Chapter 1
Ren
The place was called Beat.
I stood on the footpath outside the roller door that led into the backstreet boxing studio, staring up at the sign. It was painted in red letters, outlined in white. From the outside it looked like a garage and to anyone that didn't know, it was nothing but a stupid shed down some nondescript lane.
The sounds of fists hitting bags and male grunting carried out onto the street through a side door. It had been propped open to let in some fresh summer air, but it only let out the overwhelming stench of pure testosterone. The whole thing was a total doodle-fest and I found myself wondering what the hell I was doing here.
The answer to that one was simple. I was here because I had nowhere else to go.
Six months ago, my Mum died. Six months ago, I was left totally alone in the world. I worked my whole life to care for my beautiful, optimistic, cancer riddled mother when everyone else had just upped and left us like it was all just a little too hard. Mum had been in and out of remission more times than we cared to count. This time, she’d say, would be it. We’ve beaten it, Ren. We'd bask in the hope that the hard times were over and things would be okay for a while. Then at her six month scan, the doctors would pick up another tumor and we’d start all over again.
Then one day the treatments stopped working. The chemo did nothing to slow or shrink the cancer and just like that, in the space of six weeks…it was over. She was gone and I was alone.
You hear all these stories about profound last words and dying wishes and miracles and all kinds of bullshit. My Mum’s last words were, “Go find your father, Renee. Find him.”
My Dad left us when I was five years old. Like a cliché, he went to the shops and never came back. When I was six, the divorce papers turned up in the mail, Mum signed them and that was it. Apart from the one photo I had of us three together, the man may as well have never existed.
He left a five year old kid to care for his terminally ill wife all on her own. What a fucking asshole.
Peering through the door into the studio, I hitched my duffle bag higher up my shoulder. The insides looked a lot better than the outsides. Most of the floor was covered in blue and red mats like a patchwork, equipment was lined up against the side wall, a boxing ring was at the far end and what looked like a smaller room to the right with weights, treadmills, bikes and all kinds of stuff. The wall to the left was lined with mirrors that reflected everything back, making the space look like a cavern. A metal staircase led to an upper level and underneath there was a door leading to what I assumed was a changing area.
It was actually pretty posh and I wasn’t sure what annoyed me more. That he left us with nothing or that he was rolling in hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of gym equipment.
“How many times do I have to beat it into your thick skull,” a male voice boomed out.
A tall, heavyset man was all up in the face of a six foot three, ripped guy who looked like Rambo with all his biceps and triceps and all the ‘ceps’ you could think of. Beefcake wore nothing but a pair of shorts, but he did have a body to die for and I wondered what it was he did. Boxing, Mixed Martial Arts, that crazy Ultimate Fighting Championship thing. There was so much testosterone in the air, my body began to contemplate growing its own dick to fit in.
Edging in the door, I slipped a hand into my back pocket and pulled out the crumpled photograph I’d stashed there. Nobody had noticed me yet, but the place was almost empty save for those two.
Looking at the picture and then at the man who stood in the middle of the studio yelling at the half naked beefcake, I got the resemblance, but he was nothing like I remembered. Lines were set in his face, grey threaded through his dark hair and the smile I remembered wasn’t there at all. Shit, I was five when the douche left and never came back. Of course he wasn’t the same.
“Hey, can I help you?” a gruff voice broke through my thoughts.
I turned, blinking hard at the six foot monster that stood beside me. He was wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts with a white label on the front. His stomach was pure, ripped six pack to the eyeballs and I was thrown by all the near nakedness for a moment. Glancing at the guy on the mat, they had the same build, the same hair, the same eyes, perhaps the guy next to me was a little heavier, but they were the same.
“Twins,” the guy said with a laugh. “Always throws ‘em for a sec. You lookin’ to sign up for some classes?”
“Uh, no,” I replied, a little dazed from all the exposed man-nipples. “I’m looking for Andrew Miller.”
The guy looked me over and gave me a full on megawatt smile. “That’d be Coach.” He nodded at his brother who was still being served his ass by my deadbeat father. “The one rippin’ Lincoln a new asshole.”