk of Sol, who stepped into his path with arms folded across his massive chest.
Stunned at his brother's obvious protectiveness toward the freakish doctor, Apollo looked wildly from Sol to Jenner, who leveled a frosty smirk at the man in the suit. He didn't say a word, and he didn't have to. It was apparent where Sol's loyalties lay.
Glaring around the giant blocking his way, the blond man said through clenched teeth, “You can leave my office now, lieutenant. We will discuss this later.”
“No. We will not, Marcus. However, I do believe I will leave you to your...negotiations.” With a slight nod to Sol, the doctor exited the room as silently as he'd come in, leaving the other man to stare furiously at the space he had occupied.
A moment later, he blinked and returned to his previous relaxed state. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he said, returning to his chair. “If it were anyone else, I would assume you've already been filled in on the details for this visit, but since it was Jenner who invited you...” He trailed off, visibly forcing aside the anger that seeped into his words, and cleared his throat. “I’ve always believed that a direct approach is best, so I'll lay out my proposal. I need bodyguards, and I also need fighters. I believe the two of you can easily serve in both capacities, and so I'd like to offer you both jobs.”
Apollo gaped at him. “Bodyguards? Fighters? What kind of hotel are you running? And who the hell are you?”
The man gave a bitter laugh. “So he hasn't even told you that much. Incredible.” Shaking his head, he stood and extended an arm across the table. “My name is Marcus Slade.”
Sol took the proffered hand in silence, but when it was thrust toward Apollo, he sneered at the man. “Slade, huh? Never heard ’a you. What’s your racket, Slade?”
Another laugh, and the arm lowered. “My racket,” he said, treating the word like bird droppings on a park bench, “is street fighting. It's a very lucrative business, and should you decide to join me, it will prove profitable for you as well.”
Street fighting? Frowning, Apollo looked over at Sol. When his brother offered no comment or reaction, he said to Slade, “How profitable?”
“In the bodyguard capacity, I’ll pay you each one thousand dollars per week, and you’ll be furnished with rooms and meals at no charge. Regarding the fights, you’ll receive a thousand a match, win or lose, plus a percentage of my take if you win.” The smile he sent them suggested there was no way they could turn him down.
“How much is your take?” Apollo managed to ask.
“Millions.”
His jaw unhinged. It was a damned sweet deal, especially for a pair of washed-up college ball players whose prospects for future employment were limited to blue-collar factory work or bouncing for bars. How hard could it be? Apollo thought. He glanced again at Sol, and this time his twin was looking straight at him. Sol nodded once, and Apollo, who'd just found himself thrust into the role of mouthpiece for both of them, turned to Slade.
“We’ll take it.”
“Excellent. Follow me, and I'll show you to your rooms. I’ll send someone to pack up your apartment tomorrow.”
A touch of resentment worked its way through Apollo as Slade led them out of the office and back through the deserted lobby. The smug bastard knew they wouldn't refuse. Couldn't refuse, because they would never get another offer like it again. And when they started up a flight of stairs he presumed led to the rooms, another thought occurred to him that chilled his blood.
There was no way Slade’s million-dollar street fighting was legal, and the man possessed the superior air of a Mafia hit man. He knew without a doubt that if they had refused, they never would have left this hotel alive.
Shuddering, Apollo followed his brother and his new employer to their new home, the seeds of a vicious temper implanted and growing within him. He remained vaguely aware of the irony. In joining Slade, the transformation was complete. He had become exactly what he'd spent his life trying to save his brother from developing into.
And he no longer cared.
* * * *
THE HOUSE PHOENIX SERIES by S. W. Vaughn
BONUS exclusive excerpt from BROKEN ANGEL following series description!
Visit the author’s website at www.swvaughn.com to learn more, or read excerpts and purchase from the publisher at www.lyricalpress.com.
BOOK 1: BROKEN ANGEL
When Gabriel Morgan's sister disappears somewhere in New York's underground, he'll do anything to save her. But finding her is only the beginning, because Marcus Slade won't let her go for less than ten million dollars – earned through Gabriel's blood.
Slade, one of five ruthless leaders of an organization identified only by a symbol, runs hookers and street fighters, and never gives up what's his. Including Gabriel's sister. To win her freedom, Gabriel is forced to undergo a brutal training program with Slade's top fighters in order to become one of them. He is branded, broken, given a new image, and a new name.
In the ring, Gabriel is known as Angel…and he does not lose.
Because the price for losing is his sister's life.
Available now from Lyrical Press in e-book and print
Also available through Fictionwise, Amazon, and online wherever books are sold
BONUS: Exclusive excerpt from Broken Angel included in this story, following series information
BOOK 2: DEVIL’S HONOR
On an unnamed island
off the coast of New York lies an isolated community, a transplanted
section of traditional Japan. Known to the other four—now
five—divisions of the organization as House Pandora, the island is
ruled by the ruthless will and iron fists of Tomi Harada.
For
as long as he can recall, Shiro Kuroda has served the Harada
zaibatsu. Apprentice psychiatrist to the iniquitous Jenner by
day, and champion streetfighter dubbed Akuma—The Devil—by night;
Shiro is never sure where he belongs. His only certainty is his
allegiance to Harada, his shujin . . . and that loyalty is put
to the test when a match ends in the death of another fighter for a
rival House at Shiro's hands.
As retribution for his mistake,
Shiro is ordered to hunt down a former assassin who betrayed the
Harada empire three years ago. If he fails in his task, he must take
his own life in disgrace.
And if he succeeds, he will become
a cold-blooded killer with nothing to lose.
Available now in e-book format from Lyrical Press; coming soon to print!
BOOK 3: MASK OF THE SERPENT
BOOK 4: SHADES OF BLACK
BOOK 5: ALPHA MALE
Coming soon to Lyrical Press!
* * * *
EXCLUSIVE excerpt from BROKEN ANGEL
Gabriel joined his captor in the hallway. Slade closed the door, and shook his head as though ridding himself of the past few minutes. “We’re going back to the basement. The training room is there.”
He followed his lead. They reached the basement, passed the heavy door which opened on the dungeon, and walked to the end of the corridor. The hall terminated in another steel door with a large window set into the top third. Slade opened it and gestured inside.
Gabriel entered a room half the size of the building, walled with more gray cement. Several heavy bags hung from the ceiling, and a collection of weight machines lined the left wall. A large, roped sparring ring with a black mat floor dominated the far right corner. There were a few warm-up benches and an open door that appeared to lead to a locker room.
Slade pulled the door closed, reached for the ever-present phone, dialed, and said, “We’re waiting.” He snapped it shut and regarded him standing rigid and mute, hands clenched at his sides.
“I’ll make this easy for you,” Slade said at last.
He couldn’t suppress a derisive snort. Easy? It would be easier for him to sever a limb or two with a butter knife than it was to submit to this man, to do his bidding and pretend everything was just fine, thank you.
Slade ignored his sarcasm. “Regarding my terms for your release, and your sister’s. I’ve calculated the amount of money Lillith would bring in should she remain in my employ. I’ll spare you the details of how I arrived at this figure—” he paused to measure the effect his words had, “—but the final tally is ten million dollars.”
“You pulled that number out of your ass.”
“I never guess when it comes to money, Mr. Morgan.” Slade’s blue eyes leveled coolly on him. “I am a businessman, and I deal in profits. Now, if you’d like me to review exactly how much your sister commands per client, or how many years I expect her to last until she’s...”
“Stop!”
“Ten million dollars,” Slade repeated, emphasizing every word. “That is the price of Lillith’s freedom. You fight for me, you earn me ten million dollars, and then you and your sister are free to go. Unless, of course, you happen to have that much money on you?” He laughed at the black look he sent him. “No. I didn’t think so.”
The scrape of steel on cement announced the arrival of the trainers. Toward the front of the room, two Apollos entered: one smirking, the other frowning.
He blinked hard and shook his head. There were still two of them.
Slade indicated the frowning giant. “This is Sol. You already know Apollo.”
Apollo’s brother—they had to be twins, there was no other explanation for the carbon-copy likeness between them—loomed in front of the door, while Apollo headed across the room and toward the lockers. Sol’s features, though they mirrored his twin’s, seemed softer, his massive body slightly more relaxed. He’d heard that identical twins often possessed opposite personalities. Maybe...
No one is on your side. The echo of Slade’s words mocked his hope. He could do nothing now but stand his ground and endure whatever torments the twins threw at him. Save Lillith—and save himself.
“Remember, keep it light for today. The boy has an appointment,” Slade said when Apollo reentered the room.
What? If this wasn’t the ‘appointment’ he and Doc had argued about, what was?
Oh God. Jenner.
That’s what Slade had meant by that cryptic statement. Terror washed over him.
Apollo acknowledged his boss’s orders with a hideous grin. Slade strode to the door. Sol moved aside to let him pass, and Slade stopped. “I expect your complete cooperation, Mr. Morgan. If Sol and Apollo feel that you aren’t training to full capacity, your sister will pay for your languor.”
The bastard left before he could protest.
Sol approached, and he stayed put. Apollo moved around the room, the occasional creak of a bag or the dull thunk of metal on metal suggesting he was checking the equipment. He could attack them, try to escape—no matter what he did down here, he had a feeling Slade would receive a bad report—but he couldn’t take both of them on. Not yet, anyway.
“I understand my brother has a problem with you.” Sol’s flat and inflectionless voice lacked the hatred that laced his twin’s speech.
He nodded. “Jenner took away his fun.”
“Fucker needs to learn his place,” Apollo rumbled.
Sol ignored the comment. “You will pay attention to Sol, and only Sol.” He glanced at Apollo. “My brother is merely a sparring partner. I am your trainer. Do what I tell you, and Mr. Slade will not hear anything negative. Cross me, and it will be otherwise.” Sol’s expression didn’t change. His voice neither rose nor fell. The deliberate speech pattern put him on edge, but it was probably in his best interest to follow directions from him.
“Today we measure your ability. We start with the arms.” Sol pointed beyond him, and he followed the gesture. Behind him, Apollo steadied one of the punching bags. “You will hit the bag, one-two, one-two. Hard as you can. Go.”
“I can’t.”
“Your arms are broken?”
He held up his hands. “My wrists.”
“Broken?” Sol’s tone stayed flat, emotionless.
“No. Rope burn. And... Jenner.” The lieutenant’s name alone seemed sufficient explanation for everything else. He hoped it would be this time.
Sol frowned and pointed to an open floor mat further inside the room. “One hundred sit-ups, then. I will adjust your program.”
“But...” Hadn’t Doc said his ribs were broken?
“One hundred sit-ups,” Sol repeated, and pointed again. “Go.”
Don’t argue. He started across the room. The last thing he needed was a bad report. He stopped at the edge of the mat and glanced back. Sol walked along the row of machines against the opposite wall, occasionally stopping to inspect something. Apollo stood beside the heavy bag, arms folded, glaring. Angry seemed his natural state.
He positioned himself on the mat, laced his hands behind his head and tried not to put too much pressure on his wrists. The first lift sent knives through his torso. He gritted his teeth, did it again. Twice more. He gasped for breath and fell back, pulling his hands away just before his head hit the mat.
Stifling a groan, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, Sol loomed over him. “Why have you stopped?”
“Sorry.” He drew his arms in, lifted his head. Under Sol’s blank gaze, he wrenched up, stopped in mid-raise, and dropped. “Damn it!” He’d failed to move his hands fast enough. His wrists smacked the mat hard, and he grunted through the pain.
“You aren’t breathing properly.”
“I can’t breathe at all!”
“Why?”
“My ribs! Yes, they’re broken! Shit.” He turned his head away from the towering trainer. He’d done it now. Slade would hear about this.
Sol placed a hand on his chest. “You have them wrapped.”
“Yes.”
“Take it off.”
“What?”
“The wrap prevents deep breathing. Pain is controlled in this way. Take it off, and you will be able to breathe.”
Yes. And he'd be in pain. He rolled on his side, sat up, pulled his shirt off and unfastened the clips. The bandage lost tension and slid down his torso. He inhaled, surprised to discover he did feel better.
Sol nodded. “Breathe out as you lift, in as you lower. Keep your torso straight. It will hurt. You won’t damage your ribs further. Ninety-five more.”
He stared at him. Sol had counted his half-assed flop toward the total. A small kindness, but more than he’d expected. “Sure. Ninety-five. Got it.” He lay back down, and started again. The sharp pain migrated to a dull ache. He concentrated on counting, breathing, and barely noticed Sol slip away to return to the machines.
He would train hard. Harder than they made him. He would use their efforts against them and beat these bastards at their own game. His strength would surpass any opponent they could dig up, and he would take revenge on his terms.
Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. His pace slowed considerably. Straining, bathed in sweat, he struggled up again and barely reached a seated position. He lost it on the way back down. No way he’d make a hundred. His ribs hummed a loud protest. Fire smoldered in his stomach. He drew a breath, tried to lift himself. Failed.
Sol appeared at his feet. He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile, or frown.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “Please. Slade will...”
“You can.” Sol knelt on the mat, gripped his ankles and held them down. “Twenty-nine more.”
He grimaced. With Sol bracing him, he managed to reach one hundred before he collapsed. Momentary triumph blossomed on the tail end of spent energy.
“A good start. We will work the legs now.”
More? He wasn’t sure he could get up, much less complete another workout. He started to protest and stopped himself. Sol hadn’t forced him to work against his wrists, and the trainer had been right about his ability to finish the sit-ups. If Sol thought he could do it, maybe he could. He pushed up on his elbows and made himself stand. Sol gestured to the row of equipment opposite them, and he went.
Sol followed and pointed. “Set the weight at two hundred. Lift one-two-three, stop one-two-three. Go.”
He moved to the machine Sol indicated, an inclined bench with footrests designed to push down and let up. The weights were already set at 200, so he sat down, gripped the handholds at the sides and started pumping.
Leg lifts proved easier on his battered body. After three sets, Sol motioned for him to stop and moved the pin to 300 pounds. He finished five more sets, and once again Sol stopped him.
“We are running short on time. You will shower now, and then we will bring you to your appointment.”
Wincing, he clambered from the machine and headed to the locker room.
“Do not believe your training will be like this always,” Sol called after him. “Soon you will spar with Apollo.”
Great. Another delightful romp to look forward to.
* * * *
BROKEN ANGEL: Available now in print and e-book format from Lyrical Press. Visit www.swvaughn.com to learn more.
Other House Phoenix Shorts coming soon, exclusively to Smashwords:
Doc
Slade
The Gas Lite
* * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
S. W. Vaughn writes stories that refuse to fit the mold, no matter how much she bangs on them, yells at them, or threatens to virtually rip them up and toss them into that Great Recycle Bin in the Sky. She has given up on trying to produce an urban fantasy, a thriller, or a romance. These days she’s resigned to writing urban thrill-mance action crossover potpourri surprise novels (with a twist of lime).
Vaughn has a thing for dark, scarred heroes and heroines, and feels that torture - whether psychological or literal - makes her characters more interesting. They all hate her for that. She expects to some day become the first victim of homicide by fictional character.
E-mail: author@swvaughn.com
Website: www.swvaughn.com