Arbitrary Fate

A "Lawless" Story

By LoreliLee

Rating: NC-17 - This story contains consensual graphic sex between a man and a woman. If this offends you, is illegal where you live or you are under 18, go somewhere else.

Disclaimer: The character of John Lawless belongs to South Pacific Pictures. The use of that character in this story is not intended as copyright infringement. The rest of the characters in this story are copyrighted by me.

Author's Note: THIS STORY IS A PREQUEL to Lawless, the NZ Tele-film. It takes place well before ANY of the events in the movie. So you don't need to have seen it to follow this one at all.

John was on the verge trying to make sense of things. The sun was shining and there was a soft breeze ruffling the leaves on the trees. It was the kind of day his Dad had always said was perfect for a game of soccer in the park. Only the men from the textile mill wore shiny black suits instead of overalls. The women his mother played cards with wore dark dresses instead of bright colors. All of them wore solemn expressions. His Mum was sobbing. His Nana had an arm around her shoulders and seemed to be trying to comfort her.

He ran a finger inside the collar of his starched white shirt. He felt like he was choking. He wasn't used to wearing a tie. The suit was brand new, black, and scratchy. He shifted on the balls of his feet. They hurt too. The new shoes were tight and confining just like the suit and tie.

He stood on the grass feeling uncomfortable and alone. His back was ramrod straight and his body was tense. He only dimly heard the voice of their minister droning on and on in the background. It was his Mum on whom his thoughts and his eyes were riveted.

She wore black and John knew she hated it. His Mum liked bright colors, pretty things, and parties. She reminded John of one of those weird flowers, birds of paradise he thought they were called, wild, splashy, and vivid with color. She said black reminded her of funerals and made her look washed out. He decided she was right. Her fair hair lay limp against her pale face. Her blue eyes were red and swollen. She wore no makeup and her shoes, instead of high heels were black and sensible.

She was moaning softly and crying again. His Nana was whispering to her. John started to wonder why his Dad wasn't there and then he remembered.

His eyes shifted to the large oak coffin suspended over the open grave. His Dad was in the box. Dead. Never coming back. No more rugby or soccer matches. No more hugs.

John felt his eyes begin to water. He willed himself with all the strength his five-year-old soul had not to cry. He had to be strong for his Mum. He was the man of the house now. He had to take care of her. It was his responsibility.

"You take that back!" John yelled.

"Bugger off," Tony swore.

John trembled with anger. He lunged for Tony. Tony twisted out of his grasp. "Pretty boy, pretty boy," Tony mocked him. "Can't even throw a punch."

"Can too," John exclaimed. He hauled his arm back and socked Tony in the stomach. Soon the two boys were rolling in the grass attempting to pummel each other to death. A crowd of other boys watched and cheered. Most of them were cheering for Tony. John was a quiet boy who never took part in any after school activities seeming to prefer to keep himself aloof from the rest of his class.

Mr. Kelly, the science teacher, taking his afternoon constitutional spotted the fight and whistled. Soon the crowd dispersed and the two combatants were in the head master's office. Parents were summoned and warnings handed out.

When Jennifer Lawless got her ten-year-old son home she sat him down in the kitchen and gave him a good hard look. The boy had a black eye but otherwise gave the impression of being unharmed. His school uniform was a mess, the shirt ripped, the trousers covered with grass stains. "What did you think you were doing?" she asked softly.

John glared at her defiantly. "Nothing. He started it."

"Did he now?" she echoed softly. "That's not what I heard."

"He's lying," John snorted indignantly. "I was minding my own business. Tony's a dickhead."

"John Lawless, you are NOT to use that word. I should wash your mouth out with soap for that."

"Oh, Mum," he moaned. "Come on, it's just a word."

"It's a vulgar expression and I will NOT have it used in my house. As long as you live here, you will follow my rules, understand, young man?" He nodded. "Now, what was the fight about?"

"Nothing," John grumbled.

"John," she rebuked him sternly, "it was NOT about nothing. Something must have started it. Now what was it?"

"He called me pretty," the boy mumbled under his breath.

Jennifer Lawless smothered a smile. The truth was her son was pretty. One day, she had no doubt he would appreciate that fact. After he discovered girls. Still, now was not the time to mention it. She looked at his round face, still thick with baby fat, his curly dark hair, big brown eyes, and his full lips and knew he was going to break some hearts. Still, boys would be boys and she could see where this was a problem for him. "John, it's just a word. It doesn't mean anything."

"If you tell me that sticks and stones can break my bones and words will never hurt me, I'll, I'll . . ." words failed him.

Jennifer gazed at her son fairly shimmering with anger and wondered where it came from. She wished there was a man around to help her, but his Dad was gone. No matter how many of Kenny's friends sniffed around her, she just wasn't interested. There had only been one man for her, Kenny Lawless, and now there was only Kenny's son. She sighed. "Okay, then. I won't tell you. But it's true, you know."

John glared at her again prepared to refute the charge. Then suddenly, as he looked at his pretty mother, her blue eyes full of love and concern, he relented. "I'm sorry, Mum."

She moved closer to him and ruffled the soft hair on his head. "Fighting never solved anything," she murmured. "Just ignore them. When they don't get a reaction from you, they'll learn to leave you alone."

He could have told her she was wrong. This wasn't the first fight he'd had and he knew it wouldn't be the last. The other boys NEVER left him alone. If they weren't on him about his looks, they were on him about his being too good for them. They didn't understand that he HAD to come home after school to make sure his Mum was okay. He couldn't tell her. He didn't want her to know how much he worried about her. He forced a smile on his face and promised, "I'll try."

"Johnny, where do you think you're going?"

A thirteen year-old John Lawless gazed at his mother. She was slouched over the kitchen table. Her blond hair was pulled back off her face and she had too much makeup on. Her blue eyes had purple circles under them as well as a thin black smear of mascara. Her blouse was unbuttoned lower than he liked and her black skirt was quite short.

Although it was only seven o'clock in the morning, she had a full glass of beer in front of her. A cigarette burned in the ashtray. The smoke swirled toward the ceiling. He thought she must have just come in from work.

Although he'd asked her not to do it, she'd taken a waitress job at the pub up the street. Times were hard. His Dad's insurance money was running out and there was the mortgage to be paid, food to be bought. Lower Hutt, where he lived was about nine miles from Wellington. It might as well have been another world. It was working class all the way. The blokes at the pub had been mates of his Dad; they were also the fathers of the kids he went to school with. He knew the men came on to his Mum, knew she played along with them in order to make better tips. He was embarrassed by her job and angry too. What was worse, the blokes at school all knew about her and they ALL made remarks.

He loved his mother and worried about her constantly. Each year she seemed to get sadder and clingier. Each year as he grew older, she seemed to get more helpless. He wasn't old enough to leave school and get a job, wasn't able to take the burden off her shoulders. Still, he was determined someday to do so. One day, he would get out, make something of himself; take care of her properly.

He sighed with frustration. "School, Mum," he explained softly.

"School?" she echoed. "Like that?" she gestured at his clothes.

John was dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. The school, under protest, had decided to try an experiment and let the pupils wear real clothes instead of uniforms. The jury was still out on whether it would succeed. John had grown tall, but had yet to grow into his body. His hair was down to his shoulders. His chin had the faintest hint of stubble as if he wasn't quite ready to shave but would be any day. "Yes," he confirmed softly.

"You look like a hoon," she muttered. "I know we're poor, but we can afford better."

"It's what all the blokes wear," he grumbled. They had this argument nearly every day. He felt his body begin to tighten with tension. The muscle in his jaw began to twitch.

"If they all jumped off the Lower Hutt bridge, would you jump too?" she asked rhetorically. She already knew the answer. This conversation or one just like it repeated itself daily. Jennifer Lawless saw her son growing up and away from her, stepping into a life of his own. She was desperate to hang on to him. He was her whole life. The harder she tried to tighten the apron strings; the more John tugged to get free.

"Mum," he paused and tried to deflect her, "I'll be late tonight."

"Late?" she repeated. "Why?"

"Extra study," he lied. "You know to help my grades. So I can go to University."

"You're still set on that?" she queried.

He nodded, afraid to say more.

"I don't see why," she mused. "The textile mill was good enough for your Dad."

John sighed. His Dad had been gone for eight years. As far as he could remember, of the little he could remember, his Dad had done nothing but complain about the mill. "Mum, Nana thinks it's a good idea." Invoking his grandmother usually distracted her.

"Nana," she complained, "she would." John knew his mother thought that Nana was interfering. She disapproved of her mother filling his head with all kinds of ideas. Ideas Jennifer thought were impossible. He knew she thought that nothing was ever going to change what he was. She was wrong though. He would make something of himself.

"Mum," John muttered, "I've got to go. Can't be late."

She nodded, lost in the contemplation of her pain. John bent, kissed her on the forehead, and slipped out the back door.

Once outside he exhaled the breath he was holding. He'd gotten away with it. He had lied and she hadn't caught him. He hated lying to her, but she'd have a fit if she knew what he was really doing after school, where he was going. He thought it might be his way out.

John got his bike and began to pedal as fast as he could away from home.

Jennifer Lawless stood at the window and watched her son go, her sad eyes gleaming with the fear of abandonment.

Mick Sullivan eyed the tall gangly youth who stood waiting in gray shorts and no shirt. The boy shifted nervously back and forth on the balls of his feet then ran his hands through his shoulder length dark hair. 'The hair will have to go,' Mick thought. The boy's upper body was still undeveloped but based on his bone structure and size, he could be quite powerful if he worked on it. The legs were muscled from bike riding and could be trained to move quickly. He thought there was an innate and untapped grace in the kid, even more surprising given how he had met him.

Mick had discovered John Lawless one afternoon while walking his usual beat. He'd been walking past the park when he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh.

There the boy was, long hair blowing in the breeze, body tense, wired, fists pummeling a boy two sizes larger than him. He was grunting with exertion and his punches landed in all the wrong places.

Mick had run to the fight and pulled the teens apart. The boy he would come to know as John Lawless stood there trembling with rage, his body shuddering, his chest heaving, and his eyes wild. The other boy, the one with the black eye and the bloody nose had stayed on the ground. Mick held John back. The boy's anger made him twist and turn as if he wanted to go again.

"Stop it," Mick ordered in his best cop's voice. "I don't care why you think you need to beat the shit out of him, but I can't let you do it."

"Yes, I can," John sputtered. "I can too beat him."

Mick laughed. "Yeah, you COULD beat him, but I'm not going to let you. Calm down, you hoon, or I'll bust ya."

That got the boy's attention. He seemed to realize for the first time that Mick was a cop.

The boy on the ground took a deep breath, scrambled to his feet and with an almost grateful look at Mick, ran away. As soon as he was gone, Mick released his hold on John.

"What's this about, then?" Mick asked.

John was still trembling from anger, but also Mick thought, now with some fear. "None of your business," John spat. "Can I go?" he asked with all the bravado he could muster.

Mick shook his head. "No. You tell me why you were beating that boy up and we'll see."

"I don't like him," John admitted.

Mick laughed again. "Didn't think you did. But he's twice your size. Took a lot of guts to go after him."

"I was winning too," John retorted. "At least till you came along."

Mick held back a smile. "That's a matter of opinion."

"Whatcha mean?"

"Well," Mick said, "it's true you were getting him pretty good, but most of your punches weren't doing any damage. You'd have been better off if he'd stayed on his feet. Once he went down he could protect himself."

John had eyed him carefully. "Sounds like you know something about fighting. Who are you?"

"Mick Sullivan," he introduced himself. He stuck out his hand and then asked, "And who might you be when you're at home?"

John took his hand and shook it. "John Lawless."

"And how old are you, John?"

"Thirteen." John looked at Mick. "You a fighter?" he asked

"Used to be." Mick scrutinized the boy. There was curiosity in his dark eyes and intelligence too. "You got some nice moves," Mick admitted. "But you could do better."

"You offering to teach me to fight?" the kid asked.

Mick smiled. "No, but I'll teach you to box. Not the same thing at all." Mick could almost see the boy turning the idea over in his mind.

John nodded as if he liked the idea. "Okay," he agreed. "When do you want to start?"

"Tomorrow. After school. I'll need your Dad's permission though."

"Don't have a Dad," John snapped. "My word's not enough?"

Mick had suspected as much. The boy had the prickly defensiveness of a fatherless child. "Your Mum's permission then."

"Why?"

"You're under age. Boxing's a dangerous sport. Need an okay in case you get hurt."

"I won't get hurt," he protested. "You saw! He never touched me."

Mick examined the boy. He didn't have a mark on him. "Maybe not. But it's a far cry from a fistfight to a ring fight with gloves. Even the best get hurt."

"Whatcha need then? Will a note do?"

Odds were, Mick knew, the kid would forge the note. Still, from what he'd seen so far, if someone didn't step in, this kid was going to kill someone. "A note would be fine for now. But if you're at all capable, at some point, we'll need to sit down and talk to your Mum about it."

John nodded.

"Be at the police gym tomorrow after class," Mick instructed. "And bring the note."

That had been two weeks before. John had been coming to see him at the gym every day since. The first day he'd brought a note on a torn piece of stationary that looked to be hurriedly written. Mick was sure it was forged. Still, for now, all he was doing was physically training the boy. Until the day John actually got in a ring, he didn't need to worry.

John was still standing there expectantly, waiting for instruction. So far, Mick had learned little from him of a personal nature. John was taciturn, but full of anger and angst. Each day when he showed up at the gym, Mick could see the nervous energy, the simmering anger almost dancing on his skin. Between puberty and the pains of his life, John Lawless was a ticking time bomb just waiting to explode. Mick was going to make it his mission NOT to let that happen.

"Boxing is not about fighting," Mick explained. "And it's not about anger. Anger in a ring is dangerous and stupid. It makes you lose perspective and make foolish mistakes. You don't want to get mad at your opponent. You want to out think him."

"Out think him?" John echoed thoughtfully. "How do I do that?'

Mick grinned. "Let's not worry about that yet. For now, let's work on getting you in shape."

John shrugged and waited for direction. Mick taught John how to use the weight machines, how to jump rope, how to use the bags. He taught John the bags last; knowing this would be the most useful. The boy had such an unaccountable amount of rage in him. Rage that he needed to learn how to control. Punching the bag seemed to help. It allowed the kid to hit something without hurting himself or anyone else.

"Johnny," his Mum asked the morning of his fifteenth birthday, "what have you been doing?"

"Whatcha mean?" John was making himself a protein drink. In the two years he'd been working with Mick, he'd grown to his full height and become significantly more muscled. Working with weights, the bag, the rope, now and again sparing in the ring had bulked his upper body and firmed him up. He'd changed his diet too. He finished mixing the drink and sat down at the table.

"Your clothes don't fit right," she mumbled. "You look as if you're going to burst out of that shirt."

John could feel how tight the tee was across his chest and it did cut into his arms. Still, the girls seemed to like the way he looked. He'd noticed the change in their attitude toward him for a while now.

"Still growing," he muttered. He'd managed to hide his boxing from his Mum, sure that she'd say no to it. He'd gotten around Mick by telling his Nana and letting her deal with the cop. As his Mum had seemed to fall into her beer, John and his Nana had formed an alliance, with his Nana filling some of the roles his mother should have. He could talk to his Nana, where he couldn’t talk to his Mum and she supported him in ways his mother didn’t seem able.

Jennifer Lawless shook her head. "No. You have muscles. It's more than that."

"The job," he mumbled. In order to be able to go to the gym everyday he'd told her he had a job there. He did, after a fashion; he cleaned up. They gave him a few dollars every week, which he passed on to her.

"What is it you do again?" she asked absently. Her eyes were now concentrated on the beer in front of her and the smoke she had just lit.

John sighed. "I clean stuff up, move stuff, told you twenty times already. I gotta go." He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. She hadn't even remembered his birthday. He rinsed the glass in the sink and turned to go. "I'll be really late tonight," he muttered.

"Why?"

"Some of the blokes want to take me out. To, uh, celebrate."

"Celebrate?" she echoed. "What are you celebrating?"

John sighed again. "Nothing, Mum. Nothing." John turned to leave.

"Wait," she requested. "Could you go in the lounge and bring me what's on the table?"

He refrained from asking why she couldn't do it herself. He shrugged his shoulders and went. On the table sat a white envelope and a small box. He picked up both items and returned to the kitchen. He tried to hand them to her.

She grinned at him and refused to take them. "You idiot," she exclaimed. "Happy birthday."

"You remembered?" he repeated with surprise.

"I carried you for nine long months. Think I'd forget the day I finally dropped you?" Her smile took the sting out of the words. "Go on. Open it."

John grinned. He opened the card and slid it out of the envelope. It was flowery and sentimental. Then he opened the small box, but was perplexed by the contents. It held a small key. "What's this, then?"

"All that money you've been giving me? I put it away and then yesterday I used it to buy you a present. The key is for the lock on it." She paused and then added, "Go out back. You'll see."

John nodded and slid out the back door. Sitting innocently on the grass was the most beautiful bike he'd ever seen. Sixteen speeds, shiny, red, and brand new. A padlock was attached to a chain that was threaded through the front spokes. He ran back in the house shaking with pleasure. "It's beautiful."

His Mum smiled. "Thought you'd like it."

"It's . . ." he let the words trail off, now embarrassed and guilty over all the nasty thoughts he'd had. "Thank you."

"No worries," she replied. "Now off with you. Can't have you be late for school. Try not to lose it tonight when you're out."

He nodded, too overcome with emotion to speak. Instead he went to her, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped his arms around her in a hug, something he hadn't done in years. Then further overcome with embarrassment, he fled out the back door.

"This is really good shit," Tony said as he inhaled.

John nodded. He'd never smoked grass before, but he was fifteen and it wouldn't hurt to give it a crack. He held out his hand and accepted the joint. He knew Mick would have a fit if he found out, but it was his birthday.

John placed the joint between his lips and inhaled deeply. He immediately had a coughing fit. "Good shit," he repeated.

Tony laughed. "Just takes practice."

John tried again and this time it went a little smoother. Then he passed the joint back to Tony. By the time he took his fifth hit, he had the hang of it and he was beginning to feel it too. John felt light, carefree, happy, and relaxed. He felt good in a way he didn't feel very often and he liked it.

Mick saw the change in John almost immediately. Suddenly the kid who wanted to learn to box more than life itself was finding excuses not to come to the gym. Finding an excuse as to why he couldn't work out. After two months, Mick knew he had to do something. John had let his hair grow again and he was skipping class. Drugs. It had to be. Nothing else could cause this behavioral change, not even a girl.

One night when John claimed he needed to study for exams, Mick followed him. Sure enough, John met up with some blokes in the park and soon they were passing a joint. Now that Mick had confirmation he had to decide what to do. John was at a crossroads. Mick knew he could force John to make a choice, but if the boy didn't choose willingly, it would be worthless. He watched John and his mates as they smoked and laughed, then he shrugged and left.

The next day Mick braced John as he left school. "I need your help with something," Mick told him.

John, lightly buzzed from the smoke he'd had before his last class, let the cop take charge. He followed Mick to his car. "What about my bike?" John asked.

Mick studied him. John's eyes were glazed. The kid was high. Well, so much the better. "We'll come back for it."

John nodded. He got in Mick's car and waited.

Mick drove to the Wellington waterfront in silence. He parked by a set of tenements and gestured for John to get out.

"What are we doing here?" John asked.

"I want you to meet someone."

John shrugged and followed Mick. His eyes took in the scungy buildings and rundown neighborhood. Even though where he lived in Lower Hutt was lower class, this was true poverty. Everything looked worn out, broken, in disrepair. Rusted out cars littered the street. There were broken windows in every other building. Little children in rags ran wild or sat on stoops playing with broken bottles.

The two people, boy and man, walked for several blocks in silence until they finally ended up at a small house. The yard was overgrown with weeds, there were wooden boards where windows should have been, and the footpath was cracked and broken. The house looked as if it would fall apart any minute.

Mick knocked on the door. He waited, then banged several times before anyone answered. Finally, the screen door was pulled open by a big hulking brute of a man. He had a large head, smashed in nose, thick neck, broad shoulders and what was once muscled flesh was now clearly running to fat. John thought he looked vaguely familiar.

The big man looked at Mick and John and grimaced. "What you want?" he demanded in a loud voice.

"Just checking in," Mick retorted. "You staying out of trouble, Jack?"

Jack? Then John recognized him. Jack Farmer. He'd been a boxer, a good one, a heavyweight contender. Now he looked like something the cat dragged in. What had happened to him?

"I'm clean," the brute snorted. He shoved his arms in Mick's face. "No tracks."

Mick shrugged. "Yeah, well, you know that don't prove shit, Jack. Plenty of other places to shoot."

"I'm clean," Jack insisted. "And anyways, you ain't my parole officer. Bugger off."

Mick shrugged again. He turned to go. John was still transfixed by the man in the doorway.

"What you looking at, kid?" Farmer asked.

"You used to be Jack Farmer, the boxer, right?"

"Still am, you dickhead," Jack spat. The man puffed up his chest. "Care to go a few rounds?" he added menacingly.

"Uh, no, thanks," John mumbled as he backed away.

"Come on, " Mick ordered. "We got other calls to make."

John followed the cop down the footpath. Mick next took him to a crack house where he introduced him to a former rugby star now lost in the throes of addiction. Then it was to a nearby pub, where he met a former snooker champion who was now a drunk. Finally, Mick took John back to school. He never said why he was showing John any of this, nor did he lecture him about the evils of drugs or alcohol. He knew John was smart. Either the boy would get it or else he was lost. Mick hoped he made his point.

Mick sat across the table from John and studied him. The kid was like a sponge, Mick thought, absorbing information and storing it away. Now seventeen, almost eighteen, John was about to graduate at the top of his class. After their little jaunt to the seamier side of Wellington, John had gotten his act together. He'd begun to pay more attention in school and had gotten back into a regular workout routine. His body was well muscled and his boxing skills were becoming awesome. He could have a future in the fight game if he wanted it. "So you going to University?" he asked as the boy began scarfing down his fish and chips.

John stopped eating and swallowed. "Can't. Not yet. Don't have enough money saved."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Work at the mill, I guess. For a while anyways. Until I've got enough."

Mick studied the boy. For all that he had the body of a man, he still seemed emotionally immature. Over the years, he'd managed to extract bits and pieces of John's history. His Dad had died when he was young, leaving John to care for his mother. It was a responsibility John took very seriously. The kid had a strong sense of right and wrong, almost too strong, in that he saw everything in black and white. He was loyal to his friends, almost to a fault, and full of compassion. He was also full of contradictions. He was softhearted and yet, incredibly quick to anger.

Mick could never quite get to the root of that anger. Working the bag had helped John a lot, by the time he was fourteen his school fighting days were over. Still, the boy was close lipped about his feelings keeping everything inside. He knew, even if John would never admit or acknowledge it, that as much as he loved his mother, he resented her too. Resented never being able to be a kid. It was clear John had missed having a Dad, but Mick could never make himself try to fill that role for John. He settled for being a boxing mentor and maybe a friend.

The boy was good-looking and Mick had worried that would cause a problem. So far though, it seemed as if John had managed to avoid a female pitfall. Mick knew the girls were always after him, but he seemed almost disinterested. The boy was all male, and Mick was sure he'd experimented, but serious skirt chasing didn't seem to be on his agenda. He didn't have a steady girlfriend, hadn't had one yet to the best of Mick's knowledge and Mick wasn't sure what to make of that. Still, part of him was glad the boy seemed focused on his future. He worried though what would happen when John did fall in love. He was such a serious lad. Mick gave up his analysis and asked, "Have you thought about Clive's offer?"

Clive Johns owned the gym where John now worked out. He also owned several fighters and a construction company. He had offered John the chance to spar for him and to work construction. John hadn't given him an answer yet.

John nodded and chewed some more fish. "Yeah, but I dunno if I really want to box. I don't think I'm that good."

Mick laughed. "You ain't, but you're still young. You've got potential though. Lots of potential."

"What do you think?"

John had never asked his advice before. "It all depends on what you want to do."

John gave him a knowing look. "That's not much help. Look, Mick, I want to get out of here. You know that. To better myself."

Mick nodded. "The mill would be all right, I suppose. If you go to work for Clive, you'll stay in physical shape and it offers you other opportunities if you want to pursue them. Construction pays better than the mill. You could make the school money quicker."

John nodded. "Mum won't like it though."

Mick eyed him speculatively. "You never told her, did you?"

John grinned sheepishly. "No. She'd hate it. Still, if I work for Clive, I'll have to tell her."

"If you decide to take Clive's offer, I'll tell her."

John studied Mick. The cop was tall, beefy, and muscular, his body still firm, not yet running to fat. When John had first met him, Mick had seemed old, although in reality he wasn't. Mick had very short brown hair and brown eyes. His nose was mashed in from his boxing career. He was a strong man both physically and in his presence. John looked up to him, although he'd never told him so.

He'd been a good friend to him. They'd never spoken of that trip to see Jack Farmer, but John had always appreciated the way he'd made his point. Now, more than ever, he understood the lesson all too clearly. Drugs and drink were not the way out. He had watched his Mum sinking into her beer for years on a daily basis. Mick had helped him more than he knew. They'd never spoken of that either. John realized suddenly that despite their association he knew almost nothing about the man who had changed his life. "Are you married?" John asked abruptly.

Mick's eyes widened at the change in subject, then he laughed. "Used to be. She didn't much care for being a cop's wife though. Too much worry for her."

John gaped at him. He had never thought about Mick's life before, what it meant to be a cop. Never even considered what Mick's day-to-day existence was like when he wasn't with John. With all the self-absorption of youth, he had never really thought about Mick as a person at all. It had always been about him. In that moment, when he started to view Mick as a being separate from him, as a person with his own life, his own pain, John began finally to grow up.

The woman watched the men spar. Well, boy and man really. They weren't close to evenly matched; the young one was stronger, quicker, more muscled. He definitely had something. He was tall and well built. His footwork was good. The older man had experience on his side. He simply waited the youth out, then when the boy dropped his guard; he nailed him with two quick jabs to the jaw. The boy went down on his knees.

The older man laughed and began taking off his gloves. "You gonna get that pretty face of yours ruined one day," he remarked, "if you don't learn to protect yourself."

The boy got up, his eyes flashed with anger and he went to take a swing at the other fighter.

The big man grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't get mad."

The woman watched as the boy stood there trembling. She could see the anger rippling across his skin. The muscles in arms pulsed with it. She studied his face. It WAS pretty. Even the deliberate stubble on the chin couldn't change the almost feminine cast of the lush sensual mouth. He had a strong jaw though and nice dark eyes. The body was excellent; she'd have to find out who he was.

John was totally oblivious to the attention he was receiving. He was focused on Mick. He'd been working for Clive for a year now building houses and occasionally sparing. He was still in the amateur ranks and had yet to fight anyone of substance. Mick said Clive was grooming him, but he felt at loose ends. His mates had gone off to University or into the mill. He still didn't have quite enough put away to go to school, because he’d bought an ancient car and he'd insisted his mother stop working.

His mother had grumbled for weeks about his decision, but had finally accepted it. Not that she had any say. By the time, Mick had told her, John was eighteen. He lived at home, put money in the bank and tried to make sense of his life. He had plenty of opportunities for sex, and while he was always horny, something about the act always seemed to be missing. The girls liked him well enough, but he couldn't seem to find one that HE liked. Well, there was Shay Briston. She was a "nice girl." Even his Mum liked her. Still, at nineteen, he felt rudderless. His frustration always seemed to manifest itself as anger.

The woman stayed watching for a moment longer then turned on her heel. She walked away from the ring and over to where Clive Johns waited.

Clive watched his wife study the boxers. He knew she would be attracted to Johnny. The boy was young, healthy, and full of the same kind of piss and vinegar he used to be full of. Claire sashayed toward him looking much younger than her forty-five years. She dressed well. He should know. He paid the bills. She took care of herself too. He studied her voluptuous figure with barely concealed lust. She was still a hot little number.

Claire paused in front of her husband and looked at him. Clive had once been a boxer, he still had the big body, but it had run to fat. His face was round and full, his eyes were brown and calculating. He'd made a very good thing out of the fight game and she was grateful for the money and lifestyle it gave her. They made a good team most of the time. Still, none of that could keep her warm at night, or make the juices flow anymore. "Who's that?" she asked as she gestured to the ring.

"You remember Mick, dontcha?" he replied, knowing that wasn't who she meant.

"The other one. The kid."

"Names Johnny Lawless."

She turned back to the ring. Mick had released the kid's arm and was helping him off with his gloves. He chucked the boy affectionately on the arm and sent him off, probably to the showers. "He's got some moves," she said.

Clive nodded. "Yeah. I'm thinking he's almost ready."

She nodded. "He could go far. How old is he?"

Clive laughed, reading her mind. "He's a kid. Nineteen, I think, maybe twenty."

She nodded again. Old enough.

John walked out of the gym slowly, his mind in a whirl. Mick had come to him in the locker room and said that Clive wanted to meet with him the next day to discuss his future. What future?

He was so lost in his thoughts that he ran head-on into the woman before he realized it. He felt the collision first. His body smacked into something warm and soft and then he heard a moan.

She was sitting on the ground, her skirt twisted up around her thighs. Her blouse had popped open and he could see her full breasts. His hormones immediately went into overdrive.

"You gonna stand there gawking or help me up?" she muttered.

John swallowed hard. The pornographic images in his mind were already arousing him. "Sorry," he mumbled. He bent down and offered his hand.

Claire looked up at him. John was dressed in blue jeans and a tight T-shirt, obviously freshly showered and his face was full of innocence. She could tell he was interested. She accepted his hand and when he pulled her up, she deliberately leaned into him, letting her breasts press against his chest.

John felt her warm body next to his and felt his pants tighten with a hard-on. It didn't help that she was pressing her knockers against his chest either.

Claire smiled to herself as she felt the boy's body respond to her. "Didn't I see you in the gym?" she asked.

He nodded, afraid to trust his voice and afraid to move.

"What's your name, then?" she asked.

"Uh, John," he sputtered finally.

"Well, uh, John, I'm Claire." She took a step away from him and looked him up and down. Her eyes paused at the bulge in his jeans and then moved up to meet his eyes. She smiled.

John swallowed convulsively and felt a flush move up his face. He knew she'd seen and yet . . . "Sorry, I hit you," he apologized again.

"No worries," she murmured. "Although if you really wanted to make it up to me, you could buy me a beer."

"Buy you a beer?" he echoed dumbly. She wanted to drink with him? "Uh, yeah, sure," he agreed.

Claire linked her arm through his as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "We'll take my car, then, shall we?"

Claire led him to a cherry red Porsches convertible. It was gorgeous, sleek, low to the ground, hot, everything that Claire was, a boy's wet dream of a woman and a car. Claire saw the look of lust on his face and asked, "Would you like to drive?"

John swallowed again and felt his head spin. Everything was happening so fast. The woman was dangling a set of keys in her hand. Tempted beyond his ability to refuse, he took the keys.

Claire moved around and got in on the passenger side. John opened the driver's door eagerly and sat down. His knees were nearly up to his chest.

"Here," Claire murmured. "Let me help you move the seat." She slid her hand down his chest, lightly brushed his erection, and then reached under the seat. She shifted a lever and the seat moved back. John groaned.

Claire continued to smile to herself. 'Should be a VERY short drink,' she thought.

John inserted the key in the ignition and then asked, "Where to?"

"Why don't you drive her for a bit, get the feel of it. Then we'll decide," she said. She leaned over and let him have another look down her blouse. "She's a bit temperamental. She needs very gentle handling. But once she gets to know you, she'll do anything you want."

John gulped. His eyes were locked on the creamy breasts that were so close to his face. "Aren't you afraid I'll crash us?" he stuttered.

Claire laughed. "Not in the least. You seem a capable bloke. I'm betting you'll do just fine."

John nodded, tore his eyes away from her body, and started the car. The motor purred to life in an instant. He felt the vehicle vibrate with power. He was grateful his junker was a stick shift. He couldn’t think of anything more embarrassing than stripping her gears. He put his foot to the gas and carefully drove out of the parking lot.

After fifteen minutes, Claire suggested they get on the motorway so John could see what the car could do. He didn't need to be asked twice. The car was a dream to drive. It responded to the slightest touch, speeding up, slowing down, the wheel needed only a feather to turn it. Before he had gone two miles, he was in love.

Claire smiled with pleasure as she watched him. After a while she directed him to take the next turn-off. She said there was a little pub there she liked. The little pub was attached to a little hotel and with only minimal encouragement she and John were in a room.

The boy was nervous, scared, but obviously aroused. Claire gestured for him to sit on the bed. John did as directed still reeling from the heady drive and the even headier rush of the older woman's attention. He looked at Claire with hunger and trepidation in his eyes. Fumbling with girls in the back seat of his junker car or under the terraces in the park was a far cry from this.

Claire was older and classy. She was also gorgeous. She had long hair; thick, glossy blond hair that waved around her heart shaped face. Her eyes were big, blue, and slanted in a sexy way. Her skin was like cream, all milky and white. Her knockers looked huge. He was so hard it hurt. He shifted on the bed, trying to get comfortable as a thousand erotic images danced across his mind.

Claire knelt down in front of John. She took his face in her hands and kissed him gently. He responded eagerly, hungrily, his arms went around her and he began to grope her. His lips were soft, like silk, but rough too.

She pulled back and saw the lust in his eyes. His mouth was open, his tongue peeking out against that ripe bottom lip. She bent her head again and licked his Adam's apple. He groaned. She ran her hand down his torso and pulled his T-shirt out of his jeans. Then she pulled it over his head. The chest was lovely, all hard firm muscle and dark hair. She kissed her way down to his nipples. He groaned again and grabbed for her.

She pushed his hands away, raised her head, and said, "John, let me."

"Let you?" he echoed. "Let you what?"

"If you wait, you'll see," she retorted with a smile. Then she began to suck one of his nipples.

He groaned. His dick was aching as it was, and if she kept doing that . . . then he felt her tongue on his belly button and her fingers on the fly of his jeans.

He groaned again as she unzipped his jeans and released him. Then he felt her warm mouth on him. He'd had blowjobs before, but none like this. She moved her mouth up and down him so fast; it was almost as if she wasn't there at all. He could feel her tongue licking, then she was teasing him, and then she was sucking. Oh god, it felt so good. Her hands were on his nuts and she was squeezing. He came with a loud groan, shooting his come into her mouth. She swallowed it too, like she liked it.

Claire sat back and licked her lips. Very tasty. Now that that was out of the way, she'd have to see what kind of a lover John could be.

He looked at her; she looked quite pleased with herself. He felt a little embarrassed at coming so quickly, cause after all, he hadn't even touched her. She smiled at him and suggested that he clean up a bit and then they could start over. He nodded and went into the lav. He washed himself and when he came out, Claire was lying on the bed naked. Her body was fantastic. She was even a natural blond. Her knockers were huge; he wanted desperately to touch them, to bury his face in them. He could feel himself already getting hard again.

"Take your pants off," Claire directed.

John had redressed himself. He tried to remove his pants but they were caught on his shoes. He grinned with embarrassment and felt his face flush. He bent down, pulled his shoes off, and then shucked his jeans and briefs. Then he moved on to the bed.

Claire studied him. He had a gorgeous body and as she had hoped because of his age, he was almost ready to go again.

He lay there looking at her, not sure what to do next. She seemed to read his mind. She took his hands and placed them on her breasts.

John thought they felt incredible, firm and soft at the same time. He squeezed them between his palms and watched as the cherry red nipples began to harden. He bent his head, took one in his mouth, and began to suck. She moaned softly and whispered, "Not so hard. It's a nipple. Be gentle. Lick it a little."

John stopped sucking and began to lick that little nub as if it was an ice cream cone. Claire moaned and pulled his head closer. "Rub your lips on it," she whispered. He did and watched her body begin to ripple with arousal. Next, he did the same to the other nipple. Then he moved back and took the first one into his mouth. This time he sucked it very gently. She took his hand and guided it to her other nipple and directed him to tweak it between his thumb and forefinger as he sucked.

Now she was moaning and her body was writhing on the bed. He was hard again. He released her breast from his mouth and moved on top of her.

"Wait," she said. "Not yet. How do you know I'm ready for you?"

"Huh?" he panted. He already had his dick in his hand and was ready to put it to her.

"John, just because you're ready doesn't mean I am. Touch me, see if I'm wet."

He let go of his hard-on and slid his hand into her curls. He traced her opening. The lips were damp. "You're wet," he confirmed.

"Is there some great hurry?" she asked almost languidly. "Perhaps I can be wetter."

"Wetter?" he muttered. All he wanted to do was get inside her. He had no idea what she was suggesting.

"Roll off," she directed.

He did as she asked, although he was beginning to get a little annoyed.

"Have you ever tasted a woman?" she asked softly.

"Tasted?" he repeated. He thought for a moment, then blushed furiously. "You mean . . ." he flashed on some flicks he'd seen with his mates. Where he'd seen it done. He'd never tried it himself; the girls he'd had wanted to kiss and fuck and could occasionally be talked into blowjobs. No one had ever asked him to do it.

"You haven't, have you?" she said. "John, it's one of the greatest pleasures you can give a woman. And believe you me, it makes the rest of the sex better."

"What do I do exactly?' he asked. The idea did intrigue him and if it would get his aching dick inside her, so much the better.

She laughed. "Well, first you can come back over here and let me teach you how to kiss properly. Then I'll teach you the rest."

No one had ever complained about his kissing before. "What's wrong with the way I kiss?" he demanded.

She laughed again. "Nothing really. But kissing can be an art form. It can also on occasion be as satisfying as sex. Now come here."

John slid over to her and waited. Claire took his face in her hands and bent her head. She ran her tongue lightly over his lips and then rubbed hers against his. She traced the curve of his ear with her finger then she sucked his lower lip. He moaned and pulled her into his arms.

He pressed against her, pulling her mouth to his. He kissed her hard, his mouth open, his tongue shoving into her mouth. She matched him, tongue probing his mouth, her lips crushed against his. Then she pulled away.

He was panting, his hands were moving over her body roughly, his teenage passion beginning to overcome him.

"Slow down," she whispered. "There's no need to rush."

He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the throbbing between his legs. She kissed him again, slowly; brushing her lips and tongue against his mouth and then pulling back. Over and over, she did this, until he thought he would explode from pent up lust. Finally he grabbed her head and kissed her hard, almost brutally, pressing his mouth to hers, crushing her lips with his own. Then he began to kiss his way down her throat towards her breasts.

"Touch me," she whispered as he began to suckle again.

He slid one hand down her body and fingered the soft hair. He traced the opening lightly before gingerly slipping a finger inside her. He was rewarded with a moan. "Rub me."

Rub her? What was she asking now? Despite having taken sex education and the numerous girls he'd had, a woman's body was still a mystery to him. He had no idea what she wanted. He shoved two more fingers inside her and began to move them in and out. She moaned his name.

He released her nipple and began to kiss his way down her chest to her belly. He tickled her belly button with his tongue and then waited for instruction. The sound of her moans was really getting to him. He moved his fingers faster and then he felt it. A little nub of flesh, maybe that was what she meant. He rubbed it, she moaned, and he felt hot liquid hit his hand. He slipped his fingers out.

"Now do that with your mouth," she panted.

He nodded. He slid down the bed and moved between her legs. He pressed her thighs open wider and looked at her. It was kind of like a flower he decided with a little pink petal in the middle. She was dripping fluid. He bent his head and placed a tentative kiss on the soft skin of her inner thigh. She moaned and pushed her pelvis toward him. He kissed his way a little closer and she moaned again. Now he moved to the other leg and did the same. This was power, he realized. She had made him hard, now he would make her moan. He ran his tongue along the juncture between her thigh and her sex. She grabbed his head, pulled it forward, and pressed his mouth against her sex.

He kissed the open lips and then tentatively ran his tongue around them, tasting her. Hmm, not bad. Interestingly spicy, kind of salty, but definitely not bad. So he did it again. She groaned and pushed herself into his face. So, she liked it. Well, so did he. And he liked that she liked it. So he did it again. And again. He traced her nether lips over and over with his tongue until she was moaning constantly. Then he stuck his tongue inside her. She REALLY liked that. He moved it in and out for a while and then lightly touched the little pink nub with the tip of his tongue. She moaned his name and arched up as hot liquid splashed on his face. She was pulling at him trying to get him to do something, he wasn't sure what, but he decided he liked what he was doing just fine.

He grabbed her thighs and pulled her mound close, bent his head and began to lick that pink nub a little harder and faster. Pretty soon she was humping his face, pushing herself against him and he could feel her nails clawing him. He wondered what would happen if he sucked that bud, so he did. He felt it get hard and then she seemed to explode. Liquid flooded his face, she screamed his name, her body began to shudder and tremble and her nails dug into his shoulders.

He had to release her so he could breathe. She was writhing on the bed, her pelvis moving convulsively, her chest heaving. Her eyes were wide open and staring at him, her lips parted.

He grinned at her and began to kiss his way back up her body. He got to her knockers, when he felt her hands on his dick and then he felt her insert him inside her. He lost all ability to think as he pushed up into her.

She was incredibly hot, wet, and tight. It was like being inside a furnace, a way too tight furnace that was going to squeeze him to death. He held himself inside her for a long moment, trying not to come.

She gripped his back, her nails dug into his skin, and she pushed her groin against his. Then she wrapped her legs around his waist and murmured, "Move."

He began to pound into her, his aching cock, rock hard, slammed in and out of her with all the power his young body could put behind it. She was moaning and her hands and body were matching him thrust for thrust. He felt the sweat pouring off him as he ground into her. The harder he thrust, the more she seemed to like it. Soon he couldn't hold back any longer, he rammed into her fast. He felt her insides spasming around him, felt his balls tighten up and then without even thinking, shot his wad deep inside her. He groaned her name as he came, shuddering, trembling, and collapsing on her with his full weight. His head dropped to her knockers, he lay his sweat soaked face between them. He could feel his dick shrinking inside her but still throbbing. He lay there panting, gasping for breath, and feeling as if his heart would explode out of his chest. He could feel her fingers on his forehead, gently stroking his hair.

Finally he raised his head and looked at her. Her forehead had a light sheen of perspiration and so did her upper lip. Her eyes were wide and slightly glazed. Her mouth was open. She smiled and whispered, "Very good, John. Very good indeed."

He grinned as if he'd been given a gift. And indeed, he had. Claire was a woman, not a girl and pleasing her was a revelation to him. The girls he'd been with, he was never sure if they really liked it or not. They said they did, but none of them had ever behaved like this. The rush of her body spasming around him, the way he could make her moan his name, that was something new and he liked it.

He propped himself up on his arms and felt his soft cock slip out of her. He trailed his fingers down her body and traced her sex. The opening was damp and sticky. He slipped two fingers inside, looking for that nub of flesh. When he found it, he began to tease it with his fingertips. He watched Claire's face as he brushed it lightly, she began to bite her lip and arch her body up. He rubbed it a little harder and she moaned his name. Now he changed the pressure of his fingers, rubbing in circles and she moaned again, pushed up again, began to pant and finally, he felt her come all over his hand again. He grinned even wider and slipped his fingers out, putting them to his mouth to savor her sweetness.

She gazed at John, took a deep breath, crooked her index finger at him in a gesture that said, "Come here," and smiled.

The next few years of John's life turned out very differently than he had planned. Clive wanted him to fight another year as an amateur and then turn professional. If he did well, then Clive would groom him for top rank contention. For those few years, John did everything Clive said.

Claire got him interested in other things. Fast cars, good food, expensive wine and clothes, the good life. Claire not only taught him about how to please a woman, she taught him about life in the fast lane. John was like a sponge soaking it all up, learning how to get along with everyone. Now he moved between his lower class world and Claire's middle and upper class one with ease.

He'd been involved with Claire for a month before he found out she was Clive's wife, and by then it was too late. He tried to get away, continuing to go out with Shay, even finally having sex with her, but it hadn't worked. Claire was like a fever in his blood. He'd broken up with Shay and returned to Claire, unable to keep away. Their relationship had little to do with love, and everything to do with sex and power.

John was still living with his Mum. Clive had increased his pay and he was earning more and more money from boxing. He had more than enough to go back to school, but instead he paid off the mortgage on his mother's house. He stopped putting money in the bank and began to spend it instead, buying a new car, new clothes, all kinds of things. He figured the gravy train would never end, and if it did, he could always go back to school then.

As John got increasingly involved with Claire and Clive's world, his relationship with Mick deteriorated. Though they'd never really been close in the conventional sense, now they seemed to completely drift apart. Mick still worked out with him at least once a week, but it always seemed like he had something to say, something, which he never actually DID say. John occasionally wondered what it was Mick seemed determined not to tell him, but never asked. Unconsciously, he knew he didn't want to know.

John celebrated his twenty-third birthday in the ring. He won his fight against a top light heavyweight contender. He hadn’t been supposed to win, but he had. He went out that night with Claire, drank too much champagne, and crashed his new car into a light pole. Mick came bursting back into his life with a vengeance.

Again, John was at a crossroads. If his press was to be believed he was about to break into the top ranks of fighters. In theory, John had the world by the balls. Mick knew better. He knew Clive held John's life in his hand. Clive owned John and John would have to do whatever Clive told him. Mick suspected, because of John's relationship with Clive's wife, that John was in serious trouble.

Mick heard about the accident from a mate of his on the force. He went straight to hospital and found John in the A & E surrounded by pretty nurses. Luckily, John had been alone in the car when he hit the pole and his speed hadn't been too fast. He had only minor physical injuries. Mick intended to inflict some serious mental damage though. He dragged John out of hospital and took him to his home.

John had never seen Mick's bungalow before. It was small but very clean. Everything was tidy, as if the person who lived there had too much time on their hands. There were framed pictures and newspaper articles of Mick's fight career on the wall and trophies everywhere. Mementos of Mick's fifteen minutes of fame.

Mick shoved John into a chair and looked at him. John's face was flushed; his clothes were torn and slightly bloody. His short hair was standing up on his head and his chin had an inch of stubble on it. His eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep and alcohol. He didn't yet look like he was on a downward spiral, but Mick knew he was. "Pretty proud of yourself, aren't you?" Mick asked.

John felt his whole body tighten with tension. "What do you know about it, eh?"

Mick laughed bitterly. "I know EVERYTHING about it. You think you have the world by the tail, dontcha? Think you can do anything you want cause you're gonna live forever."

"Piss off," John retorted. He rose from the chair. "I don't need to listen to this shit. Who do you think you are anyway?"

Mick grabbed John by the collar of his T-shirt. "I think I'm the only person in your life who actually gives a shit what happens to you. So for once in your life, listen to me."

John felt the rage bubble inside him. Anger was still never far from the surface. He had never investigated the cause of his rage never traced or treated the pain that caused it. He could punch a bag twenty-four hours a day and it would still never leave him. He clenched his fists and retorted, "Say what you have to say and then let me go."

Mick saw the lack of interest in his eyes. Saw that John was almost too far gone down the road to destruction to hear him. So he did the only thing he could think of to get John's attention. He hauled his arm back and landed a rock solid punch to John's jaw. John reeled from the impact. His hands automatically moved into defensive position. He hauled his own arm back to take a swing at Mick and found that he couldn't. Mick had wrapped him up and had him trapped. "Think you're such hot shit?" Mick hissed in his ear. "As good as you are, I'm still better."

"You never made it to the top ranks," John scoffed. "You were always a loser."

Mick laughed bitterly and released his hold on John. "You still don't get it, do ya? You really are a bloody idiot. Look around you, John. Look at the photos and the trophies. Look at the newspaper articles."

John rubbed his jaw his anger momentarily forgotten. He took a long slow tour through Mick's lounge, looking at the memorabilia. As he studied each reflection of Mick's boxing career realization dawned on him. The pattern was exactly the same. A long slow build from amateur to pro, some middle rank fights and then the loss in the big one. "What happened?" John asked.

Mick shrugged. "Same thing that's going to happen to you."

"It's not going to happen to me," John insisted. "I'm too good."

Mick laughed bitterly. "So was I. But they owned me, just like they own you. You won't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," John insisted.

Mick shook his head. "If you still think that then you're worse than a idiot. You're a fool. You're a lot of things, John, but I never thought you were stupid."

"I'm not thick," he retorted. "What are you trying to tell me, Mick? Just spit it out."

"Clive's going to order you to take a dive."

John's jaw dropped. He'd heard rumors of this, everyone in the fight game had. But as best as he could tell Clive was legit and so were his fighters. He shook his head and his eyes opened wide in utter disbelief. "You're crackers. Why would he do that? I can win."

Mick laughed. "Money, you dickhead. And I'm not so sure you can win. But it don't matter. Cause you'll take the dive."

"I won't," John protested. "I never quit on anything in my life and I won't take a dive."

"Never quit on anything?" Mick repeated. "What about University?"

"Can't quit something you never start," John snapped. "Anyway, what makes you so sure?"

Mick shook his head. "I AM sure. You have two choices, John. You can do what Clive says, take the dive and the cash or you can get out now."

John shook his head. "No. I don't believe you. Clive believes in me. Claire says . . ."

"Ah, Claire. Beautiful, sexy Claire. Doesn't it bother you to be shagging Clive's wife?"

John's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. "How do you know . . . why would you say that?"

"Christ, John, you really ARE a bloody idiot. Everyone knows about the two of you, including Clive."

John's whole body seemed to suddenly go limp. How was it possible? He'd been careful, always treating her like a stranger in public. Going out with other women to hide their affair. No way. "How?"

"Sit down before you fall down," Mick ordered gently. John looked as if he had just taken a hard shot to the belly.

John moved to a chair and collapsed into it. His face was full of disbelieving shock and his eyes looked devastated.

"This is what Claire does. She takes young fighters, gives them a taste, hooks them on the good life and then leaves them for Clive to swallow whole."

"No," John moaned. "That can't be true."

"Believe me," Mick replied. "I know. You think I learned this the easy way? Shit, John, I've BEEN everywhere you have. All of it."

Yet another realization dawned in John's mind. Mick was about the same age as Claire. Mick and Claire? No. NO. John put his head in his hands as he felt his whole world crash down on him. For the first time in his life, John was forced to confront himself. He was a stupid idiot. He'd believed Claire when she said he was special, unique, someone. Believed her when she told him to forget about school, be a boxer, he had what it took to make it. Believed her when she said he was the only one. As he moaned into his hands, a new thought crossed his mind. "You knew all this years ago. Knew it when you introduced me to Clive, knew it when you suggested I take his offer. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Why didn't you do what you said you wanted to? Take the money and go to University."

"I dunno. Maybe cause I liked being someone. Now I'm no one. Shit, Mick, what am I gonna do?"

"That's up to you, John. You can walk away you know. Do something else."

"What else? I only have a secondary education. What am I fit for? All I know how to do is box."

"That is not all you can do. You could still go to University."

John shook his head. "The money's mostly gone. On the car and Claire. Plus I bought my Mum's house for her. I kept thinking, Clive made me think, the money would never end."

Mick had suspected as much. "I'm sorry, John. I should have warned you."

John studied the cop. "I wouldn't have listened," he replied softly. "Just like I wouldn't have listened today if you hadn't hit me." John rubbed his jaw. "You still have a hell of a right hook."

Mick laughed and looked at his hand. The knuckles were red and swelling. "Yeah, well, to tell you true, you're twice the boxer I ever was. But you still get mad. And it still defeats you every time."

"So what do I do?" John asked again. "I can't just walk away. Cause of . . ."

"Claire? I wouldn't worry about her. She knows which side her bread is buttered and it ain't yours."

"That's a comfort," John snapped. "Makes me feel right special."

"Sorry, but I'm not going to lie to you. You're in a nasty spot no matter what you do. If you keep boxing, eventually Clive is going to order you to take that dive. You have a contract so you can't fight for anyone else. So either you do what he wants or walk."

"What if I say no?"

"What do you think?"

"Isn't this illegal? You're a cop. Can't you . . ."

Mick laughed. "Yeah. Right. I bust him, I bust myself."

"I could do it. I mean, if he asks me to take a dive, that's fight rigging. I could tell someone."

Mick shook his head. "You don't want to do it, John. It's not worth your life."

"My life?"

"You think these are nice people? It's all about money. Lots and lots of money, most of it illegal. Not every promoter is a crook, plenty of straight ones. I thought Clive was straight once and for the most part, he is. Just the occasional foray into illegality for him. Still, his partners wouldn't like it. It's just part of the game."

"You're saying that even though you're sworn to uphold the law, you're looking the other way?"

"Are things really THAT black and white to you?" Mick asked rhetorically. "It becomes a question of priorities. What's more important? One fixed fight or one fighter's life? Your life has more value than the potential to lose it."

"It's wrong," John insisted. "And you know it. I say we bust him."

"We?" Mick echoed. "You ain't a cop."

"No, but maybe . . ." John looked at Mick. "I could do that."

Mick shook his head. "Where did that come from?"

John shrugged. "I dunno. I opened my mouth and it came out."

"Yeah, well, stick it back in. Look, John, you're a good kid. You still have a way out. Take it."

"I'm not a kid, Mick," John argued. "I'm a man."

"Sex with Claire, crashing your car, buying your Mum a house, don't make you a man," Mick explained. "Just makes you male."

John rose from the chair again, anger shimmering on his skin. He stood to his full height, got right in Mick's face, and said, "Bullshit. I'm an adult."

"Then act like one. Stop letting other people run your life."

The muscle in John's jaw began to twitch. He clenched his fists and then he saw the relentless look in Mick's eyes and thought better of it. "Does that include you?"

Mick laughed. "I never tried to run your life. Just guide you a little. I can tell you though, if I had taken charge of you, you'd be a damn sight better off than you are now."

John thought about that. It was true, he realized. Mick had never lectured him, only gave advice when asked, never told him what to do except when it came to the ring itself. He'd let John find his own way, make his own mistakes, grow at his own speed. Even now, he wasn't ordering John to do anything, just making suggestions, though it was clear he had strong opinions on the subject.

"Have I ever said thank you?" John asked quietly.

"Thank you?" Mick echoed. "For what?"

The memories came crashing down on John. The constant fighting at school before he'd met Mick. His inability to make friends. Anger that exploded all the time. His impatience and frustration with his Mum. The drugs that made him feel good, but would have killed him in the end. Mick had changed all that. Boxing had changed it. Boxing gave him an outlet and a certain cache with the blokes at school. "For saving me. From myself," John amplified. "If you hadn't taught me to box . . ."

"You'd have been fine," Mick replied gruffly. "Just fine."

John shook his head. "Nah, I wouldn't have. I saw what happened to some of the blokes I grew up with. At least two of my running mates are in the joint. Tony's dead, the drugs got him. And thank you for that too." John paused and added, "You really made a difference."

Mick shrugged, embarrassed by the affection and gratitude. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

John continued to study the cop. As he realized all the things Mick had done for him, he was overcome with emotion. "How can I ever repay you?"

"You don't owe me anything," Mick mumbled. "Let it go."

John shook his head. "I owe you, Mick. Maybe even my life."

"You really want to repay me?" John nodded. "Then get away from Clive and maybe someday you can make a difference in someone else's life."

John nodded. Mick offered to drive him home, but he insisted on walking. He had a lot to think about.

"What happened to you?" his Mum asked the second he came through the door. "Get hit by a truck?"

John grinned and felt the muscles in his jaw throb with pain. Damn Mick had a strong hook. "In a manner of speaking," he muttered softly. He looked at her, for the first time in several years, he really looked.

His Mum seemed to have shrunk. Her body sat, folded in on itself, at the kitchen table. She had the perpetual cigarette and glass of beer in front of her. Her blond beauty was faded; she looked old, tired, and careworn. She still had her figure, but the pretty, vivacious woman who had been his Mum seemed to have vanished. "What happened to you?" he muttered in an undertone.

She heard him. "Life, John," she answered sadly. "Life happened to me, just like it happens to everyone."

"Life?" he echoed. He pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. He reached out and took her hand in his. "I need to tell you something."

"You're in trouble," she acknowledged. "Aren't you?"

"Not exactly, but . . . things are going to change. At least you have the house now, free and clear."

"Thank you, Johnny," she murmured. "That was a lovely thing to do."

"Least I could do," he mumbled, "considering all the trouble I've been to you."

"Trouble?" she repeated with a laugh. "You? You've never been anything but a good boy."

He grinned wryly. "I know that ain't true. Look Mum, some things are going to happen and well, I might not come out of this looking any too good."

"Someone gonna beat your pretty face in?"

"Not what I meant. You might hear some things, well, I haven't been exactly smart."

"Can you go to jail?" she asked with trepidation.

He shook his head. "No, nothing like that. But I'm a, I've been involved with . . ."

"Some woman, no doubt and a bad one too. She married?" John nodded. "Divorce court, then?" He shook his head. "Just spit it out, John. We'll deal with it."

He rose from the chair and went to her. He pulled her to her feet and gave her a hug. Then he set her back down. "I love you," he whispered. Then embarrassed by his emotions, he fled the room.

Jennifer Lawless lit another smoke and wondered how bad the trouble really was. John looked hurt and devastated as if someone had taken his center away. He looked an awful lot like his father too. She just hoped he was stronger than Kenny and a hell of a lot smarter.

John slept most of the day away. When he woke his entire body was sore and his soul was sick. He was in trouble and his life was a mess. What was he going to do?

He took a long hot shower and thought furiously. Then he got dressed. His Mum was out, she'd left a note, "Gone to Nana's."

He thought about going over there, but didn't think he could take the disappointment in his grandmother's eyes when she learned the fourteen kinds of fool he'd been.

Instead he called about his car, discovered it was totaled and then called Claire. She offered to come get him.

John waited on the front porch for her. She pulled up in her red Porsches convertible, looking sleek and lovely. As dangerous as could be. She waited for him to get in and then took off like a bat out of hell.

Claire drove to the little apartment she now kept for their rendezvouses. She could tell John had something on his mind. She let them into the love nest with her key and then headed straight to the kitchen. She got two beers and returned to the lounge to find John pacing. "Here," she said. "You look like you could use this."

He shook his head. "No. Claire, we need to talk."

She laughed softly and looked at her lover. "Talking was never your strong suit, John. In fact, I'm not sure we’ve ever spent much time doing that. Why start now?"

"Cause we have to. Is it true Clive's setting me up?"

"Setting you up?" she echoed. How much did he know? And how? She and Clive had been so careful. This one was the big one. He was almost good enough to actually make it. When he crashed and burned the money would roll in. They'd already made a small fortune off him.

"Yeah. Building me up. Making me look like a real contender. And then . . . "

He looked as if he knew it all. She put the beers down and went to him. She put her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, then pulled his head to hers in an attempt to kiss him.

He pushed her away for once thinking with his brain instead of his cock. "Talk to me, Claire."

"John, you're a good fighter. You have a winning record. Why would Clive set you up?"

He studied her. For all that they'd been screwing for four years, he really didn't know her that well. He realized that he didn't like her much either. Claire was hard and cold, except when they were doing it. Then she was hot, so hot, all passion and fire. "Money," he claimed softly.

"John, who put an idea like that in your head?"

He shrugged and didn't answer.

"Mick," she mused. "Mick told you this story. He's never liked me. Not since I turned him down."

"What?"

"You didn't know?" she retorted. "Years ago, when Mick was boxing, he made a move on me and I turned him down flat. He's never forgiven me. He's just been waiting for a chance to get his own back. This is it. Clive is straight and so are his fighters."

John wanted to believe her. He really did. Just being in a room with her still excited him. He was sexually addicted to her. He studied her face and body. She was gorgeous, her flesh still creamy, her tits still firm.

She saw the desire and figured she'd won. She went to him and ran a hand up his body. She ran her nails over his crotch and felt him respond. She pulled his face to hers and kissed him hard. He kissed her back, just as brutally.

Soon the two of them were panting. Claire began pulling at John's clothes and he at hers. Then they were both naked.

John could almost feel Claire's arousal, her hunger for him and realized suddenly that as addicted to her as he was, she was equally as addicted to him.

Her hands were all over him and she was rubbing herself against him, her need for release so obvious and naked it was almost breathtaking.

She pulled him into the bedroom, then lay down on the bed herself. She gestured for him to come to her.

He stood there naked, his body shimmering with desire, sweat and anger. His shaft was erect, his body primed. He looked at the woman and then shrugged. "No," he uttered softly.

"No?" she repeated with surprise.

"No," he said again. He turned from her and walked out of the bedroom.

She followed. She grabbed his arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

"It's over, Claire. All of it. I'm not some boy toy. If you won't tell me the truth, then what's the point?"

She grasped his shaft in her hand. "The point is sex. Always has been."

He shook his head and removed her hand from his erection. "Not good enough. Not anymore."

She ran her nails hard down his chest. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to leave marks. He jerked back and grabbed her wrist in his hand. "Don't do that again. It's over."

"It's not over until I say it's over," she muttered. She thrust her breasts in his face. "You know you want me. Stop being a dickhead."

He released her wrist and turned away. He bent down and began picking up his clothes.

She slipped behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her mound against his ass. She rubbed against him as her hand caressed his organ. He stood there for a moment in acquiescence, then pushed her hands away. He turned to glare at her. "Stop it, Claire. It's not going to work."

She stood there, her chest heaving, her lips and legs parted, her hands on her hips. She looked at his throbbing shaft and demanded, "You can't tell me you don't want me anymore."

He glared harder at her. "You want a last fuck? Is that it, Claire? A goodbye bonk?"

"That's crude and vulgar," she criticized.

He could see by the look in her eyes that despite the condemnation, it WAS what she wanted. Overcome with anger and desire, he grabbed her. He pulled her head back and looked into her blue eyes. "But that's what you want, isn't it?" he hissed. "You want me to perform for you one last time. Make you moan and scream; make you come and come and come.

She shivered. She knew he could see it, knew he was right. She said nothing; the need was naked on her face.

John felt the anger flowing through his body, his frustration at the situation and how foolish he had been and it overwhelmed him. She stood there looking at him, her eyes wide with desire; there was no apology for using him, and no fear that he would hurt her. He wanted to rip that expression off her face, wipe the power that she had over him off the face of the earth.

He gripped her by her hair and kissed her brutally, his lips crushed hers, his tongue slammed into her mouth. He grabbed her ass with his other hand and ground his shaft against her. "You want this," he hissed. "Beg for it, you whore."

She sucked in her breath, but said nothing. Her eyes said it all; they were naked with need.

John saw it and lost control. He threw her down on the floor, spread her legs with his knees, and slammed into her. She moaned and gripped his back.

He pounded into her with all his anger not caring if he hurt her. He pummeled her, using his body to smash her to the floor, his pelvis slamming into hers. She moaned beneath him, her body was arching up, juicing up around him, all hot, wet, and tight. She wasn't fighting him; she was urging him on.

Her acceptance, her enjoyment, just made him angrier. He was still being manipulated, still giving her what she wanted. Abruptly he stopped, withdrew from her, and rolled off. His whole body was trembling, his cock hurt, but he'd be damned before he'd play this game anymore.

She lay there panting, her breasts heaving, her nipples hard. "Why did you stop?" she gasped.

"I'm not your fucking vibrator," he snapped. "You want to get off? Do it yourself."

"You prick," she shrieked. "You think you're such hot shit? You're nothing but a low-class hoon. All you're good for is a fuck and apparently you're not even good for THAT anymore."

He laughed bitterly. "Ah, the real Claire comes out. So you think that's all I'm good for? Well, maybe you're right. But you won't be getting off thanks to me anymore." He stood up and began to dress. "It's over and I quit. All of it."

She sat up. "You have a contract. You want to box. You work for Clive. He owns you."

He said nothing, just put on his clothes. When he was finally dressed, he took one last look at the woman on the floor.

"You're getting old, Claire," he insulted her. "The tits are starting to sag. The lines are getting bigger. Must be about time for another lift, eh?" Then he left.

Just outside the door, he began to tremble. He was sickened at himself, at the meanness he had just committed. It was irrelevant that she deserved it. He'd no idea of the kind of cruelty he was capable of. Or that he would ever use sex just as she had to hurt and manipulate. He stood there for a long moment, shaking with revulsion and then regained control of himself. He still had to face Clive.

"You are a bloody idiot," Clive bellowed. "You're a boxer, not a thinker. Don't ever think again. Just do what I say."

John stood in Clive's office at the gym surrounded by boxing paraphernalia. Pictures of champs past and present adorned the walls. Clive sat at the desk, his round face full of irritation.

"You saying it's ALL true? You've just been building me up to tear me down?"

"What diff does it make? You get paid either way."

"It makes a difference to me. Did I win any fights fair and square?"

Clive shrugged. "Some. You're not that bad, but you're not that good either. Your looks were a help, the girls loved to watch you."

John felt everything he had left collapse around him. "I quit."

"You can't quit. You have a contract. As long as you box, you're mine."

"I won't box anymore."

"What else can you do? Besides, I don't think you read your contract very well. You owe me two more fights or else you owe me twenty thousand dollars."

"What?"

Clive laughed; it was not a happy sound, but one of supreme power. "I've already paid you twenty thousand for the year, if you don't fulfill your contract you have to give me back the money."

"I don't have that kind of money."

"Of course not, you spent it on cars, your Mum and of course, Claire. So you have no choice but to fight for me. And to do as I tell you when it comes to whether you win or lose."

John's body slumped in defeat. He turned and slipped out the door, the sound of Clive's laughter ringing in his ears.

"You did what?" Mick shouted.

"I told Claire off and then I told Clive off."

"You stupid prick," Mick grumbled. "You let them know you knew everything? Why, John? Why?"

"Cause I was tired of being a patsy. Tired of being used. I told them both it was over."

"I'll bet they just loved that. How did Claire take it?"

John shrugged. "Not well."

"And Clive?"

"He said I had to fight twice more or else I owed him twenty thousand. Mick, I don't have that kind of money. But even if I did . . ."

Mick nodded. He knew the money wasn't the point. The point was now ownership of John’s soul. Because if he fought and took a dive, he would never be able to live with himself. To John, it was only a question of right and wrong. The boy still saw everything as black and white. He’d yet to understand that nearly the whole world was one vast murky shade of gray.

"What do I do?"

"Nothing for right now," Mick muttered. "I think you’ve done enough for today."

"I’m sorry, Mick. Sorry I’ve been such a dickhead."

Mick looked at him. Then finally he said, "What got you in trouble was thinking with your dick. If you hadn’t got involved with Claire."

John’s expression was embarrassed and defiant all at once. "I was young and she was available. Couldn’t help it."

Mick shrugged. "Can’t say I blame you, I guess. I know how that is."

"She told me," John began. He paused, "She SAID she turned you down."

Mick laughed. "Well, she would, wouldn’t she? She still have that cute little mole on her inner thigh? Does she still wail like a banshee when she comes?"

John felt his face flush. "Uh, yeah, on both counts. I figured she was lying, but . . ."

Mick put an arm around John’s shoulder in an unaccustomed gesture of affection. "I know. You didn’t want to believe. I know."

"I’m sorry. Now how do I fix this?"

"Let me give it some thought. Just don’t do anymore stupid things, okay?"

John nodded.

Mick dropped John at home and then went to see Clive. There was a very loud argument overheard by everyone in the gym. Then Claire arrived and the argument got louder and there were three voices raised in anger. Threats were exchanged on all sides.

The next day, in the alley behind the gym, Mick’s body was found, badly beaten, stripped of wallet and id, it looked like a mugging. John was devastated.

Two days after Mick was found dead, John received a call from Mick’s lawyer. John was informed that he was the sole heir to Mick's estate. Mick had no other family. Mick had left him the bungalow, $10,000 dollars, and a letter, which included a key for a safety deposit box.

John was overcome with emotion. He knew this was his fault. That he had brought this on. If he hadn’t been such a bloody idiot, then Mick would still be alive. He was overwhelmed with grief, anger, frustration and his own stupidity. He had no idea what to do about it, but he knew he had to do something. The letter was very cryptic. It only told him that he should get the contents of the box before he did anything else. It took a week before the lawyer could arrange access to the lock box. When he did, John was amazed by the contents.

There was enough evidence of wrongdoing on Clive’s behalf in the box to send him to jail. There was also evidence of Mick's wrongdoing as well. John knew he needed help.

He walked into the station where Mick had worked and asked to see Mick’s old boss. He explained the situation and asked what he could do to help. At first, the Inspector didn’t want to listen. Then he didn’t want John’s help. However, John was adamant, either he was in on it or the evidence would vanish. He was stubborn and unyielding. Finally, the Inspector agreed John was in a position to help.

John was wired up and went to pay a call on Clive. The "interview" was short and sweet. John told Clive that he now had Mick’s records and that Clive was done for. There was enough there to convict him of fight fixing, fraud, and illegal bookmaking. Clive laughed and asked if he no longer liked living. Then suggested that if he didn’t hand over the evidence he would go the way Mick did. It was enough. The cops entered and arrested Clive.

John went to Mick’s grave. He hadn't been strong enough to go to the funeral. He wasn't sure who had handled it, but he thought that maybe the cops had. John Lawless stood looking down at the grave, trying to make sense of things. His life was in shreds; all his dreams tattered, all his pretensions torn. It was time to start over. But start over how?

He thought of Mick the first time he had seen him, he'd been fighting, beating the shit out of some classmate, couldn't even remember who it was now. And this tall, big man in uniform had come along and changed his life. When he'd gotten into drugs and started on a downward path, Mick had seen it, and instead of lecturing, instead of ordering him to stop, he'd simply showed him what could happen if he wasn't careful. When he'd gotten in to trouble, Mick had stood by him, supported him, had never once done the "I told you so" routine. Mick had made a real difference in his life, without even getting anything in return. Now, Mick was dead because of him. He could never pay him back what he owed him. Mick was gone. But maybe he could do the last thing Mick had asked of him. Maybe he could make a difference in someone else's life.

John Lawless entered the station house tentatively. He walked up to the front desk and asked, "Where do you keep the applications for the Police Academy?"

The End

Lawless Stories

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