dark128

[dark128]

Sunflower, Vol 6 and Watermelon Sugar Tokens.

Avaliable at AllMyStuffAndThings on Etsy x

[dark128]

If you have any feedback please let me know! I'd like to get back into writing again but I'm feeling a bit rusty 🥺

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - CHAPTER 11

“Do you want me to?” 

Bo nods down at the condom Harry’s stiffly holding onto. He’s coiled up so tight that it would be a bad idea to let her undress him. He’s having a difficult enough time as it is just toying with the inevitable of her touching him, let alone below the waist. 

Bo had watched in fondness from her spot lounging on the bed as Harry moved from candle to candle, lighting as many as he could before the flame on the match got too low. She’d laughed at his explanation for not striking a second match, claiming there was a fine line between romantic and sacrificial. 

But now in this soft, flickering room, she smiles at him and he almost loses his nerve. 

“No, it’s alright, I’ve got it.” Kneeing closer to her across the mattress, “just lay back,” Harry encourages softly.

On second thought, that’s probably the worst thing he could of suggested because now Bo’s laid beneath him and he’s acquired an audience to a process that makes his hands shake. Hair splays on his pillows and it’s been so long since he’s had something so pretty occupy his bed. 

She’ll linger on his sheets. The smell of her perfume and the fleeting heat of her body which escapes once the covers are peeled back, both temporary, both are not enough. He craves so much more. But the memory will be permanent. 

Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way she’s looking at him now, like he hung the moon and every star in the sky. 

He swallows before going through the motions of unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zip. The full weight of her gaze lands on his stomach as the bottom of his t-shirt is taken between his teeth to hold it up and out of the way. Fingertips unwittingly tickle as Bo traces his hip and on towards his belly button. And he sort of hopes she misses the goosebumps it raises on his skin.

As Harry gently presses to widen her legs, the winsome charm she led with earlier seems to escape her. He’s left feeling fully endeared by her absent fiddling of his belt loop.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

There’s a smile but it lacks prowess and so Harry removes himself from looming over her and comes to lay beside her. Bo shifts into him.

“We’ve had sex before.”

It’s quiet because he doesn’t want to disturb the delicacy they’ve slipped into. Facing each other, it’s still a little difficult to comprehend that he’s with her now. She’s in his tiny basement flat where the hot water is temperamental and the floorboards creak in odd places along the hall. 

“I know. But it feels new,” she softly smiles, thumb lightly rubbing at the tattoo on his hip. 

Her beauty has become more refined in the five years they’ve known each other, more of a classic look that has Harry pinned every time she holds his eye contact. Despite her wishes for a growth spurt, Bo stands at the same height against Harry’s shoulder. But now there’s a confidence in the way she holds herself, filled with achievements and future aspirations. 

He can’t really imagine what she’s seeing. He’s been greeted by this image of tattoos and damaged eye every morning for years whilst he brushes his teeth in the bathroom mirror. So perhaps this intimacy does feel new to her now. 

He’s pliantly patient as he waits for Bo to initiate further contact between them. They talk quietly, muffling laughter into the pillow as Harry recounts one of his mishaps in the kitchen. It’s not long before she’s bashfully rubbing her nose to his and Harry’s sighing into the sweet kiss they share. 

He welcomes the palm warming his side and it’s when she gets a little more handsy that Harry encourages Bo to seat herself upon his lap. Sat with his back to the coolness of the wall, there’s a heavy clash in temperature between the brickwork and the woman he holds close. And whether wilfully calculated or involuntary, Bo’s hip movements are progressing the thoughts in Harry’s one-track mind. The longing of experiencing another person so intimately is finally being quelled, soft mouths and testing fingertips reaffirming to the both of them. 

But it’s the tug to Bo’s hair that sharply clears the heavenly ascent, lacking in any sort of lustful passion and is instead leaning more towards unintentional pain. She breaks the kiss, fingers wrapping Harry’s wrist.

“AaaaAA,” Bo’s pitch escalates as he attempts to remove the hand riddled with silver rings from her hair. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Harry fusses. 

She’s instructed to hold still, huffing out a sigh, whilst Harry sorts the situation out with a commentary of swears. Looking like she’s sucking on a lemon, Bo obediently follows Harry’s lead as he adjusts so he’s not working in his own shadow. Once she's free, her hair is tangled enough to make drawing her fingers through it bit of a pain. 

Harry twists the rings off his fingers, throwing them in irritation to the bedside. Another colourful curse falls from his mouth as he shuffles them both down the bed before flopping backwards onto the mattress. Bo watches as he rubs his eyes with tightly clenched fists. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighs through his hands that are currently covering his face.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I cocked that up.”

Still currently residing in Harry’s lap, she’s not quite sure if she should remove herself given that the mood has taken bit of a nosedive. Bo’s answer is given moments later as Harry’s knees come up behind her and palms splay out on her thighs.

“Don’t. Feels good.”

“You ok?” 

“I’m fine, are you alright?” he tightly replies. 

“You just seem a little tense,” she warily suggests. 

“It hasn’t exactly gone as smoothly as I’d hoped.”

He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, the action weighing heavy on her chest. 

“You been thinking about this a lot then?” Bo teases, eyebrows suggestively raising as she tries to lighten the tone. 

“‘Bout what?” he fires back, palms softly squeezing where they’ve remained. 

Harry loves the flirting, and is more than thrilled to have it reciprocated, to have her play with him in this back and forth. Suggestive tones that are made even more fun because he knows there’s a depth to it. 

But he sort of also wants to hear her explain their situation. Explicitly. 

“What do you think?”

“Couldn’t say,” he goads. 

“About having me under you,” Bo simply replies, not missing a beat. 

Prayers answers. 

“Maybe, but it’s mostly been about the cuddling and kisses on the cheek.” 

“Liar,” she accuses, lightly pinching at his side. 

“Ok, ok!” he jostles her as Bo’s fingers find a particularly ticklish spot under his arm. “I might have thought once or twice about getting you in that window seat.”

“You said you were kidding about that,” she implores, batting him across the arm.

“A guy can dream.”

“Well, you’ll be dreaming for an eternity.”

“Shame, any thoughts about the same activity in the shower?”

Bo laughs, rearranging herself out of Harry’s lap.

“Maybe we should concentrate on the current situation,” she motions, “lay back."

Harry’s on his back and he feels like a fucking lemon because his hands don’t know how to play it cool and his heart is hammering like it’s his first time. He can’t be sure what Bo is doing until she appears with her hair tied back from her face. She’s assumed the odd position of straddling his knees. And Harry watches her crawl up his body before a kiss between them only has four inches to make contact. 

“Hey,” Bo hushes with a smile. “How ya doing?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?” Bo lightly tests, her fingernails running across his stomach.

Harry lays with his brain between his legs and his bottom lip between his teeth. He enjoys the lingering tingle as nails drag just that little bit too deep; done it to himself when the occasion arises and he’s in the mood to get off. But this is different because for the first time in a while it’s not Harry’s own hand palming over the seam of his jeans. And it’s the partially choked sound he makes that sets her smile. 

Her touch is gentle, easing his jeans down until another tattoo is uncovered. She gives it some consideration, thumbing over the patch of inked skin. 

“Is this a tiger?” she asks, grinning up at Harry.

“Thiger.”

Bo snorts before clamping her hand to his thigh to lean in for a kiss, which ends up being a clumsy kiss to his chin when Harry moves his head at the last second. They laugh again. 

“Please tell me you didn’t just get that tattoo so you could make that joke,” she scorns him whilst edging his underwear down. 

“It did make you laugh thou-“

The sentence is choked off as Bo takes him into her mouth. All thoughts evaporate from his mind, only ones of pleasure and utter desperation remain as she licks around the tip.

“You’re gunna have to bear with me, it’s a steep learning curve.”

And Harry thinks she almost looks smug as her index traces the curve of him from base to head. Even more so as his cock is laden with chaste kisses, an innocent gesture for such an erotic setting. And apparently mirroring his dilemma between either wanting to take Bo sweetly or just nail her into the mattress. 

He only realises how pent up he is when his fists loosen in the sheets once she’s finished with her little display. He’s hardened fully and he’s having trouble with digesting the image of her laid between his legs. 

Even with a mouth full of cock she’s trying hard not to smile. 

“You’re gunna kill me,” he pants, eyes rolling back.

She huffs a laugh around him which proves to visibly tighten the muscles in his thighs. And it’s only now that Harry thinks, she tied her hair back to suck me off. He may have transcended to a higher plain of existence as her hand begins to work him over - deliberate with her strokes and squeezing just slightly to keep him coiled up.

Harry’s own hands have returned to the sheets, balling them in fists as he endures what’s panning out to be the most long-awaited oral of his life. He’s a little embarrassed to say that he can already feel the muscles in his stomach tightening. It’s a hot clench that only burns warmer by the second. Harry’s approach is a little haphazard, but the hand he brushes to Bo’s cheek hurriedly catches her shoulder to encourage her away. 

“I-I think I’ll be alright now.”

Or maybe not, Harry swallows as Bo passes the back of her hand over the corner of her mouth. 

“Spoilsport,” she teases.

***

“I always loved your thighs,” Harry comments, warming his palms to the inside of Bo’s legs. 

He’s going to satisfy that heavy ache she feels low in her belly. It only intensifies as Harry looks up at her through his eyelashes. He’s going to bewitch her senses and leave her wanting him again and again. It’s been so long, Bo would forgo sleep and forfeit any sort of productiveness the next day just roll in the serenity of candlelight and a lover’s warmth. 

She’s still sporting her bee-saving t shirt as she watches the muscles in his chest and shoulders transform with his movement. An ungainly squeak is produced on account of Harry sharply dragging her a little further down the mattress. Something which he finds highly amusing judging by the crinkle to his nose. 

“Brute.”

Harry laughs. 

He murmurs a quick apology, brushing his fingers to her cheek before retrieving a condom. The process is smoother as his hands refuse to quake and now Bo’s onlooking makes his blood rush in electric excitement. He’s practically thrumming with it as his touch leisurely slips between the apex of her thighs. She clamps his hand there with the forgotten feeling of someone else’s kind fingers. Harry’s treated to a series of spectacular little sounds, whisperings and then small startles that are muffled into Bo’s arm as she hides her face. He’s being brazen with it, not just the fact that his fingers play but knowing that this is what she wants, she wants him. 

There’s a look of wild revelation as his fingers dip into wet warmth. The couple hold eye contact, Harry’s movements gentle and without haste in the knowledge of acts to follow. There’s an actual throbbing between Bo’s thighs, making them shake in the effort to keep them from falling completely open. It’s barely a whisper, but Harry hears it, the “please” that tells him she’s barely keeping it together. 

She’s ethereal laying below him, all soft features and devout gaze as he lines up and finally pushes in. It’s almost jarring the way she feels around him again, giving him that pliant smile, the one he recognises, the one that means she’s not completely with him. That is until he starts to move and it’s like she’s a drowning woman breaching the surface. Her back arches from the bed, arms around his neck as she pants into his, clinging to him like he’s her saviour. 

“Harry.’

His name is spoken in a raging half whisper. 

“I know,” he replies because he can feel it too.

Rapture. She’ll be his undoing and his sexual reawakening. Harry welcomes that warm pull in his belly as he angles his hips to draw new, breathy sounds from his lover’s lips. 

Bo’s an honest delight beneath him. The way he can feel her toes curling against his calf, her fingers gripping his nape to encourage him further on top. As if he could get any closer, they’re already sharing breath and fumbling kisses. 

Harry’s pretty sure a bottom corner of the fitted sheet has sprung loose with the way they’re contorting to keep damp skin close. His skimming hands have pushed her t shirt up, deft fingers hooking the right cup from her bra down so he can kiss at her breast.  

She’s more fussy than he remembers, especially when he leans away and takes a heady breather. Her huffing is a tad undue but Harry thrives in it, noting her disgruntled expression as he slips from her entirely. There’s a flash of an unpleasant second when Harry’s mind tells him he’s going to be booted in the face. 

But Bo’s brought her feet up to lightly drum against his chest and Harry can’t help but laugh at the playfulness, grabbing at her ankles before she has a chance patter against him again. 

“Come on,” she almost whines. 

His hands move of their own accord, sliding down her calfs to press his thumbs into the back of her knees. 

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you,” Harry replies, leaning into her whilst spreading and gently bearing down on the back of her thighs. 

There’s pink blooming on her cheeks, and Harry can’t be sure if it’s the temperature in their duvet fort, or the fact that Bo’s ankles are now resting on his shoulders. 

“You promised me a whole evening.”

Harry thinks her chide lacks the lustre needed to fully penalise him, especially when he can feel her wriggling to meet his hips. 

“And I wouldn’t want to go back on my promise.”

He lightly kisses at her ear, unworried about hiding his smile. 

“Because that would make you a shitty person.”

He’s not expecting the pinch to his hip, so the growl he produces in response is a surprise to both of them. 

“I don’t remember you being so boisterous.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re practically bending me in half.”

Harry lets Bo unfurl, her legs slipping down to rest beside his hips once more.

“You’ll have to forewarn me next time so I can stretch beforehand.”

“Next time?” Harry curiously enquires. 

“I’m not just having you once,” Bo breathily promises in his ear, the tone making it seem like that fact was obvious.

Harry plays along with their distracted conversation, leaning over her with an elbow propped and his thigh between hers. 

“Tonight?”

He’s not ready for the shove to his shoulder or the dominating role reversal, so when Bo’s sat astride him Harry’s sure she feels him twitch. She doesn’t play at coy, but there’s definitely something more bashful in her movements as she delights in the feel of him again.

“Forever.”

That promise sets his heart soaring. 

She reaches behind for him, shuffling back to seat herself fully down with a flutter of eyelashes and somewhat of a startled whimper. And Harry can’t help but grunt at this all-consuming feeling; this time with the added pressure of hands splayed on his chest as he’s halfheartedly held down.

“Was that a bit cheesy?” Bo asks once she’s chased her breath. “It sounded romantic in my head.”

“A bit, but I think it worked in the moment.”

“Good, because I meant it."

He doesn’t want it to sound insincere whilst she’s riding him, so Harry bottles up the ‘I love you’, and saves it for when he can confess with a clearer mind. Instead, he grabs at her hips, eyes devouring the way her body moves against his and he’s delighted with the repeat image of her bouncing, slack jawed. And because he’s a tease, Harry delights further in the sounds she creates when his hips come up to meet hers. 

She wants him every way she can, but that wish may have to wait. 

“Lean forward,” he pleads.

Bo’s forehead comes to rest on Harry’s as his feet plant to the mattress and his knees come up behind her. With the strength of his tattooed hips, he meets hers at a toe-curling rate. Bo succumbs, allowing Harry to take the lead and guide them both, her face finding the crook of his neck and his arms wrapping around her back. He cradles her into completion, hearts hammering as Harry chases the rapture that Bo blissfully makes peace with. It’s only with the last few stuttering thrusts that Bo pushes up, taking his face between her hands to kiss away the curses that slip free from his smile. 

***

“I like them,” Bo admires, fingers running over twin inked dates on his shoulders. 

She shifts a little to sit back on his thighs, taking his forearm with her as she intently inspects all the splashes of black ink she’s unfamiliar with. It’s all Harry can do to give Bo a soppy smile whilst she carries on, giving each design her attention. They’re partially dressed again, Harry only decent enough to have taken delivery of their pizza before returning to the bedroom. 

“Who’s this?”

Harry’s arm is raised as Bo taps a finger to the tattoo in question. It’s a delicate gesture that challenges her comical disapproval. 

“My mermaid.”

“She’s cute,” Bo says, finger following the swish of dark hair. “Why’d you get her?”

“Dunno, I’ve always liked swimming.”

He’s met with a surprised laugh. 

“So, of course, logically you got a mermaid permanently tattooed on your body,” she chides, shaking her head. 

There’s a small “B” inked just below the inside crease of his elbow. She tilts her head, smoothing over the skin with her thumb.

“That one’s yours,” he says simply, like it couldn’t be anything else. 

“Mine?” she asks, eyebrows shooting up. 

Harry presses a kiss to her forehead. 

“Yep, “B” for Bo,” Harry tells her quietly. “Beautiful.”

She licks her thumb, rubbing at the letter.

“You really got it tattooed?”

“Yeah,” he laughs.

“That’s permanent.”

“I’m aware,” Harry smirks, biting at her neck. “Just like my mermaid.”

“Yeah, just like her,” Bo thoughtfully rephrases. 

It’s a few moments before she replies, still rubbing at the small letter. 

“Why’d you get it?”

“You’re important to me, you’ve helped me through so much, it just felt right.”

She doesn’t say anything in return, not sure that she actually can. Pouting in contemplation, Bo shifts a little in Harry’s lap. 

“Maybe I should get your name tattooed on me.”

“Oh, really?” Harry smirks. “Where? Hopefully somewhere only I get to see?”

“Hmmm, I was thinking more of a chest piece,” she leans away, gesturing to a band of skin above her breasts.

Harry appears a little horrified for a moment but his composure cracks before laughing and grabbing for her hands. 

“I’m not sure that’s your best idea.”

She slumps back to be cradled into Harry’s side. 

“Or maybe I’ll just get a ‘H’ here,” she hushes, voice more sincere as fingers point to the exact spot on her arm where he has her inked. “So we can match.”

Bo’s treated to a kiss to the tip of her nose. She sighs before further squirming away to continue the inspection of body art. 

“Roll over then.”

She makes herself comfortable, sitting astride his lower back as delicate fingers trace more tattoos curving around his side.

“Oh God, that one’s awful.”

Harry huffs a laugh into the pillow in response to her brash opinion and feathery touch. 

***

Harry wakes to the heart wrenching feeling of an empty bed. He sits up rather abruptly, hands skimming bed-warm sheets as the duvet slips to pool at his waist. He swallows twice, mind reeling to kickstart foggy memories from hours before. 

The bedroom door has been left ajar, just enough for a thin strip of light to hollow out the darkened room. Soft footsteps follow and Harry’s heart climbs back down his throat for it to thud against his ribcage.

His body flops back against the pillows before the door is nudged just enough for Bo to slip back through. She doesn’t think anything of Harry now sprawled out on his back, but she knows he’s awake because of the subtle inclination when she draws back the confusion of sheets. 

“Your hot tap is broken,” Bo hushes whilst climbing back into bed on the floor.

She receives a rough hum, Harry’s arm draping her waist.

“Did you hear me?”

Instead of moving himself closer, he opts for coercing Bo until the length of her body is flush to his, like he’s seeking the cool side of the pillow. 

“Broken,” he grunts.

“And you don’t have a bath mat, my feet got cold. I can go out and get you one tomorrow. Or today?” she adds, trying to lean over Harry to confirm the time on one of their phones.

He mumbles something incoherent into her shoulder, lips forming words like kisses upon her skin. With her on her back and Harry now on his side, he’s almost perfected the art of blurring the lines between them and creating one warm entity under the covers. 

“Repeat that.”

She gently catches under his chin with the tips of her fingers, prising him from the nook in her neck.

“Don’t need one.”

The raspy words catch in his throat. 

“Everyone needs a bathmat. Where will you dry your feet? You’ll just track wet footprints through your room.”

“I’ll think about it.”

No, he won’t. 

“Of course you won’t, I’ll just go and get you one,” she pauses. “It’ll be a fluffy orange monstrosity because you’re being difficult about it. Probably a matching toilet cover as well - if they still even sell those?”

The arm banding her middle squeezes tighter which Bo thinks is Harry’s silent way of getting her to hush..

“I love you.”

Oh.

Bo stills in his arms.

It’s something she’d insinuated hours before. That she would still be his in the morning, and every other morning of her promised ���forever’. But for him to utter the words into their lengthy, soft post-sex haze - Bo was just about ready to settle into the cradle of sleep. But now she’s fully awake. 

He’s still pressed against the length of her, his hair brushing her cheek as the urgency to gauge her reaction grows. 

“I’m in love with you - still.”

Still. Like he’d never stopped. And that’s a little terrifying to know, especially in the knowledge of their separation and the years between then and their reunion. 

“I’m still in love with you,” he rephrases. “Got there in the end.”

His lips catch a soft smile which diminishes as his words rest into silence. Harry feels Bo draw in a grounding breath as though she’s trying to compose herself. Unsure as to whether this conversation should be illuminated, Harry decides against turning on the lamp. Partly because he frightened to disturb her but mostly because he can’t bear the thought of seeing Bo’s face if it’s rejection that awaits him. 

“If you’re not ready then I - well, I understand -“

“I’d like to take you out,” Bo interrupts.

“What?”

“Not fatally,” she hurriedly explains, “like on a date?”

“Oh - ok.”

“Yeah? We could go out to dinner or have cake at a cafe in one of the parks? Or there’s that cinema experience that looks quite fun.”

*** 4 Months Later ***

Harry can hear it in her voice, that she’s not prepared for his confession of undying love just yet and she certainly isn’t ready to say it back. But this is the start that they both deserve, a calm, normal beginning to their new relationship. It’s a chance to get to know each other again and to see where it progresses. And Harry’s happy with that as they lay and bounce date ideas between them, all the while Bo’s fingers have found his own. 

“Why must everything be so high up?” Bo grumbles. 

Her complaint is voiced to the glasses on the top shelf in Harry’s kitchen cupboard. Despite her irritation, he’s pleased to see her emerge minutes later with two drinks in hand and his socks pulled up nearly to her knees over leggings. 

“I see you were successful,” he grins as Bo sorts out coasters.

“Well, I did nearly pull everything off the worktop in my struggle, but it’s fine.” 

Her words are accompanied with a sugar-sweet smile that can only mean trouble for Harry. He hopes he’s forgiven with the choice of Tuesday night Bake-Off on the telly. And it’s as Bo’s laughing at some awful bread pun that the question just feels right. 

“Bo, do you wanna move in?”

She smiles, pressing into his side and rearranging his arm so it curls around her back.

“No,” he huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “I mean move into the flat - with me.”

“Really?”

Bake-Off forgotten, Bo swivels to face him. There’s joy dancing in her eyes as the bun atop her head bobs with her excited wriggle to move closer. The TV is set on mute and Harry becomes confused at the sharpness in her eyes. 

“I want the left side of the bed, permanently,” she negotiates. 

“It’s yours. Even when you’re not here.”

“And you’ll leave space in the bathroom for my things?”

“I mean, there’s quite a lot of your stuff in there already - but of course.”

Bo kisses his cheek. 

“I just got my first pay from work,” Bo happily states. “I’m gunna buy some proper glasses, so we don’t have to drink wine out of mugs.”

“What’s the point?” Harry laughs. “The fact that you stick a straw in everything sort of lowers the tone of a proper wine glass anyway.’

The remark earns him a sore shoulder. 

“And we can always get you a step for the kitchen.”

She rounds on him so fast he nearly spills the drink he’s just picked up from the coffee table. 

“We will not be doing that. You’ll help me move everything down so I can reach it myself.”

“No problem.” 

“I’m gunna phone my mum,” she rambles, untangling from Harry and tripping over a charging cable. 

“Should I set up a direct debit? Or do you just want me to transfer my half to you each month? What would be easier?”

“Don’t worry,” he laughs. “We can sort it out later.”

“I love you!” she calls from where she’s peeking around the doorframe.

It’s such a casual gesture but Harry’s settling into the knowledge that the love he’s bursting with is reciprocated by the woman he adores. 

“I love you, too,” he smiles. 

[dark128]

I’ve just launched an enamel pin Kickstarter for Harry in his glitter crown based on the Gucci campaign! 

@raconteurwitch is the talent behind the beautiful design! 

[dark128]

A little KNOCKOUT update. 

It’s been bit of an eventful two weeks so i’m still in the process of editing, but I wanted to give you something from this new chapter!!

Keep reading

[dark128]

Merry Christmas, sorry I’m late!!

“I’ve missed you.”

It’ll be a miracle if both they’re lips aren’t bruised with the pounce Harry proceeds with in making first contact. Bo gives an undignified screech. The stumble they both take knocks her into the kitchen table where her effort to steady them ends with take-away menus and junk mail showering the floor. 

Bo can’t remember the last time she felt like this, so ready to be swept up and away to somewhere she only has memories of. Harry’s hands have never been this quick and so sure before. He’s allowed to touch her now and he’s making up for all the little lost connections. All the times he wished she was there to just watch the telly with him; her feet wedged under his thigh to keep warm. The casual hand and hip grazes of two people comfortable with existing together. He’s making up for all the dinners he ate alone, absent of her telling him about her day and knocking ankles with him under the table. He just wants to feel her again.

And Bo feels like she’s being absorbed, pressed so close to Harry’s body that she could tap out the drumming of his pulse upon his back. But she won’t because those fingers are fisted in his t-shirt as he lifts her from the floor. 

Now at eye level, they calm for a second, both panting as Bo skims Harry’s jaw affectionately with her nose. 

“Do you wanna…” 

There’s hope in the mumbled, unfinished question, but Bo knows what he’s leaning towards.

“Yeah, yes please,” she responds, followed with a sharp, “shut it,” as Harry begins to laugh. 

Bo’s polite acceptance is smothered with how dirty the kiss feels. Practically rubbing against him and it’s still not enough. With how tightly Bo wraps her legs around his waist, there’s really no need for Harry to hold her up under her arse, but he does anyway, fervently. All the while her fingers tangle in his hair as he walks them a little haphazardly down the hall.

Bo’s thighs give an involuntary clench around Harry’s middle as her back meets the wall. She  arches into him and the groan he responds with rumbles through to her chest. Running high on adrenaline, Bo grabs a little too enthusiastically, collecting up as much of him as her arms can reach around.

  “Can I take you to bed?” Harry hushes quietly with his forehead pressed to hers. 

Both Harry and Bo are breathing a little faster, hearts swelling a little harder at the requited longing blooming between them. 

“Yes please.”

They share a shy smile before Bo tries to nip at his ear in an effort to break eye contact. Because Bo’s afraid if she allowed him to look so adoringly for any longer, she would have demanded him right there in the hallway. Harry makes solid headway further into a part of the flat unexplored, all the while Bo noses into his neck. 

Harry’s an exciting mix of old and new. The way his fingers slip between hers like they used to, his hand roughened with new calluses. Tattoos that Bo is yet to be introduced to, on familiar heated skin that her fingers and lips are becoming reacquainted with.

She hooks the neck of his t-shirt, prying it away just a little to curiously peer at all the ink he’s keeping covered. There’s new freckles sprinkled like stars over his sunned shoulders, and all she wants is to connect them into kissed constellations.

“Hey, no peeking,” he teases her with a squeeze.

Her t-shirt rucks as Bo slides down Harry until her feet hit the floor. There’s little time for suggestive looks though with Harry shouldering his way through a door that she presumes is his room. He grabs for her hand and she’s laughing as her feet stumble through the doorway after him. 

They share another kiss and Bo’s ready for the back of her knees to hit the bed so she can drag Harry down on top of her. But the absence of a certain vital piece of furniture for a bedroom has her wrench away.

It’s a mattress on the floor. And there’s a moment shared between them that’s not spent kissing, but just of Bo looking back and forth from Harry to the sorry excuse for a bed. 

“I didn’t think I’d be entertaining in here,” he admits sheepishly. 

Her eyebrows raise. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he gripes. “The bed frame is being delivered Thursday and Niall is coming over to help me assemble it - I’m not a child.” 

Bo holds her hands up in defence. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

The curl of her lip confirms to Harry that she was definitely thinking it though, regardless of her denial. 

“I know that look.”

She eases away from Harry, taking steps backwards as she faces him. The neck of his t-shirt is stretched away from his chest, his hair a little wild with those unique set of eyes following her every move. 

“What about this look?”

It sets his heart thundering. 

“I don’t - I haven’t seen that look before.”

And in all honesty, he hasn’t. Harry’s never seen Bo look so unashamedly provocative. He could drop to his knees for her right now, have her pull his hair until his eyes watered, deny him until it hurt. And he’d fucking thank her for the experience. He’d give her everything without a single thought. 

“No?” she smiles. “Well, should I tell you what comes next?”

He trails to her like a puppy in desperate need of attention. A delicate hand hooks his neck and he’s forced to suppress a smile at his delight of having to stoop to her; at having someone considerably smaller hold this sort of sway over him. 

Just the way her words kiss his ear is enough for things to start happening in his pants. That’s even before he’s properly processed her rundown of how the evening should pan out. 

She pulls away.

“Fuck,” he breathes, a devilish smile growing. “Let’s get started then.”

It’s touch down and lift off all at the same time. Bo feels as though she's coming apart under Harry’s hands, every kiss unraveling her to lay bare what’s been prowling under their skin from the moment they reunited. This is how it should feel. 

“You got any more fancy moves to show me?” Bo pesters, because she can. 

“They’re hardly fancy, it’s just defence.”

She seems to contemplate his reply before giving him a playful shove to the bed for the evening. Once surprise settles, Harry has his hands full as Bo gracelessly climbs into his lap and encourages his back to meet the mattress. Sparkly fingernails dig into his shoulders as he’s terrifyingly held captive.

“And how will you get out of this?”

At this angle, Bo might actually be squishing his kidney but Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so elated to be sat on before. 

“You’re small, I could just roll you off.”

As if in demonstration, he takes hold of her waist but doesn’t shift their weight. 

“Yeah?” “I’m not gunna though.” “What’s your plan then?” “Don’t have a plan, I’m just wingin’ it.” *** Ominous clouds roll with the rumbling sound of thunder, the freshness in the air spilling in through the cracked window. Bo clutches him close, him on top of her as he mouths at her neck. It’s all she can do to draw in little half breaths as her fingers card through short hair. 

For a moment she wishes they’d never been apart. But a lot of things have changed, some necessary things that may have choked off their relationship in the long run. 

Harry’s so very quiet as Bo kisses over his damaged eyelid. She takes her time, making sure he knows just how much she cares for him. Up around his eyebrow and then down through his lashes. The scarred skin is ruin under her lips, her heart lurching at how pliant Harry becomes, like he can’t bear to move in such a vulnerable state.  

Bo draws him out of his thoughts with a final kiss to the top of his nose. She’s busy with lavishing his neck and then his shoulder with hot little kisses when he pauses with trying the ruck up her shirt. His hands are burning hot to her hips before he positions them to the mattress to lean up and away from her. From this angle, if she wiggles enough to the right, his t-shirt falls away from his body slightly to torturously reveal a soft hip and suggestion of a tattoo.

“What’s wrong?” Bo asks, swallowing the lump in her throat.

She wants to lick his stomach and watch his nipples pebble. 

“I don’t - I haven’t got anything.”

The confession is spoken with a softness Bo’s sure is only exchanged between lovers and that gets her heart pumping just that thump too fast. 

“Why are we whispering?” she hushes with the smile she wears tucked into Harry’s neck. Bo encourages him closer. “What haven’t we got?”

“A condom.”

The words pull her tummy tight. And its, well, it’s hot. Bo never thought the concern for protection would have this sort of reaction - aching thighs and grabby hands. Maybe it’s the thought of what comes next as clothes are shed and wild abandonment commences.

But despite the company, she’s just not willing to risk the threat of a trip to the clinic waiting room for the morning-after pill. Even if Harry is looking like every fantasy she’s ever had. 

Bo’s frown is accompanied by a small huff. “I came off the pill a couple of months ago.”

Harry pulls away, his eyes a little wide as he sits back to soak in the information. Bo watches, lips starting to quirk as he blinks. His goldfish expression is kind of cute and she can’t help but reach out to push his hair back.

Bo’s about to ask him if he needs some water or a proper lie down because he’s starting to look a little peaky. 

“Wait.”

He grabs her hand, his advance forward leaving Bo no choice but to comply and fall back to the pillow.

“If you were still on it, we could - without the condom?”

“Well, you’re clean, aren’t you?”

Harry gives Bo a small set of serious looking nods.

“So am I.”

“That’s good to know.”

Bo’s smile has broken into a laugh by the time Harry’s rolled from her. He rubs his hands over his face as if trying to clear his head from foggy thoughts.

“That’s alright. We can just wait, right?”

“Yeah, of course. That’s fine,” Harry leans back. “That’s - that’ll be fine.”

Fuck. It’s not fine. He’s waited for her. Bo gives him a soft sort of smile, one that he can feel like an internal punch to the ribs. She sits up, drawing her bare knees to her chest so her feet are flat on the bed. He’d managed to get her yoga leggings off with a stretch, pull, and a giggle from Bo. But if he’d have known they weren’t going any further tonight he would have insisted that all clothes were kept to a minimum of three layers and probably wrapped her in a blanket. Anything, so he wouldn’t be faced with the sight of her bed-soft and half naked, only to be left unable to do anything about it. 

She’s got that adoring look on her face, with her fingers brushing his cheek, Harry’s heart thuds to an old familiar beat. In all the time they were apart, he’s never forgotten how softly he could be touched, and how it could make him feel more than any biting kiss or scrape of nails. How funny, it’s always been her. Fuck it.

“Petrol station down the road is open.”

The words feel harsh on his tongue, like they were never meant to be a part of this moment. They’ve tarnished the situation and it’s made more apparent as the caressing hand falls from his face. Any comfort he feels with her touch drops away with it. 

“Why do you wan-“

“Condoms.”

The suggestion makes him feel dirty, it shouldn’t, because they’re being safe. Maybe it’s the desperation of it more that anything. But Harry can’t muster the thought to care because the woman he’s never stopped loving is currently curling her toes in his bedsheets. 

“Oh,” Bo replies. “You’re thinking about going now?”

It’s difficult to gage her reaction as whatever she’s feeling is outwardly masked by surprise. 

“Well, yeah.”

Harry watches her nibble on her bottom lip for a second, possibly deciding on how to tackle the situation and control the hormonal teenager she must see before her. 

“Did you want me to come with you?”

Oh.

“No, no,” Harry implores. “Stay here, I won’t be long. I-It’s just down the road.” Her hand skims down the expanse of his back as he gets up from the bed. 

“You already said that.”

“Right, ok.”

He nods to himself before trying to find something more appropriate to wear. Bo straightens out the covers like they weren’t just rolling around in them minutes before; smoothing away any crinkles around her circumference. It may be bigger than her single, but at least she actually has a bed frame. 

“Can you get me a magazine and some M&M’s too? Please,” she adds with a sweet smile. 

“Are you serious? And when are you reading this magazine? Because I sort of thought we had the evening all planned out.”

“All evening?” Bo quirks.

“I told you, it’s been a while.”

Harry expects her to be a little bashful, but she holds his eye contact with a flicker of a smile before it develops into a crinkle-nosed grin. Fully satisfied with himself, Harry tugs the hoody he’s found over his head, which catches on his ear as he yanks it down. 

“What sort of M&M’s?” he asks whilst pulling at the clothing.

“Peanut.”

They share a look and Harry’s hauled back to a time when M&M’s littered the passenger footwell in his old car. He’d continued to find them months after that night, sticky blues and reds caught down in the mechanics of the car seats. 

“I’ll just wait here then,” she says, eyes not leaving Harry. 

It feels a little odd to have her amongst all his everyday things, a sparkle of something brilliant tucked between everything mundane and ordinary he surrounds himself with. Bo’s out of place in the most wonderful way imaginable. With her knees still to her chest, Bo tucks her hair behind her ear. Harry needs to move now or he’ll never leave the room with her looking like his own personal, little goddess.

He searches for the cleanest pair of jeans he has before taking his gym shorts down and replacing them with black denim that’s ripped at the knee. It’s like making the transition from instructor to normalcy. Well, as normal as it can be under the circumstances. 

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he promises.

And then he’s gone, and Bo is left alone in a place she’s only been familiar with for little over an hour. She’s not comfortable enough to have a poke around on her own, not that Harry would mind. But instead of sitting and allowing her stomach to coil tight with nerves, Bo hotfoots it out of the room to search for her lip balm and something to keep her distracted. 

When Harry returns, Bo’s been true to her word and remained, only now she’s under the covers messing around with something on her phone. 

“I got cold.”

Rather than responding, he unloads the front pocket of his hoody of sweets and a rolled up magazine. Bo sits up as he trudges over to her. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I left my card at home.”

“Did you not get them then?”

He sits on the edge of the bed, knees practically under his chin as he fusses with the knots in his Vans. With the first one off, he retrieves the box from the same pocket as Bo’s magazine. It was probably digging into his stomach. She’s pretty proud of her catch as it’s tossed back to her. 

“I stood at the till for like five minutes emptying my pockets for change to make up the last of it. I was short 82p.”

Bo peers over Harry’s shoulder whilst still holding her box. 

“Did you just hoof it out the shop then?”

“No,” he grumbles. “I didn’t steal condoms, Bo. But do you wanna know what the lady behind me in the queue said?” he pauses to kick off the other trainer, swivelling to face Bo. “She told me that she admired that my partner and I were conscious of protection.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“She gave me an extra pound to make up the difference as I was “in bit of a hurry”. His face sours as he recalls the conversation. He’ll never be able to step foot in that shop again, not with the way some of the staff were breaking into knowing smiles as he practically ran through the automatic doors. 

“That was - very nice of her.”

It’s an unbecoming sort of laugh, one that has Harry glaring at her. 

“Don’t laugh, you’re going next time.”

“That’s very presumptuous of you,” she remarks. “Why didn’t you just return the magazine?”

“Because you asked me for it,” he simply replies, like the suggestion never even crossed his mind. 

Bo’s stomach fizzes up with warmth, a soppy kind of smile on her face.

“That’s honestly the sweetest thing. Come here” she beckons, taking hold of his face and smothering his cheeks with kisses. 

“Don’t,” he whines. “You’re ruining my street cred.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Bo apologies unconvincingly whilst rubbing at a tinted chapstick remnant high on his cheekbone. 

“No you’re not.”

“Surely your street cred of thoughtful, kind and soft won’t be ruined by a few kisses.”

“Heeeeey, I’m a knockout,” Harry replies to her obvious teasing with a creased brow. 

“Well, that’s for sure.”

Bo’s yelp is proof she’s unprepared as he takes her down to the mattress with a smile.

MORE COMING SOON...

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT -chapter 10 (part 2A)

“Sure.”

Harry’s flat is in walking distance of the gym. They decide to take the scenic route, through the pretty wooded park and past an almost empty playground until the pair hit a main drag. It’s car horns and traffic lights for a good five minutes before the city quietens upon making a right. 

They turn down a quiet street off the busy main road and the chill that whistles between them has Bo wish she’d brought something a little warmer. It was a mistake to take her hair down after the class as now it’s stinging her cheeks. She steps closer to Harry as they pass a dog walker before they come to a complete stop outside a gate.

Heavy dark clouds loom, gobbling up the twinkle of stars as night descends in a hurry. She’s busy watching the sky transform, head tilted back until her name is called. 

“Bo.”

Harry’s made the short journey from gate down to the front door and he waits for her to meet him at the bottom. The hand he raises in invite has her moving towards him through a thought once lost, legs walking a muscle memory. It would be hopeless to think she’d react in any other way but to go to him, to take his hand and let him lead her inside. 

It’s warm, is the first impression Bo gets of the garden flat. A disorganised muddle of shoes is left just inside the door, and Bo adds to it as she toes hers off. She dumps her bag where harry leaves his before she’s free in her visual assessment. There’s peeling wallpaper, nicks of paint missing from the skirting board and original door frames with stiff brass handles. And Bo instantly loves it. 

It’s disorderly and incomplete in a charming sort of way, which makes his previous flat pale in comparison. A sourness seems to fill her mouth upon remembering just how awful his conditions were before, no room to breathe with misery creeping in from every corner.

But here, it’s an easy sort of living space, one that he’s made home by just being there. It already smells of him, like this little flat has accepted Harry and approved of his occupancy.

There’s not much occupying the first room in the way of furniture, just cardboard boxes of varying sizes that Bo has a suspicion he’s let become a permanent fixture through simply being bone idle. 

An old fashioned radiator is tucked into one of the alcoves opposite the door, a heavyset one that will throw out heat throughout the basement flat in the winter.

“There’s not much to see, but this is the front room. The kitchen is just through there and my bedroom and bathroom are across the hall.”

It’s almost as if he’s waiting for some sort of approval, standing off to the side as he nibbles at his bottom lip.

“It’s a great place.”

Despite its quirky flaws, this would have been Bo’s first choice for a place of her own. 

He grins.

“I have a garden, too. It’s not much but my mum and sister are going to help with doing it up a bit. Even if it’s just finding the patio under all the weeds.”

Bo had never thought in all the time she’d known him, Harry would ever get excited over a scrap of lawn and some crazy-paving. But she gradually comes to understand the fascination as he rambles about having his niece over and his plans for one of those fancy fire bowls. She makes a mental note of the possible gift for his new home. Well, more of a garden-warming present if you’re being fussy.

They stay within the living room so Bo can explore a little more. And with that inquisitive feeing harnessed, she sets about unpacking a box containing two lamps, a pack of brand new coasters (courtesy of Harry’s sister) and a small elephant ornament selected especially by his niece for the coffee table. 

Harry chats as she fights with the sticky tab sealing the coaster box. But after a few short seconds it’s neglected because there’s a record player placed on the floor in a wall alcove, just to the left of some boxes overspilling with disks. 

“It’s a bit hipsterish for you, isn’t it?” Bo teases, nodding towards the musical mess. 

Her nose crinkles as she grins at Harry over her shoulder before dropping to her knees in front of the boxes. There’s a few records propped up against the peeling paint, music which Bo guesses were some of the first to christen Harry’s new place. 

“Can I have a look?” she asks.

“Couse,” he continues. “It was a ‘congrats on your new home’ gift from my mum. Those old records are from the loft, I’ve not sorted through them yet.”

Bo’s fingers flick through the ageing sleeves; evidence of how they were used and adored very much apparent on the worn cardboard cover, a contrast to the unscathed disk.

“You’ve got some good ones.”

Harry’s mum was feisty. Straying away from the popular, more documented, trends in music and delving into bands and genres Bo’s never heard of. She flips a disk over to study the song listings. 

“Just some?”

Bo hears the amusement in his voice but the pride on his mouth is out of her line of sight. 

“I don’t know most of them,” she admits, running her fingers over another mysterious album title. 

“My mum had an eclectic taste, still does.”

“Well, I think it’s safe to say she was a fan of Rod Stewart,” she comments, flicking through five consecutive albums. 

“If you want my body and you think I’m sexy.” The gravelly tone is enough of a musical interlude to cease her movement through the disks. Bo bursts out laughing, falling back on her butt and turning to witness Harry’s little performance.

“Come on, sugar, let me know.”

His deep bow finishes the ensemble and Bo almost feels like she should applaud. And that’s what she does as Harry dramatically basks in the praise.

  “Good job I actually know that song, or I’d have thought you were coming on to me.”

“The night’s still young,” he counters and it’s to Bo’s surprise that she’s the recipient of a cheeky wink.

The gesture is enough to have her blushing cheeks think she’s being flirted with. A harmless game Bo thought she had become immune to, after hearing cheesy icebreakers in bars and no longer laughing at them. 

Her face still feels warm with playful atmosphere when she lifts her head and finds Harry’s hand outstretched. She takes it without hesitation, allowing herself to be hoisted upright into the perimeter of Harry’s body. Too close to be considered casual and torturous on Bo’s senses. 

With a smile like a siren song and stormy, green ocean eyes to match, it’s somehow  difficult for Bo to try and find her sea legs. 

“Alright?” he murmurs.

And that about does it. With a couple of adamant nods Bo pulls away before something ridiculous happens, like her telling him she misses the way his mouth fit with hers. 

“What colour are you painting it in here?” Bo asks, fingers grazing the sofa arm, heart positively thundering as she meanders to the other side of the room. 

She’s glad to see Harry provide some distance, taking the temptation away as now she’d have to volt the back of the couch to jump his bones. It isn’t the sofa from the old flat, this one is a bit ostentatious in the pattern with scuffed wooden feet. And as Bo sits, it’s like falling into a marshmallow, squishy, soft and the perfect place to take a nap. 

“A mate sold it to me for cheap,” Harry answers her unasked question, watching as Bo takes to her feet again before rearranging the cushions. “As for the colour, I was just going to leave it as is.”

Bo frowns, swivelling to look at him, still with fringed cushion in hand. 

“Why?”

“It’s rented, I’m not sure my landlord would want me slapping paint on the walls. I’m hoping he’ll let me buy it when I get the funds together.”

Harry stands leaning against the doorframe, watching as Bo investigates his new living room. There’s not much in the way of furniture at the moment, but Harry had made sure the first items unpacked were framed photos of his mum, sister and niece. 

“I’d have it a really soft green.”

Bo hums as if imagining the transformation of the room with a new splash of colour.

“Yeah?”

The wooden floor creaks slightly with her movement as she gravitates to a focal point. 

“Mmm, and I’d make that into a proper window seat so you could wake up with a cup of tea and just sit,” Bo nods at her plan. “Oh, it could be a reading window!”

“I don’t really read,” Harry admits, her face softening. “I listen to audio books now.”

The atmosphere quietens and Bo feels silly for raising the subject. That is until Harry opens his mouth again. 

“Or hey, it would be a nice spot for a quickie.”

Bo rounds so fast she nearly stumbles into one of the many unpacked boxes by her feet. She stables herself with an outstretched hand to the wall.

“What?” she chokes.

He wanders over to the window, pressing his palms flat to the wooden sill to test its weight capacity.

“Well,” Harry makes a pained face, “if you’re both like olympic gymnasts or something.”

The space in nowhere near his full arm span, a measure he frowns at when trying to swing his feet up. They end up propped against the wall with his back pressed opposite, Harry folds himself into an unnatural position for someone of his height. He looks like a giant dog trying to squeeze begrudgingly into a cat bed. 

“Get some cushions or something, it’d be perfect.”

“It’s the window though,” Bo admonishes, worrying her bottom lip and trying not to smile.

“Below street level.” Harry’s counter challenge is coupled with a shrug.

“Yes, but still a window,” she presses. 

“My neighbours are old and fucking nosey, would give’em something to gossip about at their neighbourhood watch meetings.”

He makes quite the scene unravelling to stand at his full height before moving away from the sex-seat to the doorway, where he disappears through it moments after. 

Bo’s left in a whirlwind contemplation before Harry pops his head back through.

  “Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she agrees, still fighting the smile curling the corners of her mouth as the conversation snappily changes from sex to food. 

“I’ve not really had time to food shop,” Harry calls through from the kitchen. “Are you alright with a take-away? I think I have a leaflet somewhere.”

“Yeah, that’s fine with me,” Bo responds, weaving her way towards his voice. 

Harry’s busy with riffling through take-out phablets when she reaches him. The kitchen is small but manageable with the window opening out onto a decreasingly gloomy garden. He sorts the menus from the addressed post before turning to Bo stood in the doorway.

“Are you alright? You look a bit pink in the cheeks.” 

With her mind still dwelling on Harry’s idea of a window seat, it’s the only way she’ll be able to settle her thoughts. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

Despite the nod to his head, Bo thinks he looks a little reluctant to hear her what she has to ask.

“When was the last time you were with someone?”

The immediate response she receives is a crinkled brow and full assessing gaze.

“I saw Matt from the gym the other day, we went to the pub just down -“

“No, I mean - romantically,” Bo attempts to delicately approach the subject, despite the tightness in her stomach and dampness of her palms. And once again, she receives a nonverbal, cryptic answer through somewhat of a pained facial expression. “Sex, Harry,” she blurts. “I mean when did you last have sex?”

“Shit.”

Eyes wide, he takes a few seconds to ground himself and try to decide the best approach. He clears his throat like he’s not just chocked at her question. “We’re just diving right in then?”

“You don’t have to tell me, I jus-“

“It’s been a while,” Harry interrupts. “Long time,” he swallows. “You want Chinese or Indian?”

“It’s just, what you said in the living room,” she aimlessly thumbs back through the doorway.

“It was a joke.”

He’s a little firm with his reply and it makes Bo feel guilty for asking. 

“Oh, ok.”

“Did you want pizza, I think I have a app?”

Harry turns away to pick up his phone and Bo’s left trying to decipher what defines a ‘long time’. Not that it should really matter, they haven’t been together for nearly four years and she’s not entitled to the information anyway.

As if trying to shake her from her thoughts, Harry pulls up the app before waving it enticingly. She huffs a laugh before grazing his left side and standing with him to scroll through choices.

“The meat tastes weird on those pizzas,” Bo informs him, scrunching her nose. “If we share and go half and half, I want mine margarita. If we order the chicken, you get a free dip.”

Harry’s head is bobbing like a nodding dog on a car dashboard. The lights are on, but Bo can be pretty sure that nobody’s home at the moment. 

“How long for you?”

“Huh?”

“Since you slept with someone.”

Oh.

Bo’s eyes shoot to the ceiling as if performing maths off the top of her head. Stupidly, she hadn’t expected this, hadn’t begun to think that his thoughts might stray to her bedroom antics. 

“Umm, well,” she begins. 

Harry pockets his phone, the prospect of food instantly forgotten as his full attention gravitates to Bo and her inability to hold his eye contact. She feels flushed for a second, checking to see if the window is open. 

“You told me you’d never had sex with James.”

“It wasn’t James. It was only the once.”

He moves closer, stumped by the look on his face, Bo isn’t quite sure how this conversation will pan out. All she can hope is that it ends quickly without any emotional casualties. 

“With whom?”

Of course he’d ask, but why should it matter? Why should she have to explain her sleeping arrangements to a man she hasn’t had a relationship with in years. Heat prickles at the back of Bo’s neck as Harry stands waiting for an answer. But it’s not a demand, it’s more of a concern for him. 

“Someone from my course. It was really early on in first year before we saw each other again.”

“Did you like it?”

Harry backs up a little after the words leave his mouth, shying away from the potentially hurtful answer as he bites the inside of his cheek. He knows it was a mistake to ask. Nevertheless, the question makes Bo’s stomach squirm because they’re both fully aware that the only experience she has to compare it with was with Harry. And wasn’t that the full experience package. 

If Bo’s being honest, the guy was a pretty lousy lay. There wasn’t particularly anything special about the evening and the whole thing was wrapped up in under ten minutes. Apparently Harry had spoilt her when they were together.

“No complaints,” Bo replies, testing the waters. 

“Was he at your graduation?”

It’s almost as if she can see him straining to remember faces from the crowds of graduates. And as he does so, the subtle inclination of his body towards hers is duly noted, as if trying to shelter but not stifle her. 

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Just asking,” he clips, jaw drawing taut.

“He might have been, I didn’t talk to him though.”

It’s cruel to push him further, but she’s rather delighted in the physical reaction it’s provoking. There’s no joy in making him angry, but to tease. It might be fun. 

“You may have seen him. Huge guy with blond hair and as tall as the doorframe, biceps the size of my thighs. I think he’s a little bit older, too.”

“Yeah?” Harry grunts. 

Bo hums. His expression is tight as he mulls over the information and comes to a conclusion she will admit she wasn’t expecting. 

“Sounds like you shagged Thor.”

Bo can’t prevent the smile from creeping up on her, cheeks tinted a light shade of pink.

“I didn’t like it.”

There’s concern plastered on Harry’s face upon hearing her confession. 

“No, I just didn’t enjoy it,” she pauses. “It wasn’t - I’ve had better,” Bo admits before she can really process the meaning behind the words. Had better.

She’s a little mortified by the knowing tug at the corner of Harry’s mouth. And before she can say anything else he’s displaying a full on smirk. 

“Piss off,” Bo thumps his arm and he takes the hit with a dramatic stagger away. “You know what I mean. He was shit, I didn’t enjoy it and it was really awkward afterwards seeing him in lectures and stuff. It didn’t go any further.”

A few seconds more and the spirited exchange takes a nosedive. 

“What about us?” Harry carefully asks from across the kitchen table.  

“I don’t think it was the right time for us then.”

In the months post their reconciliation, Bo had exams to prepare for and lecturers to impress with heavily researched essays. All on top of social expectations and a house search for second year which was a steep learning curve. Finding anything half decent, which didn’t once have a zoo in the back garden or actually had a properly functioning electric meter was practically a miracle.

And during that time, Harry was in no man’s land, between stages of his life that felt like the odd, uncertain few days between Christmas and new year. He was on the brink of a fresh start but was teetering on the edge just waiting for the push. Bo couldn’t have known at the time, but she was the catalyst; a WhatsApp message of,

“I made too many pancakes for pudding because I was thinking of you. Tiff ate yours. I miss you.”

“And now?” Harry asks, turning the silver ring on his index. 

“Well now,” Bo starts, worrying her lip with if what she’ll say will be a push too far. “Now, I want you to kiss me.”

“Right now?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

They both jolt when Harry’s foot catches the chair leg, his stride determined before he comes to stand in front of her. Bo peers at him, head tilted back slightly to assess any emotions he lets slip through the crease between his brows or the pout he used to try and hide when something was amiss. As it is, he’s not giving her much to work with. 

The disappointment she feels settles heavy in her stomach when a kiss is instead pressed to her forehead. A feeling that soon edges to mortification and shame that she’d pushed him too far, cornered him into a situation he isn’t ready for. 

“Harry, I’m sor-“

The apology is stolen from her lips by the softness of his as another sweet kiss is placed high on her right cheek. Then proceeds a series of kisses, the last pressed to the tip of her nose which entices a giddy sort of smile, especially when he rubs his nose to hers. 

“I’ve missed you.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 10 (part 1)

Warning for mentions of assault/sexual assault.

Thank you for reading!!! 

Bo almost loses her “hat” as she tips her head to inspect her feet. She should have gone with the black shoes, she thinks, performing a Dorothy knock to her heels before wrinkling her nose. 

“Crap.”

The people lined up ahead move forward and there’s a confusing atmosphere in the shadows before blinding lights, a muddle of excitement and almost paralysing nerves. Bo dutifully follows the person in front, noting that this form of conga line is dramatically different than the one she was forced into at her cousin’s wedding. 

Bo’s never been under so much instruction before, follow me, sit here, stand up, clap, shake hands. And she’s reminded of this when beckoned forward by a man with worry lines patterned in waves across his forehead. There’s a trickle of sweat running just past his temple, and all it does is remind Bo of the layers of dark fabric currently draped over her feverous body. 

Her name is scratched out a little aggressively from the list pinned to his clipboard and he gives her a serious looking nod to the side. 

“Go.”

Fingers trail down the deep, red velvet curtains separating the audience from the hordes of achievers. She takes a customary deep breath. It’s with apprehensive steps and a nauseating roll to her stomach that Bo’s name is called and she takes to the stage, one glittery heel at a time. 

Please don’t trip. Please don’t fall and embarrass yourself.

Her heart is thundering like a summer storm, she feels the pressure of it through her tight dress and the damp palms she wipes on her robes that skirt the wooden stage. Bo doesn’t dare look out to the audience, just focusing ahead where the chancellor is offering a smile and a hand to shake. 

Bo’s head shoots up at the echoing whistles and overly enthusiastic clapping. Seated on the next level up are two people she recognises and one more person who she distinctly remembers said they couldn’t make it. Bo had been anguished but respectful at the time, telling them not to worry about it. How could she demand attendance from someone she exchanged infrequent texts with and birthday phone calls twice a year. 

Her mum flashes a camera and even with the distance Bo can tell she already has tears tracking her cheeks. Aunt Grace is faring a little better, although the wild clapping has Bo thinking that over displays of emotion are a family trait. They’re both in eye-catching floral dresses, a bright addition to the occasion compared to Bo’s compulsory dark coloured ensemble. 

She gives a small wave, descending the steps from the stage with one hand gripping her degree and the other clinging to the rail. Harry’s grinning as he lowers his hands from his mouth. 

There’s no time to assess his appearance, her heart slamming her ribcage, but Bo can tell just from the fleeting glance she gets that there’s no longer hair tumbling past his shoulders.

She sits through the ceremony for another two subjects, politely clapping with an impatient bobbing of her knee. It’s far too warm in the old venue, and Bo prays that someone will turn on the air conditioning or open a damn window somewhere. The few times she’s glanced up to the circle seats above, she’s caught a watery smile from her mum. Her aunt applauds every graduate with an enthusiasm not seen anywhere else in the audience. Before the ceremony, she’d grabbed Bo’s hand and told her how overwhelmed she was to be amongst a new generation of graduates. 

It’s Harry that seems to know when eyes are upon him, and Bo receives a smile and a cheeky wink. When they’re released, she’s one of the first up and out of her seat, hustling to try and jostle between some of the slower individuals. 

Freshly graduated, Bo tumbles through the back doors in her haste, out of the main venue and into the reception where friends and family are waiting with full glasses from the bar. Weaving through a large group just beyond her, Bo emerges to scan the rest of the room. 

He’s stood chatting to her mum and aunt, dressed in a navy suit with considerably less hair than when she’d seen him last. 

“Harry!”

Turning, he’s quick about taking the glasses off, ready for her when she barrels into him. Her arms tightly wrap his waist as she blurs the lines between them and squeezes. For Bo, the engaging of their bodies doesn’t last nearly as long as she’d like. Harry’s peeling away from her even as her fingers tighten to his jacket. He levers her away slightly by Bo’s shoulders, quite possibly so he can see her face as he laughs. 

“I didn’t think you were able to come,” her voice quivers slightly, making a grab for his hand. 

“I wasn’t going to miss your graduation, Bo.”

He leans in a little and Bo feels almost as though it’s a secret. 

“But you said -“

“Surprise.”

Harry’s grinning at her like a child telling an awful joke. And it will do awful things to her eye makeup if she dwells on the fact that he’s actually here. “Well, it certainly is a surprise to see your new look,” she fondly smiles, reaching up to touch the short length of his hair. 

“Thought I’d change it up a bit. More presentable for such an auspicious occasion.”

“It certainly is different.”

It’s shorter up the sides and longer on top. Funny, she never noticed how cute his ears were. 

“You look very handsome. And these are adorable,” she says, taking the glasses from his pocket, folding out the arms and placing them back on his nose. 

“Really?”

“You’re adorable.”

He sighs.

“That’s not really the look I was going for.” 

“Congratulations on your adorableness.”

“Congratulations on being massively brainy and getting your degree. Although you look like you’ve just graduated from Hogwarts,” he teases, lightly fluttering her robes. 

“Thanks.”

Bo had forgotten about the graduation cap before she tips her head to peer down at her attire. She catches it just as it starts to slip.

“Oh, these are for you.”

Seemingly out of thin air, a bouquet of prettily tied flowers is produced from somewhere behind him and Harry swaps the bunch for the cap in her hand. Bo’s bashful in her appreciation, hiding behind them whilst speaking her thanks. She thinks she’ll have to ask the restaurant to put them in water whilst they eat.

  “Hey Bo!”

They both turn and Bo smiles back at the group of friends from her course. Max and Ali have identical grins as they wave a bottle of fizz at her and beckon. A kiss is pressed to her mum and aunt’s cheeks, kicking off her heels and wriggling from the heavy robe. 

“I’ll be back in a minute.”

Her promise to Harry is accompanied with more of a kiss to his jaw than his cheek on account that he didn’t bend down far enough. Bo’s taken a few steps away from Harry before she thinks better of it and rounds on him again. He’s still smiling.

“You look really well, Harry.”

She nods, suddenly becoming unable to keep from blushing as she shakes her head and retreats towards her friends, leaving him to watch after her. 

***

There’s already family members trying to hustle groups of graduating friends into keepsake photographs. It’s Ali’s younger sister, with her dark plaited hair swinging around her shoulders that ultimately breaks up their little gathering. She beams up at him, two teeth less than in the family picture Ali had up in his room. He makes a show of trying to resist the youngster tugging on his hand.

  “We’ll organise something over the summer, right?” he rushes before being whisked away. “We could all meet in London, or have a weekend at the beach?”

“Sounds great.”

“I’m up for it.”

“You’re up for anything,” Jose elbows Max in the ribs.

He proceeds to play injured as Jose catches something of greater interest. 

“You should go.”

The words are countered with a tilt to her head, nodding past Bo’s shoulder. 

“You trying to get rid of me?” Bo jokes.

“No, I just think your boyfriend wants you back.”

Bo turns to see Harry stood with her mum and aunt. He’s still got her robe draped over his forearm, and it’s a second before he notices her attention, in which his frown transforms to fondness. 

She wriggles her toes on the balding carpet as her stomach does an odd affectionate squirm at the fact Harry’s also holding her heels.

“Oh, he’s not - my boyfriend.”

“Really? Is he single then?”

“Shut up,” Bo hushes, playfully pushing her friend away. 

She keeps on her toes on the meandering route back to him, cautious of pointy heels and polished dress shoes. There’s even a moment Bo resorts to a hop and shuffle rather than taking critical damage to blue polished nails. 

“You should probably put them back on if we’re going outside,” Harry gestures to her shoes.

“I was hoping someone would carry me. They might look pretty, but they’re killing my feet.”

Regardless, she slips into them anyway, taking hold of Harry’s arm to steady herself. 

“I would offer to put you over my shoulder, but I don’t think your mum would like it much.”

Bo would take a fireman’s lift even if it meant a disapproving look from her mother. After today she’d quite happily get shot of the sparkly, monster shoes down the charity shop. 

“You’d carry me?”

“Course.”

“I’m really proud of you. And just to clarify, I would offer to carry you anyway, even if you hadn’t just graduated.”

She places her hand on her heart somewhat dramatically. 

“Thank you for coming.”

***

Posing for pictures, throwing graduation caps and saying her goodbyes drains Bo of the energy she started the day with. Her mum and aunt are waiting for her on the outskirts of the garden and Bo could just about drop to her knees with exhaustion, anything to get the weight off her feet. But before she can join them, Harry approaches, pocketing his phone and standing in front of her. 

“I’m gunna head off now,” he tells her and Bo’s joy takes a nosedive into disappointment. 

“Really? Aren’t you coming to dinner with us?”

She can tell by the sour pinch to his mouth that he didn’t want to make a big thing about it. Probably just wanted to kiss her on the cheek and slip away. Again. 

“You can stay. We’ll ask them to just set another place at the table. I can -“

Bo starts to turn away to her mum because she’ll know what to do. Mum’s always know; like it’s programmed into them the moment they give birth. Bo doesn’t need to vie for her attention though, her mum and aunt are already watching after the couple across the grass. 

Bo catches her eye long enough for her mother to mouth, ‘Let him go.”

It’s Harry’s hand on Bo’s shoulder that gently anchors her and she can feel a phantom twist of emotion in her gut. It hurts. Reminiscent of a juncture in their shared past when he told her he was leaving. But this time she doesn’t cry. Bo holds her nerve and his eye contact. 

“It’s ok, you celebrate with your family.”

She remains tightlipped to refrain from saying something silly. Harry kisses her cheek but Bo can already feel him stepping out and away, creating a distance that prevents her from clutching at him. And she doesn’t understand why. 

“Harry?”

He smiles, still moving to cut their connection.

“It’s ok, I’ll talk to you soon.”

It’s with a heavy heart that she tortures herself further, watching as he politely slips between the remaining friends and relatives and exits the garden through the stone archway. 

On the walk to the restaurant, her mum strides ahead taking a congratulatory phonecall on Bo’s behalf from a relative she’s never even heard of. 

“I wonder if they’ll have a vegan menu?”

Bo’s aunt has slipped an arm through hers as they wander through familiar streets admiring shop windows.

“You’re not even a vegan though.”

“I know, but the whole diet intrigues me.”

Bo shakes her head, laughing as they round another corner. They’re serenaded by a busker whilst they wait outside the restaurant for her mum to finish the call. He’s young, strumming away at chords and singing along to an early Ed Sheeran track that Bo’s having trouble with naming.  

“It’s a shame Harry couldn’t stay,” her aunt comments as they watch.

“Yeah,” Bo hums, because she’s not really in the mood to discuss it. 

“You shouldn’t worry.”

“About what?”

Little Bird, Bo thinks. That’s the song. 

“He said he’s still trying to sort things out. He didn’t feel ready for it yet.”

***

“Meet me at the corner of Angle Rd at 6, wear something sporty. H x”

She scans over the message again, before chucking her phone back on the unmade bed. Her insides do an involuntary sweep as it bounces before settling inches from edge of the mattress. 

“Wear something sporty, what does that even mean?”

Bo confronts the mess in her wardrobe, hands on hips paired with a scrutinising gaze. Hangers are pushed back and forth on her rail as she contemplates if her jeggings constitute anything remotely sporty. She decides they don’t meet the grade.

A glance at the time makes the decision for her, making grabby hands at a pair of patterned leggings and a “Save The Bees” t-shirt she received from Tiff as a birthday present. She’s out the door in less than two minutes.

Bo’s not really one for arriving early to anywhere, but it’s Harry and his cryptic message that has prompted something similar to nerves in her belly. Similar, but it’s definitely not nerves. No.

“I said something sporty.”

She whirls to see Harry approach from the other side of the road. He’s in sport shorts and a t-shirt with a duffle bag slung over his right shoulder. The tautness in his arms blinkers her vision, not the sort of arms attached to a chiseled model with flowing hair on a cheesy romance novel. But more the solid build of an athlete, of someone who actually uses their body as a tool rather than just flaunting it at the gym. 

She refuses to acknowledge the small clench in her lower tummy. 

“This is what I do yoga in,” Bo explains, glancing down at the bright yellow top and leggings. 

“You do yoga?”

“Yeah, me and a girl from work take a class on Wednesday. We end up giggly through most of it, but I think I’ve got the warrior pose down.”

Bo gives a little demonstration in the middle of the path, much to Harry’s amusement.

“How’s work going?”

Bo moves along beside him as he starts to walk back down the road. 

“Alright thanks, hopefully I won’t be there much longer. I have an interview next Friday with an NGO that I’m doing some prep for.”

“Fingers crossed.”

They chat for the remainder of the mystery walk until they near a building that Bo’s vaguely familiar with.

“Are we working out? I thought we were going for a run.”

“Not quite.”

Harry leads the way through the reception where he’s cheerfully greeted by a muscled man behind the desk. Bo waits as Harry digs a card out from his wallet before swiping it in front of a screen. The barriers ahead of them swing open and she’s encouraged through them with a hand to her lower back.  

They’re met with a wall of warmth and excited shrieks as they press through the heavy doors. Children delight in the water of the fun pool and Bo watches toddlers splash around in fountains spurting from the tiled floor. 

“I brought my niece the other week,” Harry says, leaning against the rail beside her.

“Here?” Bo asks. “To the pool of screaming children.”

There’s a mother standing on the side of the water’s edge, beckoning for three children to get out and dry off, to which they duck under the surface with grinning, goggled faces. It’s a reminiscent scene of her own childhood that amuses Bo as she continues to listen. 

“She loves it. Bit clingy to start off with and we stayed in the shallows mostly, but she wanted to go in deeper.”

“How old is she now?”

“Two and a half,” he replies with a soft sort of smile.

There’s adoration and pride blooming as Harry talks about his niece. And Bo knows for certain that the toddler had him wrapped around her finger from the moment he first held her. And the idea of Harry with a baby, how gentle and soft spoken he’d be whilst informing her of how he’d spoil her rotten despite what her mum says. It’s enough to have Bo pining to witness first hand how someone barely past Harry’s knee could turn him to complete mush. 

“It’s bit of a nightmare after getting out of the water though, she wriggled around so much I didn’t bother changing either of us.”

Bo laughs, gripping the rail.

“Just wrapped her in the towel like a burrito and walked out.”

“Are we here to swim, because I didn’t bring anything to change into.”

“Not today. I have something else planned.”

It’s as they bypass the locker rooms and then the training hall that Bo’s curiosity bubbles over with questions.

She’s left unsatisfied with an answer of, “Wait and see.”

Following along closely behind him, Bo’s introduced to a brightly lit room through a set of double doors. 

“Stay here a minute.”

He offloads his bag to the floor by Bo’s feet which she huffs at before nudging it to the wall with her foot. 

It’s difficult not to notice the female chatter in the sweeping room. The majority are ladies, dressed in sporty attire with hair pulled back and smiles on their faces. There’s a bar running around the circumference, walls which are lined with floor to ceiling length mirrors. If Bo didn’t know any better she’d say they were here to dance, the space perfect for observing and participating in routines to music. But she certainly doesn’t think that’s the case as Harry’s now jogging over to the main group, his presence drawing in the smaller clusters formed on the outskirts. 

The space is relatively bare when taking into account it’s located in a gym. The floor is a patchwork of large blue mats laid out to face the space at the far end of the room. 

“Hi, thanks for continuing to come back,” Harry begins which elicits a murmur of laughter. “I’m pleased to see all the slots are filled for this self defence class. And I hope we can achieve a lot whilst we’re here.”

Bo’s eyebrows shoot up in response, still a little unsure as to what the hell is going on. That is until their eyes meet and Harry beckons Bo from the back of the room to where he’s stood in front of a class of about twenty-five.

“This is my –“ Harry pauses. “She’s um –“ 

“Bo,” she intercepts.

She’s never found public speaking to come with ease, and this feels a lot like a presentation she’s massively underprepared for. 

“She’s going to be helping me demonstrate,” Harry explains as Bo absorbs the information for the first time with the rest of the class. “Bo’s a beginner, too. So this will be new for everyone.”

And that’s pretty much it before Bo is thrown into a class she didn’t sign up for. But what stuns her more is how at ease he is whilst advising people on their foot stance and how to position their shoulders. Well, that and Harry’s surprising repertoire of encouraging phrases he dishes out when making the rounds. 

They run through exercises performed in the previous class, actions Bo has to catch up on with a partner as Harry wanders the floor. Once she’s mastered the art of evading a wrist lock, Harry calls her back up to the front again as the women gather. 

Bo stands to the side of Harry.

“What do you think puts Bo at a disadvantage in a physical confrontation between the two of us?”

The question is posed to the group before murmurs hum around the room and people begin to speak up.

“You’re huge,” one of the women at the front comments. 

Harry laughs as Bo scans him from her eye-level and up. He is considerably taller, broader and heavier than the rest of the room’s occupants. 

                                                                                                            “Yeah, I’m bigger than Bo.”

“Stronger,” someone else suggests.

“Unless she’s an athlete, I don’t think she could outrun you.”

The answers begin to lose steam and Bo is left with an unnerving list of attributes that put her in an inferior physical position. And honestly, it doesn’t do much for her confidence. 

The group conversation is still in free flow as Harry gestures for Bo to approach the mat.

“Do you mind doing a demonstration with me?” he asks quietly with his back partially to the class.

“What kind?” 

“If you’re not comfortable, you can say no and I’ll ask one of the trainers - it’s defence against sexual assault.”

Bo’s stomach instantly drops as she thickly swallows.

“Wow, heavy stuff,” she tries and unfortunately fails to make light of it.

“It’s important to -“

“Ok.”

“You sure?” he asks, raising his brows.

“If it will help the people here, then of course.”

His smile is infectious and Bo actually has to prompt him to continue with the class. Giving him a little shove towards the waiting group so she can hide the grin he’s responsible for. 

“Will you lay down for me please?”

She gives him a look before taking his hand and sitting on their own patchwork of blue in the room. Bo regathers her hair in a tie before flicking it out above her head and laying back. 

“Today, we’re going to be learning to defend and evade against a position known for sexual assault.”

As Bo’s regard flicks from face to face, trying to decipher people’s initial reaction, she’s surprised to find that there’s no shock or uneasiness, instead an openness to listen and learn. 

***

Bo’s a little perplexed at the position she finds herself in, only the mat separating her body from the floor and Harry hovering over her like they’re in the privacy of a home and not at the front of a class full of keen, observing eyes. 

He’s on hands and knees, those knees pressing up under her butt as her bent legs widen. But it’s the nature of the subject matter that, despite the positioning, cancels out any romantic stirrings for Bo, and she’s pretty sure Harry isn’t feeling it either. There’s something sort of remote about it all.

“With sexual assault, this is most likely going to be the position a victim would end up in. I know it might feel a bit awkward to start off with,” Harry continues to speak to the class. “But it’s important to remember that in reality, if something does happen, it’s not going to be from a distance. It’ll be close.”

As if to emphasise the point, he leans down onto Bo until their chests are almost touching. And then his body heat is gone as he straightens once again. 

“Don’t think that once you’re on the floor, that’s it. There’s a lot of moves you can perform to get out of the position. And that’s what we’re going to begin learning today.”

Harry’s full attention returns to Bo and along with it, everybody else’s. She’s forced to peer up at his face, ready for his next instruction. But he doesn’t address her as such, instead throwing another question out to the group. 

“What do you think Bo can do to get out of this?”

He’s almost fully on top of her, his forearms place by her head and Bo can feel her cheeks bloom with warmth. 

There’s mutterings of suggestions between people that have paired off before someone calls out from the back. 

“Head-butt you?”

Laughter flutters around the room. 

“Not quite,” Harry admits with a smile. “Try and push me away.”

Simple.

Bo presses up, palms making contact with Harry’s chest and shoving. But it’s with slight alarm that she discovers all three attempts end with Harry buckling her elbows and powering down. And it’s then, with a whisper of breath between them that Harry asks, “How do you feel?”

Bo thickly swallows. 

“Powerless.”

And it’s true because the thought of being so easily trapped is turning Bo’s stomach over. If it was anyone but Harry performing the demonstration there’s a strong possibility that she’d ask to remove herself from the situation to melt back into the gathering of people watching over. But it is Harry, Harry with his short hair, scarred face and easy smile. And she trusts him.

One woman clears her throat and Harry rolls smoothly back into professional instructor.

“This class is about learning to effectively gain control in situations like this.” With her hands pressed to Harry’s shoulders, not his chest, Bo’s told to lock her arms in place. It ensures that despite his efforts, his upper body is prevented from crushing hers. 

“See,” Harry keeps up his running commentary. “With your arms like this, I can’t get anywhere near you. She could take my whole body weight and still hold the position.”

“Try,” one of the women sat down at the front suggests.

It’s never been an audience that Bo imagined she’d ever be in front of, especially in a situation like this. But the more moves they perform together, the more she feels empowered and comfortable in a strange sort of way. 

Harry looks to Bo and she nods.

He’d been holding back in the demonstration before now, careful not to show full brawn. But as Harry surrenders his weight Bo’s joyfully surprised that she can take it and hold. 

“Are you really -“

“Yeah, good job,” he praises.

A second more and his body’s burden is removed and they roll right into the next action in the sequence. 

Harry is patient as they try different moves according to both of their leg positions. In between repeating new moves he just simply slides Bo back to him, aided by the ease of the mat, much to her surprise the first couple of times. He still holds her firm but the more they practise the easier Bo finds it to perform. She’s particularly pleased to perfect, “shrimping out”, a sequence that ends with freeing her legs.

“Bo’s gunna put her feet on my hips to give her leverage for the next move.” She does so, allowing Harry to adjust her placement before falling back into their position.

“Whilst doing this you can remove your palms from my chest and grip my elbows.”

Fingers wrap tight to his elbows as his hair flops over his eyes.

“And then you push, extending your legs.”

She doesn't exert herself because Harry’s going easy.

“An attacker’s natural reaction will be to pull away, and you use this to your full advantage. When this happens, I want you to move your grip down to the wrists and hold.”

Harry’s presence backs up and away from Bo at a casual pace so she can get used to the transforming hold. Hands sliding all the way down his forearms until she does as instructed and catches his wrists.

“Good.”

They’re taking it slowly, step by step with Harry reassuring the group that they’ll repeat the demonstration as many times as needed. He’s a patient tutor, happy to answer any questions put forward by some of the quieter women. It’s as Bo’s grinning stupidly up at him that her chest fills with pride and she thinks that maybe this is what he’s supposed to do; to help people, use his knowledge and experience of fighting and turn it on its head. Because he knows how to use another’s brute force in his favour, how to block attacks, how to escape a hold, deflect a punch and how to tactically overcome threat. Bo’s seen him do it, and now it’s time for him to  teach others. 

“When you get to this stage, it’s time to fight back. This is where I want you to kick the shit out of them.”

The women laugh at his choice of words as Bo’s eyes widen.

“What?” she blurts.

“Groin, solar plexus and chin,” he gestures respectively to each. “The aim is to incapacitate, knock him back and then you run.”

Bo’s grip tightens on his wrists. She doesn’t want to hurt him and she voices this worry whilst Harry takes hold of Bo’s calfs, lifting them so her feet are near his shoulders.

“This is when you have a chance to kick me in the face.”

Bo teasingly tests the strength of his grip which Harry responds to with a raised brow and comical smile. 

“Think of cycling without the bike, that’s the motion you’re looking for.”

She practises her kicks with Harry tilting his head to the side, out of harms way. 

“Then you can roll out from under me and run.”

Once they finish up with their little demo, it’s clear to see some of the women are itching to try out the sequence. They run through the steps once more slowly and then with speed before they disband and try the routine in pairs. Bo watches as Harry weaves through the mats talking to each pair and helping with any placement problems they’re having. 

It’s Bo’s turn to sit back and watch whilst swigging out of her water bottle. Despite the more sinister underlying need for the class, there’s a few eruptions of giggles between friends when getting into positions. And Bo has to admit that she’s had fun.

Forty minutes more and the participants in the class are collecting their belongings from the back of the room. There’s accomplished smiles and fervent chatting upon exit, one woman even asks if there will be any more slots open for future classes, explaining the interest given when she’d told her friends. The proud smile she displays transforms upon a new arrival to her little area at the back. 

“Were you here for the combat class?”

Bo turns to see a guy in shorts and a t-shirt with the sweat drenched neckline. He’s handsome in a boyish kind of way and that makes Bo think he’s probably not as old as the muscled body lets on.

“It’s a defence class,” she replies. 

He nods with a smile.

“I’ve met the instructor.”

“Yeah?”

He hums.

“Yeah, but have you seen his face,” he gestures vaguely to his own left eye and Bo’s tolerance for this meaningless conversation shuts down. Prick. There’s no obligation to entertain such topics, and the fact that this man thought it was an appropriate icebreaker is beyond Bo. 

“I dunno, I think he’s kinda cute,” she playfully cocks her head at Harry.

Harry’s still chatting with a few of the women but he’s definitely noticed her interaction with the man stood to her left. His posture changes, and there’s a moment where Bo thinks he might approach.

“Oh.”

“Mmm, looks like he could look after a woman. And he’s obviously hugely respectful of them for leading a class that empowers them in situations where we’re oppressed and demeaned in some of the worst ways imaginable.”

This guy is nodding but Bo’s not really sure he follows.

“I’m Jake,” he holds out his hand to shake.

She could almost laugh at the blatant urge to change the conversation. 

“Bo.”

An instant before she sees him, Bo knows Harry is with her. She can already feel the heat of him as he stands partially behind her.

“Who’s this?”

Straight to the point and in a tone she hasn’t heard for a long time. Bo would be embarrassed to admit that it sends her body into a turmoil that results in a flushed chest and that hot little clench in her stomach. She pushes back into him almost on instinct.

“Jack.”

“It’s Jake,” the guy corrects, irritably. 

“Oh, sorry,” Bo lightly laughs, fully aware of her mistake. “We were just talking about you.”

“You were?” Harry asks slightly warily.

He steps more to her right side as Bo fights the urge to push away the flopping curls from his face. 

“Yeah, how successful the class is, and how pretty you are.”

Harry blinks down at her as Bo gives him her best smile. 

“I’m gunna go.”

Jake leaves without any acknowledgement from the pair. 

*** Bo helps with putting the mats away in the cupboard at the back. Well, helping in a sense that she lays in a starfish on the mat as Harry drags it across the floor. A hilarity that proceeds upon switching places, judging that Bo can barely move the mat a foot with Harry sprawled across it. 

“Thanks for coming along, I think it really helps to have someone to demonstrate with. I don’t think I could have taken a volunteer for that sort of routine in the first couple of classes.”

They’re making their way out through the length of corridors to the reception. 

“Oh, I’m not sure. I’m pretty certain there would have been a few hands go up if you’d have asked.”

He’s bashful about it, but Bo definitely sees the grin as he turns away to hold the door. 

“So, how did it all happen?”

“When we were together, I remember you talking about it, teaching women defence.”

It’s a conversation Bo remembers having but it was flippant, she hadn’t dreamed he would acted on it.

“I got trained and became certified as an instructor. It’s only one night a week at the moment, but the manager’s told me that they were turning people away who wanted to enrol in the second class. And it’s not just women, it’s only a small turnout at the moment,” Harry frowns, “but we’re hoping to encourage more of the young LGBT community to enrol.”

“Lucky I got my spot then.”

“You’re an exception.”

“I think you mean, exceptional.”

It’s laughter that opens out onto the street. 

“They’re hoping to fit in some more classes during the week.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“Then I wouldn’t have to do gym training in the day, it would just be the defence classes.”

Bo’s delighted to see that he looks proud and he should be. 

“So, are you gunna show me your new place, or what?”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 9

Thank you so much for sticking with me, I really appreciate your kind words and support. I hope you enjoy this update! And thank you Clarisse for being such a massive help in the process of putting this chapter together, your encouragement was invaluable!

 I wake to comfortable warmth, one that has me wanting to lounge in bed all day and procrastinate any worries. With a contented sigh my legs extend, unfurling my sleep heavy limbs before curling up on my side. My fingers catch the top of the duvet before the room comes to me in blinkered vision. I sit up quicker than I should and now I’m fighting an inevitable head rush. It’s not my room and it’s certainly not my bed. Truths from the night before rekindle in my mind and flush my cheeks a heated pink. My legs are bare against the sheets.

It’s a good job Harry isn’t in bed because the way I furiously pat his side of the tumbled mattress would have given anyone a start. It’s empty, apart from me. From the coveted security of my cocoon, I can see the bathroom is vacant and the bedroom door is shut. Alone then. I lean back on my elbows, huffing the stray pieces of hair from my face.

It’s breaking all common sense to abandon the mountain of sheets, and I do so with a shiver and disgruntled moan. My toes curl against the chilled floor before I stand, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and padding across the room. There are pictures decorating the top of his chest of drawers, his sister, his mum, distant friends. It’s good he’s held on to these little memories, I’m pleased. If anything, it shows he’s not completely lost to the new world he’s found himself part of.

I smile. What I’ve not quite found myself familiar with yet, is the abundance of hair Harry’s now sporting. And testament to that is the amount of abandoned hair ties littered around his room. I grab a black one from the side, collecting my hair into a pony tail as I meander around the lived in space.

The curtains remain drawn but do a poor job of keeping morning at bay. I open them, the material heavy with remnants of stale smoke. I’ve not asked him about it yet, but from what I’ve seen of Harry I’m pretty sure he’s not chain smoking his way through the day. Regardless, he should break the habit.

The room reflects the rest of the disorderly flat, an unorganised whirlwind of clutter. The items of clothing that tangle my feet on the floor are collected up and thrown into the washing basket just inside the bathroom door.

When growing up, I was taught to respect peoples’ belongings and that it’s impolite to rummage through possessions that are not your own. But I’ve always been like a magpie to something pretty and shiny.

A chain dangles from the open drawer by the bed, as if neglected in hasten to hide it. My head gives a curious tilt as I make to draw it out of the darkened confines. When its entirety is revealed to me I almost drop it again, as though suddenly it scorches with an onslaught of lost memories. They surface in my mind like bubbles of air in water, a flurry of evocative flashes, all containing Harry. All the occasions we spent together between him gifting and securing it around my neck, to me wearing it for the very last time.

A little paper plane on a silver chain. He kept it.

My heart thumps a little harder against my ribs, swallowing the lump in my throat. He kept it. I sit back onto his bed as if my legs have been knocked out from beneath me. The pendant swings, letting the paper plane sail in a haphazard circle before landing in my palm. And it’s like finding something lost. A small comforting weight that my skin used to warm when it was mine; now it’s cold.

My intrigue in the discovery is sharply cut short by what I can imagine is a closing door and movement in the living area. I drop the necklace and it clatters into the drawer before I shunt it closed.

“Harry?”

My plea is left unanswered and hanging in the silence that follows. I rise from the bed. The slim possibility that it isn’t Harry the other side of the door stops me from daring to call out a second time. The fact that he’s had trouble before now isn’t much of a reassurance, in fact, it has me jumping to the horrendous conclusion that some homicidal maniac has broken in.

I edge towards the guitar propped up in the corner of the room, clutching it tightly by the neck. With silent footfalls I creep towards the door, turning the handle and easing it open.

I can almost feel the blood drain from my face, fear constricting my thought progression as the figure in question scuffs around the kitchen. I assume it’s a man, but with my heart thundering and hands profusely sweating it doesn’t really matter what lies under the layers of clothing.

I raise the guitar as if to strike and it’s only then he turns around, right hand occupied by shopping bags and brows raised in shock.  Head phones are yanked from his ears before he takes his hood down to reveal a hat, tendrils of dark hair curling out from underneath it.

“Christ,” Harry breathes, “you could take someone’s eye out with that.”

My head falls back in relief and I lower the makeshift weapon. Harry’s grinning as he places bags down on the kitchen counter  

“That’s not funny,” I deadpan.

He turns to me, rolling the headphones around his phone.

“It’s a little bit funny.”

I shake my head as he lightly laughs.

“I thought you were a murderer.”

“Well, a murderer that brought you breakfast,” he gestures to the contents he retrieves from the bags.

“Why are you creeping around this early in the morning?”

“I thought you’d still be asleep.”

“Well, I’m very much awake now.”

“I didn’t have anything in the fridge, so I went to the shops,” Harry explains, unloading his bag onto the side. “I didn’t think I’d have to leave a note. You were snoring your brains out when I left.”

“I don’t snore!”

He laughs at my defiance, grin only widening once catching my thunderous look and crossed arms.

“Bo, I’ve slept with you enough times to know that you do.”

My damp mood instantly dissipates and it’s sort of embarrassing how coy I become. I’ve forgotten the intimacy of our past romance. But of course he knows I snore, just like he’s well aware that I’ll kick him in the face if he tickles my feet, that I’d rather be miserably cold than too hot and how I despise the cow lick in my hair. He’s touched my naked skin, pressed his thumbs into the dimples at the bottom of my spine, my voice so raw I could only choke on gulps of parched air.

My mouth dries and I almost lose my balance upon recalling the soft curve of his lower stomach and the cut of his hips. I catch myself on the table.

He’s heard me say his name in anger, in a cry, through tears, in longing, in happiness and pleasure.

Harry isn’t faring much better as he wraps his knuckles on the kitchen counter, the rings on his fingers clinking against the surface. There’s a softness to his muddled expression as he raises his head to look at me.

“I never thought it would be like this, especially with you.”

“Like what?” I ask, propping the guitar against the side.

“You’re a mystery to me now. I think we’ve lost each other.”

“I’m the same person,” I smile, shaking my head.

“No. We’ve both changed,” he lowly admits. “But I think I’d like to find you again - If you’d let me.”

There’s a hopeful craving buried deep into the words but I’m able to dig it out, dust it off. I want to learn him again, this new Harry, amend him in my mind and add all his new quirks and oddities. I’ll praise his transformation and make him feel like nothing is lost; it’s just things that are gained. Or perhaps we should wipe the slate clean and start from the beginning.

“We could do that.”

“Yeah?”

I nod.

“Good,” Harry smiles.

“I’m gunna put some clothes on,” I thumb back to his bedroom.

His eyes shoot down to my bare legs before immediately turning to start on the breakfast. About as subtle as an earthquake, Styles.

“Alright.”

I grab my clothes from the living room floor where I cast them off from the night before. The bedroom door is closed before I’m shedding his t-shirt and clasping my bra. There’s a bit of negotiation, as always, wriggling the jeans up my legs and fastening the button and zip. It’s then that I feel the small protrusion from my back pocket. I delve to pull out the small packet and realisation dawns.  

I decide not to leave anything to chance and head for the bathroom. It’s only ever something I’ve seen in films, so when I empty the packet into the toilet and flush, it feels slightly surreal that this is something that I have to do.

There’s hardly any hesitation as I redress into his t-shirt. When I emerge into the living area, Harry’s put the kettle on and placing individual teabags into mugs. He’s left the food purchases out on the counter so I have a gander through the spreads whilst we wait for the water to boil.

“You look better,” I observe with a smile, hip resting against the worktop.

There’s some colour to his cheeks and it seems to revive the petal pink of his mouth and green of his good eye.

“Think it’s the fresh air.”

We settle around his tiny kitchen table to face each other, partaking in easy conversation and spoonfuls of peanut butter from the jar.

“Is this what you usually have for breakfast?” I ask through a mouthful of toast.

He pushes the soggy cereal around the bowl before relenting and making a grab for my remaining slice of toast.

“No, I’d probably have a banana or something.”

A hum of discontent is given through my pursed lips. I’ve visited a couple of times now, and there’s never been a hint of fruit in the kitchen. The best Harry could produce would be something out of a tin or left over food in the fridge.

“You should eat more.”

“Yes, mum,” he sarcastically grumbles.

“I’m serious, you’ll make yourself ill. Especially with your job, you’re like an athlete. Don’t you need to take in a stupid amount of carbs and protein each day?”

“I’m fine.”

“Harry –“

“I’m not gunna fight anymore, so it’s fine,” he sharply replies.

My timing isn’t something I pride myself on and Harry must know that if his expectant expression is anything to go by. He sucks in a deep sigh, digging his spoon into the jar again.

“What is it?” he inquires as though the task is a tedious one.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You already have.”

I ignore him.

“Were you looking for me?”

“When?”

“At the fight, the night we saw each other again. You came out to the ring as though you were searching for someone.”

He places the spoon on my plate, meeting my eyes seconds later. I wait patiently whilst he gathers his thoughts, but as the moments tick by I’m plagued with more troublesome questions that I dare not ask. Did he know it was me at the bar? If I hadn’t have shied away, would he have taken the girl home? Would he have taken us both?

A phone alarm goes off somewhere in the flat, the noise disrupting the balance of the situation and the moment is lost. I take hold of his wrist and angle it so I can see the time.

“Oh shit, I have to go.”

My long suffering moan overbears the drag of chair legs as I push out from under the table. The phone is on the floor by the sofa, a spot I’d left it in before I partook in an early hour’s game of musical beds. I thumb through the messages exchanged between my mum and I. She’ll be at the shopping centre in a half hour and I’m currently more than forty-five minutes away.

“You do? Now?” Harry asks whilst standing from his seat.

“Yeah,” I huff. “I said I’d meet my mum to shop for my Aunt’s birthday present. If I don’t go with her she’ll end up buying another novelty kitchen item that my Aunt won’t use.”

Harry laughs, his smile punching a dimple into his cheek. I gather my belongings, dressing fully for the trip down to my car.

“I’ll see you again though, right?”

“Of course.”

He leans in for what I presume will be a hug but instead he miscalculates and the corner of my mouth is bestowed with an ungainly kiss. Harry clears his throat and there’s a sheepish look on his face as he pulls away.

“Come here,” I encourage, sweeping him into a tight hug. “I’ll find you again.”

***

 Tiff and I had a date. A date with essays, books and a busy library. I’d met her just inside the door after scanning my access card and spotting her over by the book deposit. With a backpack slung over her shoulder, she was crunching through an apple and busying herself with textbook reading. When I approached, she handed me a banana and we began our hunt for essay material.

It’s busier than I expect as we climb the stairs to the second floor. I haven’t seen any free seats yet, if not we’ll resort to having our little study session on the floor, backs to the radiators under the south windows.

“I spoke to Larissa and she’s giving people bars of chocolate for taking part in her experiment,” Tiff explains with me following her from one aisle to another. “I think that’s a good idea, but it’s not particularly healthy.”

She knows I’ll take part in her project without reward, what with being a good friend and all. But apparently you can’t solely rely on good relationships between other undergraduates for help. There has to be a sweet incentive with hungry university students.

“Well, I think people will be reluctant to take part if all they get in return is a children’s box of raisins.”

“How about chocolate covered raisins?”

I make a disgusted face, crinkling my nose until Tiff laughs. She hoists her back pack higher out of habit.

“Fine, I’ll find something else.”

She sticks her tongue out.

It’s after we’ve collected what we can of Tiff’s psychology books and placed requests for the ones we couldn’t find. I’ve ferreted out my scribbled list of possible articles when she springs on me.

“Who’s Harry?” Tiff casually asks.

I turn so rapidly that we almost clash foreheads. She takes hold of my shoulders to back me up before her hands fall to her sides.

“What?” I blurt.

And I instantly regret it as it’s probably the worst way I could have handled the question. She cocks her head, suddenly very intrigued by my sharp reply and the fear in my eyes.

“James asked me about him, but I don’t know who that is. Apparently you’ve been messaging him, this Harry.”

Tiff’s prompt for more information is given in the form of a strict looking eyebrow raise. It’s something my mum used to do when I acted up as a child.

“He’s just a friend,” I respond, scanning the book spines above our heads. I busy myself, extending on to tiptoes to further my reach. “Gosh, they should provide a ladder or something for the top shelf,” I half-heartedly laugh.

It’s a joke which Tiff raptly ignores in favour of conversational pursuit. She’s like a sodding blood hound; and despite her reassuring me countless times that just because she takes psychology, she can’t actually read my mind. I’m having doubts as we delve further into the subject in question.

“Not from here though, right? You’ve never spoken about a Harry before. Is he from back home?”

The book I’d been determined to retrieve slips from my grip and knocks my head on its descent to the ground. I grumble, rubbing at the sore spot whilst Tiff fusses to assess the damage. She bats my hand away to comb through my hair and check for bumps.

It’s together that we both bend down to pick up the book, her hand accidently touches mine and it’s as if the connection allows her see all the pieces neatly slotting into place. She grabs my wrist.

“Ow,” I complain.

“Shit,” Tiff breathes, mouth falling open. “It’s him, isn’t it? The boy you left behind.”

My eyes widen to an impossible size before I’m hastily gathering up textbooks and my bag. She’s practically stepping on my heels as I escape the aisle, thrilled to have her weird psychic ability be proven truthful.

“I thought he was a long lost love, I had no idea you still spoke to each other,” she delightedly states.

Her hand is placed on her chest, trying to contain her excitement. I hush her, embarrassed by the scene she’s causing. I don’t need the library’s entirety to know my business.

“It’s only recently. It hasn’t been a long standing thing,” I implore in a whisper.

“Have you been seeing him, is that why you visit home a lot?”

She gives me a knowing grin which I refute with a furious shake to my head. There are people gathered around the cluster of computers who are beginning to take interest in our hushed back and forth.

“I wasn’t cheating on James.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

“He’s not been very well and I’m trying to help him.”

“How? Are you treating him kindly with kisses?”

The colour of my cheeks betray me and Tiff is upon my like a hungry lioness. I haul her around the corner of the bookcase before we attract anymore curious glances. The shelves rattle as I stumble over our feet and she does her best to right me.

“Oh my god!” Tiff exclaims, expression dancing in delight.

“Shhhh!” I plead.

“Or is it more than that?” her teasing smile fades, eyes full of concern. “Are you sleeping with him?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Well, tell me then.”

***

Unable to find a study table, Tiff and I secured the next best thing, a couple of cushions from a reading area. We’d then skirted around to a warm spot by the radiators and made ourselves at home. It wasn’t a well-travelled area, so we were free to chat quietly.  

“That’s pretty hot.”

Her words are muffled around the pasta salad she’s eating, spearing another twirl and shoving it in her mouth. She offers me a bite only to receive a shake to my head.  

“It’s not really.”

“He’s like a bare-knuckle fighter, of course that’s hot.”

“Not when you see him slammed into the floor as someone lays into him. I don’t want to see any more black eyes or busted lips.”

“You said he quit?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what’s he doing now?”

I flip another page, jotting down a few notes and then highlighting them.

“He’s gone to stay with his mum for a bit, and I think his sister’s visiting.”

“That’s good, right? It’s probably the break he needs.”

“Yeah, I just hope he realises that people are more than willing to help him. He doesn’t need to do anything on his own.”

I catch her smile before she lightly knocks into me, laying her head on my shoulder.

“He’s got you, he’ll be fine.”

***

“There’s a boy outside,” Tiff lightly comments.

She’s still knelt up on the window ledge in the kitchen fussing with some cheap paperchains we got from town. I’d handed her a cushion to put under her knees after she’d complained about the awkward position.

“Hmm.”

I turn to her and watch as she adjusts the makeshift banner we’d created out of scrap paper and a pot of glitter. We’re on a budget, but everyone deserves a bit of sparkle on their birthday, even Rob. Tiff and I were delegated cake and decorations, the remaining flatmates had the slightly messier job of arranging alcohol and invites; which turned out to be an easy task once word spread and people agreed to bring their own bottles.

“You know, there’s probably not much point in you putting up a lot of decorations. Rob won’t take much notice once everyone is here and he’s had a few drinks.”

“I’m just trying to lift the celebratory atmosphere.”

“The more you put up, the more we have to take down,” I sing-song.

“You’re bloody miserable.”

I go back to the cake batter we’ve decided to dye different colours. If all goes well it will be a marbled delight of green and blue. Baking isn’t really my forte but with Tiff’s culinary expertise we’re making the most of a free kitchen.

“Do you think he’s waiting for someone?”

“Who?”

“The boy. He keeps looking at his phone.”

“No idea,” I distractedly reply, poking my tongue between my lips in concentration.

“Should I put it in the cake tins now?”

“Yeah. Hang on, I’ll give you a hand.”

She abandons the decorations in favour of rushing over to help deposit the batter. We’re successful apart from a few little dollops that missed the tins. I begin on the loathsome task of washing up before Tiff’s back on her ledge.

“Ohh,” she whimpers. “He’s gone.”

I listen to her entertaining commentary, soaping up plates and leaving them to drain.

“Oh no, no! He’s still there. Gosh, he’s cute,” she exclaims, furiously shifting her head from side to side in order to escape the reflection of the light in the window.

“How can you tell?” I laugh. “We’re on the second floor.”

“Well, he’s got nice hair.”

“It’s dark out.”

“Stop arguing with me and come see if we can hear what he’s saying on the phone.”

She beckons me over with a cheeky smile whilst trying to open the stiff lock on the window.

“That’s called eavesdropping, and it’s rude,” I reprimand, flicking suds of water in her direction.

She gives me a sour looking scowl, baring her teeth like an overgrown feline.  

“Ugh,” she grimaces. “Never mind, he smokes.”

Despite her repulsed tone it’s a mistake to think she’s lost interest, her nose pressing to the window as she makes quite a show of following the movement of the male. It reminds me of the predatory gaze a tabby has whilst watching birds teasingly flit around in the trees, out of reach and behind a pane of glass.

“I think he’s coming into our building.”

“What?”

“The boy,” she animatedly confirms.

It can’t be more than a minute that passes, time that Tiff spends giddily concocting a background story and outrageous personality traits for the boy beyond the glass. Our doorbell rings and Tiff’s eyes flash to mine before she’s barrelling towards the flat’s front door. I scrabble after her to discover her cheek pressed to the wood as she peers through our peephole.

“Rob’s party doesn’t start for another –“ she checks her watch “four and half hours.”

“I’m not here for a party,” he replies, voice muffled through the wooden barrier.

“Can you back it up a bit, I can’t see your face.”

I shove at her for my turn at the peephole like we’re children. Tiff knows I can’t reach so I’m not surprised when she catches me around my middle with her arms and hoists me an inch or two higher as we laugh.

“Oh, well why are you here?”

My hands press either side of magnifier to hold my view steady and it’s then the boy looks up.

“Harry?”

Tiff’s hold on me dissolves and my feet make contact with the floor again. She’s pressed up behind me as I open the door. Dressed in black skinnies ripped at the knee and a dark hooded jacket, Harry shoves his phone into his pocket.

“Hi.”

His mouth lifts into a small smile as his eyes pinball from me and then to Tiff.

“Hey,” I quietly greet. “You’re here. How are you here?”

“Uh, my sister dropped me off.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“Mack.”

I nod as I’m repeatedly nudged in the ribs with Tiff’s pointy elbow. She’s eagerly grinning, angling for an introduction I know she’s probably dying for.

“This is Tiff,” I gesture, but it’s of no real purpose because she’s already wedged in front of me and sticking her hand out to Harry.

He takes it with a laugh, repeating his name once more for her. As if he could be mistaken for anyone else.

“It’s nice to meet you,” she lightly says.

The greeting lasts seconds more than it should because I know she’s looking at the very same eyes that floored me that night in his room. They’re a conversation stopper, a sharp inhale of air and a loss for words.

It’s then I’m thankful for her quick mind and kind heart.

“Firm handshake,” she jovially confirms upon turning to me.

I shake my head at her as she shimmies past me into the flat.

“I’ll check on the cake.”

Left on our own, Harry and I share a few blinks before I remember my manners.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Thanks.”

Our flat smells like microwaveable meals and disinfectant any other day, so the aroma of sweet baking is a welcome change. As I glance into the kitchen, Tiff’s on her hands and knees peering through the grime on the oven window.

I lead Harry down the hall to walk past our identical doors until I reach “D”, my room. My hands are on the wood when I hear my name.

“Bo,” Tiff pokes her head out from the kitchen. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

She wears an easy smile but I know there’s concern under the friendly gesture.

“You can go in,” I look to Harry, shoving at the door with my hip.

There’s a brief flash of postered walls and a desk burdened with the weight of too many books, before Harry slips past the threshold and into my room.

“Thanks.”

In the kitchen, Tiff stands like a mother ready to impart wisdom; although the ring through her nose gives off more rebellious vibes than she’s probably hoping for.  A year my senior and don’t I know it.

“That’s him?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s taller than what I thought. Hot.”

“I’ll pass on your approval,” I say, lazily playing with the whisk we’ve yet to wash up.

“You didn’t tell me about his eyes,” she whispers.

“I didn’t know how to explain. He’s not really comfortable with them, so it didn’t feel right.”

“Ok.”

The easy acceptance surprises me and so does the fact that she doesn’t press me for the details of how and why Harry’s face is scarred.

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk probably. We might go out; I don’t really want to do it here.”

“Take your phone with you.”

“Tiff.”

“Ease my mind,” she urges with a slow smile.

I would have taken it anyway but I nod to keep the peace.

When I enter my room Harry’s busy examining my notice board spotted with paper and pins. It holds everything from my timetable to the list of experimental meals Tiff and I are going to attempt to make.

“Looks like you had fun,” he nods towards the photo tacked up of me and friends from my course on a night out.

“I did, we had to dress up,” I remember fondly.

“What are you, a zombie?”

“How dare you! I’m Dracula’s bride,” I playfully chide him.

“Oh, my apologies.”

It feels a little strange to have Harry in my room, somewhere I thought he would never set foot in. Before he’d been snuggly tucked away in a box I kept separate from the other parts of my life. And I thought that’s where he would stay. But now he’s spilling from the seams, too big, too precious to be kept hidden in a box like a dirty secret. The boundaries I set up are bleeding into each other.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

“Sure.”

He scans the room as he waits for me to put my boots on.

“Where’s James?”

“Not here.”

The reply comes across more aloof that I intent.

“Is it cold out?”

“Yeah, a bit. You’ll need to put a bit more on,” he gestures to my t-shirt and jeans.

The hangers in my wardrobe scrape along the rail and I make a snap decision on a shirt and old coat. I’m busy rolling up the sleeves that drape over my hands whist I search my bedside for a chap stick. I apply a strawberry one, rolling my lips and popping the cap to slip it into my pocket.

“Shit.”

The impolite swear rolls from my tongue when I turn and bump into Harry. My hand draws back from its place on his chest.

“You still wear it,” Harry murmurs, eyes cast down. “Does he know that this is mine?”

It’s a sultry purr, enough to raise goose-bumps on my arms and have me wrestling for the right words. He looks at me through his lashes and heat descends into my belly, a feeling that hotly refuses to be ignored. The sensation is possessive, staking claim, pulling taut at the muscles I’d be embarrassed to admit excites me. Months have passed since I’ve felt anything remotely close to this intimately stimulated and he’s not even touching me.

“It’s just a shirt.”

“My shirt,” he corrects.

“No, because you gave it to me, didn’t you?” I squabble, anything to take the onus off of my bashful blush. “But if you want it back –“

I feign to take it off, but Harry’s hand ceases the unpopping of any more buttons.

“Please.”

I keep the shirt on.

***

There’s a blustery breeze down on the beach which lifts locks of hair from my shoulders and paints my cheeks pink. I take hearty gulps of sea air, the taste salty in my mouth and fresh to my lungs. The amusement lights on the pier shine through the dull weather, gulls screeching above us. Rare family trips to the beach were consistently the highlight of any summer holiday, but it wasn’t until I grew up and moved away to that idyllic landscape, that I discovered it can rain in a place I always thought was sunny.

Harry helps me down the concrete lip to the beach and we amble along the stones before he suggests we sit. There’s hardly anyone braving the weather, much too cold to swim and dangerous with angry, choppy waves.

“You visited your mum?”

“I stayed for a couple of days. Jess stopped by for a bit and practically talked my ear off,” Harry chides, but can’t hide the fondness in his voice. “Her and her fiancé are having a baby in July.”

“No way! I bet they’re excited,” I grin. “Uncle Harry.”

I teasingly knock him with my elbow.

“I’m happy for her, she’s found a good guy so . . .”

“That’s great.”

He selects a pebble, assessing the weight of it before pulling back his arm. It hurtles through the air, catching the white crest of a wave before being claimed by the sea.

“Does he treat you all right?” Harry blurts.

My eyes widen.

“No,” I shake my head dismissively, a gesture which Harry draws a horrific conclusion from. “No-No, I don’t mean – I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Why not?” he asks with a wounded voice.

“It’s too weird.”

The discussion dips and the waves draw out only to come barrelling in moments later, clawing back the steady incline of smaller stones. The tide must be coming in. I gather my coat a little tighter around me.

“He’s not pressured you at all, has he?”

“Harry,” I snap.

“It’s just – it’s been playing on my mind.”

“James is lovely.”

“So you keep telling me,” he gripes.

“I’m not seeing him anymore, so whatever conversation you’re trying to initiate is pointless, ok?”

“You’re not?”

The spirited lift at the end of his question plays havoc with my emotions and excites my pulse.

“No.”

If Harry’s shocked by the information he refuses to show it, settling into our exchange.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m fine.”

A hesitant arm rests upon my shoulder anyway, encouraging me to lean into his side. I go willingly.

“When? What happened?” he gently prods.

“A couple of days after I got back from yours. We discovered that we’re better friends.”

“That’s good though, right? Stops him from getting his heart broken later.”

“I know what that feels like. I would never do that to anyone else.”

“Bo, we –“

I elbow out of his arms in a petty, childlike manner and gracelessly stand. It stings him that I fend off his concern for my stumble. I don’t want his help.

“You left me,” I fiercely accuse. “You were the one who left me. So you don’t get to tell me how I or anyone else should be feeling.”

He looks at me like I’ve taken a knife to his chest, carving at him until I drive the blade home. The thought makes me sick to my stomach, an ache that weighs heavy on my conscience. I would never wish harm on him.

“You left me,” I mumble.

Still seated amongst the cold pebbles, he fumbles for a packet in his jacket pocket, producing it along with a cheap, blue lighter. I don’t wait for the cigarette butt to kiss his lips.

“I don’t want my clothes to smell, I’ll wait up on the promenade.”

“Ok.”

I watch him from the bench I’m sharing with an elderly lady. His hands shake as he draws more of the heady cloud into his lungs. Harry’s view is of the turbulent waves, and mine is of him. The whisps of smoke are cradled and lifted away into the air where they disappear. It sort of reminds me of Harry, seen but difficult to capture.

I tilt my head up to watch the cloud breaking where it reveals watery sunshine. But too soon it disappears, swallowed again by the nasty looking clouds. It’s going to rain, we should go back to the flat. My eyes scrape the sky, vision falling back to the pebbled beach and I’m surprised to see Harry making solid headway up the stones. They flatten out near the top and he’s practically sprinting to me. I stand from the bench and we unite in the middle of the promenade.

“Are you ok?” I ask, my hand on his arm. “Harry?”

He shakes his head.

“It was you that I was looking for.”

I glance back to the older woman I was sat with moments before. She smiles at me, pushing herself up to continue shuffling along with her trolley dragging behind her.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry’s breath is quick and I remain in a strange state of uncertainty trying to piece fragments of information together. He unzips his coat down, sticking a hand inside to produce a crumpled piece of paper. It’s offered to me. When I unfold it, it’s like I’ve been plunged into the frigid waters beyond the beach.

“When I read it, I felt like you were speaking to me,” Harry explains in frenzy.

“It was to Mack’s girlfriend.”

“Written by your hand. I knew it was you.”

My heart’s beating double time as I stare down at the sign off.

You carry with you the left side of my heart, you possess my bigger half. Keep it safe.

He runs a finger over the line and I’m upset that he’s seen the letter. That he kept it. When I wrote it the sentiment was in the right place, Mack and I needed something solid and promising to piece the writing together. But now they’re harrowing to look at and I’m ashamed to have cheapened the words once exchanged in love.

“That’s why I knew it was you- it had to be you,” he confesses. “I was angry at first.” I stiffen at his truth. “I thought you’d done it to torment me. But Mack calmed me down. He explained that you only went to see him on my match nights. You never wanted me to know that you were there, but I understand.”

“Like an angel,” he whispers. “It sounds silly,” he half-heartedly laughs. “But it made me feel better.”

***

 On the way back we stop at a pizza place near campus to calm the rumbling of my stomach. I feel content and well fed on our leisurely walk back to my accommodation. We don’t take a direct route across the university grounds; instead I lead our meandering pace between buildings to point out where I attend classes. Harry’s presence by my side is confirmed with thoughtful comments, questions and the occasional brush of knuckles against the back of my hand. The delicate touches stoke my yearning to hold his, to feel the roughness of his fingertips as his thumb rubs in playful circles. It’s something I miss.

It’s started to spit with rain once we reach my block, entering into a pebbled courtyard lit by low post lamps. Harry holds the door open for me to pass through and I’m not particularly thrilled to note that we hear the party before we see it. The flat door practically vibrates on its hinges and Harry’s right behind me as I turn the key in the lock.

I’m greeted by sickly sweet aromas of alcopops and the stench of hard liquor on the busy tongues of people we pass. It’s loud, frightfully so and I know the mature students in the flat above ours will have some complaints in the morning.

The kitchen is bustling with tight-knit groups sharing bottles and anecdotes of eventful nights out. I spot Tiff over by the kitchen table pouring a drink just before my eyes dart to a guy rummaging through my designated cupboard. I grit my teeth, shoving against the tide of swaying people but by the time I reach him he’s got my colander on his head.

“That’s mine!” I bite, taking it by the handle and removing it.

I identify him as one of Rob’s silly friends and he grins, shouting my name before crushing me in a hug. It’s with difficulty that Tiff and I pry him from me before he heads over to the fridge, no doubt to find something to terrorise another student with.

“I thought he’d kidnapped you,” Tiff hushes a tipsy laugh into my ear. “You were gone ages.”

With skin a fairer shade of brown, the alcohol induced blooming on her cheeks highlights pretty, amber eyes.

“Nope, still here.”

I make a point of seeking Harry. When I spot him, he’s got hold of Rob’s arm keeping him steady before he brains himself on the kitchen counter. I stifle a laugh behind my hand as Harry pleads with me from across the room for instruction as to what to do with the idiot in his arms.

“Are you coming out with us?” Tiff asks from behind me.

I turn to her, her breath sweetened by the bottle of fruity concoction she cradles to her hip.

“I’m not really feeling it, I think we’re gunna go to bed.”

There’s a juvenile whine in reply and I wouldn’t be surprised if she began to stamp her feet and pout. Instead, I stand listening to her ramble about the antics I unfortunately missed whilst we were out. The fact that someone was sick in the bushes outside really doesn’t impress me that much but I humour her anyway.

“We saved you some cake,” she grins before leaning into me. “Use a condom.”

Tiff’s words are blindingly obvious and if there wasn’t a threat of her toppling over, I would have shoved her gigging arse as far away from me as possible.

“Bo.”

My stomach drops like a rock and when I turn ‘round James is smiling before he takes a long gulp from his beer bottle. His eyes are bright, tickled with amusement at whatever he’s drinking. I’m reminded of his kindness when we discussed the situation little of a week ago. He said he’d rather have me as a friend than nothing at all, a statement which induced tears and sharing a packet of biscuits in front of a film.

“How are you?”

“I’m all right, you?” he nods over the noise.

“I’m goo-“

“He’s a fucking mess,” Harry interrupts without warning.

He comes to stand beside me.

“That’s the birthday boy,” I weakly joke.

Harry’s attention flickers between James and I, perhaps slowly grasping what he’s walked in on. But we’re all present and accounted for now, so I guess we should get this over with.

“This is Harry. Harry, James,” I gesture back and forth with the colander I still seem to be holding.  

There’s a silence amongst our little gathering that’s teeming with blasting music and drunken leers. It’s an experience in itself to watch recognition slide over each of their faces. If it comes to the unimaginable, I’ll stand between them.

“Your Harry?” James asks me.

Well, I suppose he is.

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice to meet you, mate.”

James passes his bottle over to his left hand, holding out his right for Harry to take. There’s no hesitation before Harry grasps the offering, firmly shaking.

“You too.”

It’s a highly civilised affair that filters into small talk about players in the rugby league. I’m left utterly perplexed, if not relieved, to take a backseat and observe them chat. I was ready for a showdown but it seems my white flag is left redundant.

***

“What are you laughing at?”

There’s an amused smile softening his face, dimple forming in his cheek. Looking beyond the obvious uniqueness to his eyes, warmth floods out of them as he fondly regards me wriggling down under the covers.

“How I always seem to fall into bed with you,” I whisper the truth like a secret.

He strips off to his underwear before lifting the duvet and demanding I move over. My shoulder makes contact with the cold wall and I shy way with a hiss through my teeth.

“Your bed is tiny,” Harry complains, wrestling for more room under the covers.

“I think it’s the university’s way of deterring us from sharing them with other people,” I speculate. “My RA probably wouldn’t be too pleased to know you were here.”

“Well, whoever is in charge of bed allocation is an arsehole,” he grumbles.

There’s more undignified squirming as the mattress creaks supporting the extra weight. I roll onto my side to prevent a painful spring in the back.

“Are you finished?” I ask into the cool dark of the room.

Harry gives a grunt before turning onto his side once more, huffing out a breath into my neck.

“It will be a miracle if I get any sleep,” he gripes quietly.

“Well, don’t make it a nightmare for the rest of us in here.”

Our breathing begins to even out to a restful rhythm before I hear Harry’s jaw crack as he yawns. The sound makes me cringe and I complain with an elbow to his side. His response is to make a further nuisance of himself, prodding at my back to provoke a reaction. I grab the fingers in question and it seems to put a stop to the actions because now we’re holding hands in the dark.

“Can I hold you?” he asks quietly.

“Ok.”

Harry doesn’t need direction this time, easily finding his place and slipping an arm over my waist. His hand lightly takes my hip and I’m encouraged to lay into the shape of his body behind me. We fit together as he nudges an ankle between mine.

Rain pelts the window outside, little thundering drops as background noise to complement our racing hearts. I left the window cracked before we climbed into bed and now the curtains are performing a repetitive dance in the draft.

“I missed this. For weeks after I was waking in the middle of night on my own,” he speaks the words like they’re a secret, whispers into my neck. “A stupid part of me thought you’d just gone to the toilet or to the kitchen to get a drink. It was like my heart breaking all over again to realise that you weren’t even there.”

I clutch his hand to my chest, locking our fingers together.

“I’m here now.”

***

Harry’s POV

“Bo! Bo!”

I crack my right eye open. My back is killing me and I’ve got a mouthful of hair that I’m not entirely sure who it belongs to. The incessant knocking continues as I ease my arm out from under her. She stirs but not enough to wake, sighing out through her nose before taking a pillow to clutch to her chest. It’s with a gentle smile and heavy heart that I place a kiss to her forehead and remove myself from bed.

The jeans I discarded the night before lie on the floor and I zipper them up as I walk to the strip of light penetrating from under the door. The surroundings are unfamiliar to me, so there’s a bit of undignified fumbling in the dark as I ground myself in the new environment. It’s easy to touch; it helps me to create a fuller picture in my mind, less of a strain on my good eye. The bolt easily slides and I blindly feel down the wood to the handle and swing the door wide.

There’s a guy stood in front of me, looking just as displeased to see me as I do him. His hair is a mess, plaid pyjama bottoms twisted around his waist and a novelty jumper on back-to-front. His face is vaguely familiar.

“Oh, wait –“ he frowns, turning to peer down the long corridor to his left.

He glances from what I assume to be his open door to me.

“Can I help you?” I ask numbly, my voice thirsting from sleep.

“This is Bo’s room.”

I hum my confirmation, growing bored of the conversation and ready to climb back into bed.

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“Milk,” he simply replies.

“What?”

A soft touch to my naked lower back has me watch as Bo rounds my body to stand by my side. She leans into me and I’m happy to be her support with her wayward hair tickling at my skin. An arm scoops my back for delicate fingertips to press into my hip. And I absorb the feeling of her, soak her in, imprint her touch in my mind.

The guy’s eyes blow wide.

“As long as you replace it, it’s fine,” she groggily says.

“Were you two-“ he trails off, suggestively lifting his eyebrows.

“Sleeping? Yeah. Now bugger off. I wanna go back to bed,” Bo whines, taking my hand to pull me away from the door and further into the room.

I don’t take much convincing.

“You never let James sleep the night,” he states, catching the closing door with his foot and peering inside after us.

“Well, clearly this is not James, is it?” she lifts my hand with hers to gesture at me.

Her clipped tone sets a smile on my face and I rather like it when she gets snarky. It puts a hellish fire behind her words and attitude in her step.

“Mornin’, Harry. Bo,” Tiff respectively nods at us with a yawn from beside the male before dragging herself along to the kitchen.

He follows hotly on her heels, asking her a barrage of questions as to our sleeping arrangements.

***

“So, what happened to your eye?”

My posture pulls tight, the silence stretching until I turn to face the kitchen table. Rob is tilting his head to one side, attempting to get a better look at Harry’s damaged eye. Tiff leans back in one of the cushioned chairs around the coffee table, nail polish forgotten.

“I was unlucky in a fight.”

Most people wouldn’t have the nerve, or the courage to question Harry further. But Rob’s an idiot who spends the majority of time with his foot in his mouth, so of course he would ask.

“A fight? Like a –“ he raises his fists to pummel the air. “Like a real fight?”

“Yeah.”

I can almost see the excitable intrigue rising from within Rob, another assault of questions ready to spill and ultimately offend.

“Eat your toast,” I scold him, shoving the burnt bread into his mouth.

Harry watches me return to the bowl of cereal, collecting a clean spoon from the drawer and milk from the fridge. I chow down on my breakfast after placing his tea on the table. He thanks me with a smile.

Tiff’s toes are drying so her walk over to the rest of us is more of a waddle. She rolls up her left sleeve as she moves, baring her forearm to the group. I’ve seen the scar before, a thick jagged line running down the length to almost touch her wrist.

“I fell from a tree swing when I was seven, branch went into my arm.”

Harry places his mug down, carefully taking hold of Tiff’s hand and elbow to angle the healed wound so he can examine the damage.

“It’s a good one,” he concludes, nodding his head.

“Well, at least you get to look like a sexy pirate,” she wittily replies.

Harry’s face splits into a grin, head thrown back and he’s laughing.

***

The storm from yesterday has passed, leaving in its wake muddy puddles to dodge and a clear sky. Harry and I wait under the nearest bus stop shelter on the corner of the road. Cars motor past on the black tarmac that almost glitters with the wet. As I freely observe the late Sunday morning my consideration strays until I’m peering up at Harry. He doesn’t flinch when my fingers gently trail his face.

I silently wonder what he sees. Is everything a little duller, or has his loss of vision amplified colours and shapes? He empowers his senses through touch, a new quirk I’ve noticed with seemingly oblivious brushes that skim over me and objects around him. My hand cautiously cups over Harry’s left eye and with the scar hidden he appears not to have changed in the time we’ve spent apart. He gives me a soft smile like he understands what thoughts are occupying my mind. I’m keenly observed with a bright iris and sharp pupil.

I remove the hindrance and place it to the opposite side. The slightly milky left eye works overtime, desperately searching for anything he can make out. It flicks around and I can feel his lashes tickle against the palm of my hand. Harry knows I would never put him in harm’s way, but the sudden loss of sight is too much. The movement of his chest has picked up in panic by the time he takes my hand away by the wrist.

“Why did you leave me?” I ask, voice wavering slightly.

He looks down between us, taking my fingers to play with.

“I thought you’d be better off without me. You seem to have it all sorted out now,” he smiles but I know it pains him.

All in all, I am pretty well put together. But that doesn’t mean all the pieces of my puzzle have found their place. There may never be a final picture, but that’s the fun of the game. I might have even found my second player.

A silver car pulls up to the curb and I force a smile as Mack leans over the centre console to wave. Harry doesn’t have a bag so instead I burden him with a heavy kiss to his mouth. It’s a torrent of mounting emotions, everything I can possibly wish to cram into a simple touch. As I pull away I hope it’s something he carries with him all the way home. I’ll commit it to memory until I see him again.

“Don’t disappear,” I tell him.

“I won’t, I promise.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT -chapter 8

“We’re going to sort you out, ok?” I promise.

There’s hair falling out of the tie, curling on his shoulders and brushing his neck. He swipes it away to look at me again, giving me a clear view of impaired socket and an expression of self-pity. There’s a tiredness weighing heavy in his bones that’s run him into the ground. If Harry allowed himself, he’d probably sleep for weeks and still be exhausted.

“The fighting isn’t good for you. I don’t want you to get hurt anymore,” I admit whilst skimming my fingers lightly across the bruise blooming on his cheek.

An icepack is carefully pressed against the inflamed area, hopefully subduing the colourful swelling. Despite his wincing, I still encourage him to hold it close. The hiss he sucks in through his teeth riddles me with guilt.

“I think we should talk to Mack, he might know someone who you can contact. Maybe you could train again?”

I lean with him against the desk, my arm brushing his.

“As what? I lost my job at the gym, that’s why I’m here.”

Harry’s shaking his head like all hope is lost.

“I know, but there might be somewhere else. You’re skilled, there’s gotta be something you can do that’s not putting yourself at risk all the time,” I voice my thoughts with a frown.

The icepack descends to the ground, and I’m a little taken aback as Harry cradles my hand in his. His expression is one of pleading and I half expect him to drop to his knees in surrender.

“I want out, Bo,” Harry presses.

“I understand – “

“No, I don’t think you do. I need to get out of this,” he says, eyes fraught. “I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want this to be all I am. I come here, I fight, and I go home to no-one. Then I’m back here to start over.”

I go home to no-one.

“I refuse to believe this is where you’re supposed to be,” I tell him.

Because I thought you’d always be with me.

“Where then?”

He looks to me for all the answers, and I’m saddened I can’t grant his wishes instantaneously.

“Find a place to be happy. Where you can look after yourself,” I encourage before reaching to pick up the melting pack. I hand it to him. “Maybe we can look after you together,” I smile, gently knocking him on the shoulder.

Harry seems to deflate, releasing the pent up tension in a deep exhale. The pull of his muscles seems to ease as he gives me a simple nod.

“I’d like that.”

I retrieve the neglected icepack and hand it to him. He goes to drop it on the desk but I stop him.

“Uh, ah. Put it back on.”

“It hurts,” he whines with a pouted mouth.

“You got punched in the face, of course it hurts.”

He huffs a laugh before complying to my request. And we’re allowed a few measly minutes of easy conversation before we both turn our attention to the door. There’s a fuss emanating from down the hall and the bickering crescendos. The beating of numerous pairs of feet follow, rumbling with intent. It’s not long before trouble is brought to us in the form of two burly men. I tense upon recognising one of them as the loser in Harry’s match. He has more clothing on now and before he can barge forward, a wide palm is pressed to his shoulder.

“Do you know how much money you’ve lost me?”

Harry’s pushed up off of the desk and in front of me before I can blink. He’s a tense silhouette, shoulders pinched tight, with hands forming solid fists. There’s a third man dressed in a blue suit looking thoroughly pissed off standing in the doorway. His attire puts him in a power position, and a need for bodyguards. His question is lost on me, but I know Harry understands.

“Bo,” Harry ushers.

“I’m right here.”

His hand reaches out behind him and I meet his desperate fingers. With knuckles cracked and bleeding, he squeezes to reaffirm my words.

“The trouble you’ve caused me, Styles, is beginning to grind on my nerves.”

There’s control in his voice but the venomous undertones pry to the surface.

The suited man meanders around the office, regarding the framed pictures on the wall with a sneer. He flicks at paper pinned to the noticeboard with disinterest before gracing us once again with a cold gaze. But my consideration strays toward the broad-shouldered fighter apparently looking for a second round with Harry. Like a bull about to charge, it’s probably best not to raise a red flag. But I do it anyway. Stepping slightly to the side, I’m certain he sees me.

“Harry won,” I challenge, my words twisting like a knife in the already open wound. “You need to leave.”

The fighter makes to barrel forward but he’s prevented once again. He shakes off the hold, chest rumbling with distain before he strops like a teenager out of the office. The look Harry throws my way certainly isn’t one of gratitude. However, the exchange has eased my temper. I’m encouraged behind him again with a firm hand.

“We both know who should have won. If he wasn’t such a fucking exhibitionist,” he suited guy gestures to the open doorway, “you’d have been scraping Harry up from the fucking floor.”

The words bite and I want to scratch his eyes out. As I’m contemplating the thought, he wickedly smiles.

“How’s the eye, Harry? Still giving you trouble?” He snidely asks. “You got off lightly compared to what my incompetent staff should have done.”

My mouth dries and the shock bleeds through to the hold Harry tightens on my wrist. I can feel him silently pleading for me to keep quiet because he knows I won’t. There’s not much Harry can do before I’ve slipped his grip and I’m standing in front of him.

“You’re the one who did this?”

The man understands what I’m asking without me having to point to the scar slicing down Harry’s face and through his injured eye. His expression changes, drawing cruel amusement from the tremble in my voice.

“Not personally,” he remarks, eyes glittering.

“That’s worse, giving the orders but not committing the act.”

“If you’re doubting my certitude, I suggest you don’t.”

He aggressively stalks forward and Harry cushions me as I mirror his steps back. An arm cradles my side, a ready hand on my waist. I glance up to him wondering why he’s been so quiet during the exchange. It’s as his eyes dart back and forth between the men blocking the doorway that I realise he’s frightened.

“Anyway,” the boss claps his hands with a jovial grin, all bitterness instantly forgotten. “We didn’t come here to chat, did we Jack?”

At the mention of his name, the remaining muscle steps into view. He’s at least half a foot taller than Harry, with an unnerving twitch to his right eye and arms that are barely contained in his shirt. He starts to roll his sleeves up as he edges towards us.

“We came to ensure my financial assets aren’t going to be compromised for a while. Which I’m sorry to say is bad news for you, Harry,” the man feigns concern with a shake to his head. “I can’t have you winning anymore fights against my competitors, it’s bad for business.”

I prepare to scream for help. If I alert Mack maybe he can kick up a fuss with the threat of authorities; spook them a bit and buy Harry time.

Harry’s hand clamps to mine.

“Let her go first,” he almost begs. “Let her leave. Please.”

My neck jars with the speed I turn to him. Why on earth would he think I’d leave him?

“No,” I shake my head in disbelief. “I’m staying. I’m staying with you.”

I bump back into the desk as Harry rounds on me, taking my shoulders and levelling his face with mine. His jaw flutters in frustration as I firmly shake my head again.

“Bo, Harry implores.

He’s colourfully swearing at my refusal as we’re circled like prey. Apparently I’ve become the object of interest now and the way I’m being surveyed puts me on edge.

“Bo?” the boss questions, tilting his head like a child. “Is that right, Harry? This is Bo?”

Harry remains silent, swallowing down the unease before standing to full height in front of me again.

“Cute,” he patronises. “You’re the reason Harry came to me in the first place. Needed to get you out of his head.”

I already knew, but the reiteration doesn’t do anything for my sinking stomach. I want to steal Harry away from this mess of a situation, tell everyone to go screw themselves and run. I’d take Harry’s hand and hide him away until he’s healed and can take on the world again.

“Don’t touch her.”

“Piss off,” I screech, hand smacking away Jack’s attempt to isolate Harry.

The boss seems highly humoured as he leans against the filing cabinet.

“She’s got some spirit,” he nods in appreciation. “I like that.”

It’s as he pushes away from his casual stance that my grip strengthens on Harry. My knuckles are white by the time he’s reached us and I fear he’ll try to wrestle me from Harry’s arms. He doesn’t. And my thankfulness doesn’t last long before my blood runs cold as he leans in to Harry’s space. Green eyes find a desperately needed security in mine, a safe place as he listens to awful words that I want to burn from the man’s mouth.

“But you, Harry. People like you never become anything more than this. You’ll take you’re last breath in the ring and then you’ll be forgotten.”

I’m about to fiercely object when a familiar individual makes himself known.

“Mr Dax, you and your men need to leave,” Mack grits from the door. “Now.”

There’s a moment of painstaking limbo where it’s impossible to predict the next few seconds. My only worry is stood beside me, crushing my hand in his and protectively pressing me closer to his body.

It’s almost too easy. Mr Dax indicates with a flick to his head for Jack to move out. He follows after his bodyguard before pausing short of the exit. My heart is hurtling against my ribcage as he turns back. A small ziplock bag is fished out from inside his suit jacket.

“On the house, Harry,” he throws the clear bag to Mack’s desk. “I’ll see you again.”

And they’re gone.

My body slumps with relief until I identity the contents of the packet. Harry eyes the pills with an emotion I can only pray isn’t hunger. After a long moment his eyes close with a calming sigh, head tipped back and when he opens them the pills are gone, safely tucked into my pocket.

“I wasn’t gunna take them, Bo.”

His voice is shamefully quiet, picking his nails and not meeting my line of sight.

“I need to remove temptation.”

***

“You need to stop treating him like an attraction. He’s a person, not a spectacle. Harry deserves more than this.”

Mack sits soundlessly as I lecture him. Harry’s stood behind me and I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or thankful that we’re having this conversation. He’s not said a word to me since Mr Dax left.

“I understand. I think things have gone too far,” Mack agrees, removing his glasses and rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

“Well – good,” I reply, hands on hips.

I hadn’t expected it to go this smoothly, but with the trouble Harry’s attracted to the club, it’s probably to Mack’s benefit that this ends.

“I’ll make some calls, Harry.”

“Thanks.”

We leave Mack sat at the empty bar that’s littered with glasses sloshed with dregs of alcohol. The floor is sticky and the lights are dim. The fresh air is pleasantly embraced and the stifling atmosphere from inside is almost forgotten.

I’m startled as Harry’s the one to take my hand.

“I know you have someone else now, but you can still feel this, right?”

I know he’s talking about the fiery warmth licking up my wrist to my forearm. It’s a sure reminiscent touch of security, emanating from our point of contact. His fingers squeeze just a little to reinforce his words. Harry anxiously chews at his lip, but he’s betrayed by the small flash of hope in his eyes.

“I miss you.”

“You’re different now.”

“I can’t – I don’t think I can do much about it.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” I assure him. “Let’s take you home.”

***

We take the stairs like we did last time up to the third floor and along to the green door that matches the rest. Shouting from another flat turns my head until the sliding of locks brings me back to Harry. The door is open, and he lingers on the threshold to address me.

“Will you stay tonight?”

The skin around his eye is a little blueish and I worry about the small cuts brandishing his face. It will take time to heal.

“If you want me to.”

My acceptance of his offer is met with doe eyes and a slack jaw, almost as if he were expecting me to decline his invitation. He stands aside, ushering me in before closing the door behind us. The flat hasn’t changed much at all, still an untidy collection of pizza boxes, worn clothes and unnecessary clutter.

This time I allow him to retrieve me something from his room to sleep in. I’m handed a grey t-shirt with a right chest pocket; the clothing instilled with a comforting blend of washing powder and Harry. My shoes are kicked off by my bag and I wait for him to disappear into his bedroom before shedding my clothes. I’ve just about wrestled out of my shirt.

“Oh shi – I’m sorry. Bo, I didn’t –“ Harry flusters.

He’s stumbling over words as I clutch the clothing to my chest. There’s a healthy flush colouring my cheeks as Harry has a near miss with the sofa arm whilst trying to retreat.  My laughter bubbles and I’m unable to supress it even when hiding behind Harry’s t-shirt. I peek at him only to find he’s stopped short of his door. He’s smiling at me and I can’t recall anything I’ve ever been happier to see.

I slip the t-shirt on over my head and when I look back to Harry the amusement has fallen from his features. He shifts on his feet before plucking up the courage to look at me.

“So um – night.” he calls.

“Try and get some sleep.”

I turn to my sleeping accommodation for the night. There’s not much to the sofa, worn cushions and uncomfortable springs. I doubt I’ll be getting much shuteye. I ruffle as best I can, plumping the pillows and tucking the sheet.

“Bo.”

I hum to him. When Harry says nothing further I round to face him.

“I’m glad – I’m glad that we’re friends.”

He nods to himself as I watch, proud to have delivered the sentence with minimal pause. It’s sort of adorable when he rubs at the back of his neck, conscious that I’m still staring.

“Me, too,” I lightly reply.

He’s leaning on the doorframe as I approach him and my stomach suddenly swoops because there’s a hint of that mischievous flare he once had. With his arms crossed, Harry seems a little defensive even with the smile he’s sporting. It’s as I flex onto my toes that the stern posture falls away and my lips are on his.

It’s a short kiss, but kiss all the same. And by the way Harry’s cheeks have bloomed I’ll say it was more than enough.

“Friends that do that,” he mumbles with a growing grin.

His tongue swipes over his lips, tasting me on his mouth.

“Good night.”

***

 Small noises and annoyances I overlook in my familiar surroundings are now amplified in Harry’s flat. There’s a clock ticking somewhere in the room and when I roll over I find it flaunting the florescent time of 1:16 up on the wall. My back arches in a stretch but it does little to ease my muscles.  

The erratic drip to the facet is insufferable, and louder than normal as the kitchen is an arm’s length away from the sofa I’m currently trying to sleep on. With a disgruntled huff, my legs swung out of my makeshift bed. My bare feet feel vulnerable on the carpeted floor, and as I get up I’m pretty sure I’ve stepped on the TV remote.

My hands guide me along the back of the sofa, until I run out of solid furniture and I’m forced venture into the shadows of the flat. Harry’s untidiness is unfortunate for me as I stumble over what I can only guess is a stray boot. The blunder has my palms meet a wall and I follow it around the room until my fingers graze wood instead of plaster.

I shouldn’t disturb him, he needs his rest.

Recently, the only time I really get to spend with Harry is being part of an audience that gawp and shout. It’s a miracle if he’s not bloodied and bruised and it’s a rarity to speak to him alone. He’s run himself ragged and I’m worried. I’ll check on him. Only for a moment.

It’s dark when I nudge the door open. My breathing is an intrusion on the peace claiming the personal space. My presence blemishes it. And even with the unpleasant aroma of stagnant smoke still lightly tainting the room, I’m yet to witness Harry’s lips kiss the butt of a cigarette. I don’t wish to; just something else to mar his body.

My eyes come to settle in front of me where Harry’s cuddled under the duvet. The mound of covers shuffles until his gruff voice calls out from the bed.

“Bo.”

There’s confusion embedded within the sleep-torn tone and I move forward as he props himself upon his elbows. Curtains flutter in the cool air curling in from the window propped open. It creates brief ripples of light that wash over his uncovered skin and I’m breathless watching him. He sits up, curious of the girl stood at the end of his bed.

“Are you alright?”

Suddenly magnetised, I’m surging towards the boy I’ve been deprived of for so long. It’s with Harry’s eyes wide that my hands claim his face and the light from the window dissipates once more. The first kiss falls maddeningly short of his lips, catching just the corner of his curved mouth. I hum my frustration and the offshoot is rectified with a toe-curling kiss. It warms me from the inside out, setting ablaze hesitations I’ve had. It’s a fumble in the dark, a fiery touch that’s stoked hotter with keen hands on my waist. Harry doesn’t miss a beat, collecting me in his arms before hauling me to the mattress.

I go with ease, but now that he has me, he’s not quite sure as to what he’s permitted to do. So used to being denied. There’s a power to the position I find myself in as my knees bracket his hips. I grasp at his naked shoulders, fingers tracing his chest to ease him down onto the bed. His heart jackrabbits against my palms, matching the furious rhythm of my own.  

“Please,” he softly implores.

I’d be a fool to deny him. Harry’s touches are tender, fearful of demanding too much and pushing me away. And as he kisses at my cheeks, my nose and finally my mouth, I can’t imagine there’s much I wouldn’t give him.

We make up for time lost, hands, fingers and lips marking out the landscape of each other’s bodies. My nose sweetly traces the hard line of his jaw before he’s pulling me in for another gripping kiss. He swallows my pleasured surprise when his thumb rubs over my nipple. My thighs clench tighter to his waist and he revels in the suppressed whimper I produce.

We’re a tangle of sheets as Harry rolls me from his lap to the bed. I whine at our loss, seeking his mouth to mine and fingernails to the flesh of his hips. His teeth punish the pulse point below my jaw for tormenting his sides and it’s all I can do not to cry out.

The darkness provides its own intimacy, stripping away sense of sight to leave us desperately listening for hitches in breath as we rediscover each other. A sweep of lashes, the press of fingertips is all it takes to have my heart hammering even harder. My frenzied touch slides from his chest, delving down his stomach to where I can almost feel him ache for me. Harry’s breath is stolen in a kiss as I angle my hips up to his. The desire is bold and I hunger to feel it without the hindrance of clothes.

I catch the waist band with the tips of my fingers but I’m denied the pleasure of touching him. Harry has my wrist, squeezing a little too tight before pinning it to the pillow beside my head. I press for release but it’s in vain because Harry’s not playing. There’s no tease, no kisses to make light of the action.

“Harry,” I plead.

My leg hooks the back of his thigh to ensure he doesn’t pull away as I fear he might.

“You already have someone,” he painfully sighs. “You’re not something that we can share, Bo.”

My stomach is a knot of muddled feelings and the emotion that flares through is anger as I shove Harry from me. We lay there in a silence that’s plagued with our panting breath. I can still feel him on my mouth.

“I’ve never taken him to my bed,” I softly admit whilst staring up to the ceiling.

There’s a rustle of covers and I don’t know when I started crying. I smile as he gently thumbs over my face, tracing the rise of my cheek bones, the slope to my nose and the softness to my lips.

“You’re even pretty in the dark,” Harry warmly hums. “Stay,” he hushes. “I’ve missed you in my bed.”

Harry’s scorching hot against my back and there’s a moment where he’s unsure of how we once fitted together. I take his hand and haul his arm over so it’s draped across my waist and even then he feels too far away. The fabric to my t-shirt stretches in his fist as I abruptly scoot further back into his front. Harry lets out a huffing “oomph” into my hair and I thickly swallow upon feeling the ache he’s still sporting for me.

I’m collected in closer as if Harry’s frightened I’ll float away.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 7

“Who’s Harry?”

James doesn’t turn, just continues to stir whatever’s on the hob. My mind is running away with geopolitical jargon, sifting through terms and phrases to use in a particularly tedious essay. With my feet propped up on the opposite chair and laptop gently warming my legs I’m comfortable in the studying stupor I’ve become immersed in. My name is called twice before I look up from marked pages.

“Huh?”

My laptop beeps for a third time, begging for a charge. It’s as I’m searching for the cable James speaks again.

“Harry. You have a text from him.”

There’s nothing graceful about the way I extract myself from my essay clogged corner. Reflexes fail me as books fall cover up and open on the floor. I clumsily navigate the furniture between myself and my phone. James adds more ingredients for dinner as I open the message. He’s subtle in his intrigue, but his fascination doesn’t go unnoticed.

From Harry:

I’ve got another fight on Saturday. Will you be there?

My thumbs tap out a speedy reply, ensuring my attendance. I spend a silly amount of time determining whether it’s appropriate to end the message with an ‘x’. Sod it. I wait for the sending bar to run across the top of the screen before shoving my phone into my pocket.

“Everything alright?” James questions.

There’s a look of concern spiralling in his eyes, coupled with a firm press of pursed lips.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“You don’t answer my texts that fast,” he jokes without his normal jovial laugh.

My stomach plummets.

I’m not cheating.

***

I bustle up outside the club, breathless and exhausted. There was an accident on the journey here, a motorbike, scuffed and on its side. With the police only allowing one stream of traffic past the collision, it’s taken longer than I would have liked to get here.  There’s a queue which I forgo, much to the complaints of others waiting outside, before making my way past the bouncer to within the stifling warmth.

Mack’s waiting for me with an anxious crease to his brow whilst he picks at his fingernails. His head shoots up when I take his arm, nerves coiled like a spring.

“I’m late. I’m sor-“

“He’s already on,” he interrupts.

“How’s he doing?” I almost shout whilst he helps me wrestle out of my coat.

“He’s on the ropes. You should get down there, Bo.”

Mack takes my things to secure in his office. The air is polluted with alcohol on the tongue and breath of people that object to my pushing. My shirt is damp with overspills from glasses by the time I get down to the frontline of the fight, and I’m saddened by what I see.

He’s in a bad way, barely ducking to avoid what could have been a lethal blow to the face. I shove forward, elbowing a path right to the front, close enough to cling to the edge of the ring. Harry’s slumped against the ropes, a cut on the bridge of his nose and just above his eyebrow gives the harrowing image of him crying crimson tears.

“Get up,” I beg.

He looks utterly exhausted, chest heaving with the effort of physical performance. The inky images and scripts upon his skin appear darker with perspiration. His egotistic challenger is swanning around the fighting platform, too busy providing a sickening show for the audience to notice our interaction.

“Harry.”

He blinks as if he’s seeing me properly for the first time. I lay a hand on his right that’s curled tight around the rope.

“Please, get up.”

The ref won’t interfere. If he doesn’t move, his competitor will continue until he’s unconscious. A dirty fight with no morals, no human decency.

“You’re here,” he wheezes.

Harry just about manages a smile.

“Yes, and you need to get up for me.”

Before Harry can think to comply he’s dragged away and slammed into the middle of the ring. Energy that once seemed lost now pumps through him, boosting his motivation and gifting him with the drive to put up a fight. He’s still spent, but manages to just about roll away before he’s hammered into the floor by a swinging fist. I wince as he valiantly takes a kick to his right side only to struggle to his knees and land a solid hit to his opponent’s middle.

The guy is clearly more or a boxer, looking awkward and off kilter when trying to work a jabbing knee or foot into his attack routine. He’s more top heavy than Harry, who’s comfortable in using his whole body to achieve a dynamic mix of onslaught.  It’s also alarmingly clear the hits Harry’s taken to his face earlier on in the fight have become a nuisance to his already impaired vision. The time it takes to wipe blood from his eyes makes him vulnerable to deadly right hooks. He won’t last much longer.

Mack’s nowhere to be seen and flagging down the ref proves harder in practise than theory. He’s not looking out for demanding girls on the side-lines; he’s more concerned about dodging the fight he’s overseeing in the ring. Flailing my arms doesn’t do the trick. I shove my fingers into the mouth to produce the loudest whistle I can. It attracts the attention I so desperately want. The ref shifts over, crouching down to give me an ear.

“Give him a time out!” I order over the noise.

“It doesn’t work like that.”

I grapple the ropes, leaning further up.

“He can’t see properly out of one eye, with all the blood he’s basically blind. Just let me sort that out and you can put him back in the ring,” I grit.

He sighs heavily, shaking his head before I’m given a stiff answer.

“Fine, you have two minutes.”

There’s hostile complaint from the crowd as the fight is broken up. The ref encourages a dazed Harry into my corner where I’m waiting, stood on the edge of the raised ring the other side of the ropes. I steady him as he stumbles.

“What happened?”

“I can’t see,” he heatedly says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re here, I thought you weren’t coming.”

“Well, I didn’t come to see you get your arse beat.”

Mack dumps a bottle of water over Harry’s head, which ultimately puts an end to our conversation with undignified splutters.  I’m handed an old t-shirt to wipe Harry’s face, concentrating on the cuts and applying pressure before Mack hurriedly applies sticky bandages.

“Don’t let him hit you in the face again, Harry.”

I scramble for the band on my wrist. Harry bows his head towards me as I take handfuls of his hair and tie it out of his face. It’s a haphazard bun, but it’ll have to do because we’re out of time.

“Don’t give up. Go kick his fucking arse!”

Mack helps me down into the audience a second before Harry’s barrelled into. He’s got conviction in the punches he throws but I worry it’s not enough. I hopelessly watch as he’s hit, again and again. The impacts he’d taken early on have rendered him weaker, unable to recover and more susceptible to violent assaults that follow.

“Come on, baby,” I hush to myself.

He’s using everything he’s got, slamming elbows and knees to extinguish any counter attack. And the crowd love it, elated to have some worthy competition back into what was starting to look like a one-sided fight.

My shoulder is bumped, a hand taking my upper arm and a mouth to my ear.

“I don’t think your boy’s got it in him to come back from this one.”

His breath is rancid with alcohol as I wrench my body away from his. The cold, crooked smile he exhibits has my blood run cold.  

“Oh, piss off,” I spit.

But it’s almost as though his words have flipped a switch because when I return to the ‘entertainment’, Harry’s pinned on his back with a knee to his chest. There’s nothing I can do but watch in horror as he helplessly tries to block any inbound fists to the face. The other competitor is bigger in statue and presence, a hard line to his jaw and a wild look in his eyes as he anchors Harry’s right arm to the ring floor.

“Come on, Harry! Get up!”

There’s other bellowing to match my tone of support, people backing the underdog. Mack’s with me, calling out to the ref to do his job properly, despite the “no rules apply” policy. Then suddenly, Harry is freed; the man laying waste to him is up and sauntering over, pressing to the ropes in front of me. He sneers my way before throwing his arms up in celebration and soaking in applause. There’s a weighty level of booing aimed his way, but he doesn’t seem to care.

It’s not until I shimmy around the ring’s perimeter that I see Harry rolling on to his side. He’s hurt, quite badly, defying the odds and getting to his feet. There are bruises forming on his body, cuts that will heal and scar. The brute still jests with the crowd, oblivious to what’s happening behind him.

Harry looks to me and I give him a simple nod.

You can almost hear the crack as Harry’s fist crunches into the man’s side, ribs fracturing and breaking. He lets out a cry that overshadows the boisterous noise of the club. Curling in on himself to shield his broken bones lays himself out defenceless. Harry spares no mercy when taking him by the shoulders to drag him to the floor. It’s while he’s writhing in agony that Harry takes the chance to climb on top of him, fighting to restrain his arms before positioning his thighs around the man’s neck. There’s not much else to the tactful hold other than to squeeze. Harry maintains the tight clench even when rocked to the side.

It’s as his competitor’s face makes the colour transition from red to blue that Harry’s unceremoniously pulled off before he passes out. The crowd are hollering at Harry to finish it, but the fight’s already been won. Any further action on Harry’s part will condemn him with unjustifiable violence. They’re waiting for a knockout. As far as they’re concerned it’s not over until someone’s bloody and moments away from death.

He glances to me and my heart pounds, ready to break free of my chest. I don’t hesitant in climbing into the ring with Mack helping to boost me up. My scrabble to ground myself is unbecoming and I’m unwilling held back from reaching Harry as he looms over the defeated man.

“Miss,” the ref implores with a steady hand. “Please step out of the ring.”

“No.”

“Leave her.”

We’re silenced by Harry’s threatening tone. The crowd has fizzled out as they watch with bated breath.

“I’m done,” he announces.

As I take his hand, flawed eyes flicker down to the contact. My fingers curl around his and I’m careful not to startle him.

“Let’s go,” I softly murmur.

***

It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile properly as he silently observes me clean the dried blood from his face. I leave him to pull on a t-shirt before turning back to inspect the bruises he sustained. It’s surprise I’m overcome with as I’m lifted from my feet in a close hug. His skin is damp with sweat and glowing with victory. I soak him in, committing to memory the new person he’s transformed into. His shoulders are tighter, arms more tense, hands more hesitant. His tattoos are reminders, little sparks to fuel the beginnings of conversations. They’re exchanges that we’re yet to have.

“I’m so pleased you’re here,” Harry sighs quietly.  

His palms stretch out across my back as he burrows his face to my neck. We’re so close it feels as though our bodies sync up, minds reeling at the same pace, hearts pounding in consecutive waves of longing. And somehow all of that abruptly crumbles as his lips brush the corner of my mouth and I stiffen. I can’t control my fingers as they pinch at the back of his neck and his hair tangles in my grip. Suddenly, my thoughts are in overdrive and the once comfortable tempo to my pulse is skipping with every second he holds me.

Harry lets me slip from his arms until I’m standing in front of him. There’s an angry looking bruise forming on his cheekbone; his body is in tatters but all he’s worried about is me.

“Did I do something wrong?”

I turn away, clearing up the medical supplies with trembling hands.

“No.”

It seems I’m creating more of a mess than I’m tidying up, so I leave the kit open on the side. Harry’s exactly how I left him, with the exception of him now looking down at his feet.

“Did you want to get a drink? It doesn’t have to be here, we could go somewhere else.”

My legs feel like jelly as I clutch back at the counter. Harry instantly moves forward and the hand on my waist is burning hot through my clothes.

“Bo?”

“Sorry, I’m just really tired,” I ramble. “What with you and James and uni work, it’s got me all over the place.”

I know my mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth. Harry draws away and over to the bench that his clothes are sprawled out on.

“James,” he repeats, idly playing with the zip on his bag. I know it’s so he doesn’t have to look at me; and I’m glad. “Who’s he?”

I find myself feeling guilty, at the fact that I’ve not told him yet and that I let him kiss me.

“Someone that I’m seeing at the moment.”

“Like dating. Your boyfriend?”

He looks crestfallen. Disappointment bites at his lip as his eyebrows pull together and he stews over the news for a moment before his features harden. The sturdy shape to his jaw tightens along with the way he holds himself.

“We’ve not really discussed it yet.”

“You like him though?” he firmly questions.

“Yeah, he’s nice.”

“Nice,” Harry almost scoffs. “I would have thought you’d have strived for something more than just nice. Sounds boring.”

“Yeah, well that’s what I want now; to know where he is and not worry about him all the time. Something boring and uncomplicated,” I coldly remark.

There’s a tension building between us and I’m unsure of the specific emotions fuelling it. The way he’s looking at me suggests something more than just frustration. It’s itching away at both of us as Harry steps forward.

“Compared to what?” he hums. “To us?”

I shake my head because I don’t want to remember us. I’ve only just locked those memories away and for them to flood me again would be too much. There’s little hesitation in his movements, his nervousness wiped clean and substituted with ill placed vengeance to counter my apparent dismissal.

“You know,” he starts bitterly, “after we broke up, I used to get blind drunk,” his unintentional pun doesn’t go unnoticed with his small smile. “I’d drink so they’d look like you.”

The revelation suddenly makes me sick to my stomach and now I want to leave.

“Some girls don’t care, but I know others are a bit wary,” he gestures towards his face. “I took one girl back to my flat though, she was kinda your height, dark hair.”

There’s a waver in his speech, a small smile as the ends of my hair are lightly taken between his fingers. I soon wish the fleeting pause would continue, anything to scratch away his cutting words.

“She didn’t smell like you though, when I took her to bed and kissed her neck.”

“Fuck you.”

I’m astounded the door isn’t taken off its hinges by the crack of force I open it with. It’s left wide as I hasten towards Mack’s office where my coat and bag are draped over the back of his chair. Harry’s pursuit commences seconds later, feet thundering down the corridor after me. He’s behind me but I remain stubbornly facing away. Fury sweeps my body in a burning rage.

“Do you think I’m spiteful?”

I reel in the temptation of booting him in the shin as on some level I decide he’s gone through enough tonight.

“I think you’re cruel,” I reply, shoving past him.

I’m almost to the door when undecided fingers brush my arm before choosing to lightly take my wrist. Mack’s just the other end of the corridor, unsure whether he should intrude on the situation. I shake my head in silent communication that everything is fine and he disappears through a doorway.

“I called her your name,” Harry’s voice cracks.

Astonishment has me turn to him. My arm is freed whilst his drops limply to his side. Harry travels backwards until he’s supported by Mack’s desk, legs kicked out as his head drops to his hands. And just like that, my boiling wrath calms.

“She slapped me so hard I could feel it for like two days after,” he lightly jokes. “I never brought anyone back after that.” His hands are brought down and away from his injured face. “It’s you, it’s always gunna be you.”

The strap to my bag slips through my fingers as I make up the ground between us. Kind hands take his face and he’s forced to look at me properly. It’s taken a while to grow accustomed to his permanent impairment and it’s heart wrenching because I don’t think he’s fully accepted it himself.  

I place a soft kiss over his blemished eyelid, pausing to rack my fingers easily through his hair. This is what he needs, someone to be gentle and kind to him.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Someone to liberate him.

“It’s gunna be ok.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 6 part 2

Another little bit for you.

I sat with him whilst he ate, a little disappointed to see he’d left half the sandwich untouched, but at least it was something. The colour has returned to his cheeks and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s feeling better, or the fact that I can’t control my doting over him. I glance at my phone whilst Harry takes the plate to the sink. It’s 1:24am and I’m starting to feel tiredness heavy in my limbs. There’s a text from James and one from Tiff; I leave both of them unanswered.

“You can take the bed.”

“Don’t be silly, you need to sleep properly,” I tell him with a shake to my head.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

Without another word Harry disappears into his bedroom. I give him privacy to change and rearrange to cushions on the sofa as best I can. I’m surprised his jaw hasn’t unhinged with the excessive yawning; he’s so tried it probably won’t make a difference where he sleeps. A cleared throat has me turn.

“Do you –“ he nods through the doorway.

I give him a soft smile, following after him into his bedroom. The duvet cover has been straightened out, clothes scooped up from the floor and the window has been opened to freshen the stagnant smell of smoke. Harry stands off to the side as if he’s waiting for my approval. The ease of which we once functioned together has hardened and now everything seems a little forced. It will have to be rebuilt and I’m not sure I have the strength for it.

“Do you want something to wear?”

It’s only then that I notice his change of attire, no longer in jeans but soft joggers that sit on hips. Harry fidgets with the neck of his t-shirt because I can tell he’s uncomfortable. I’ve seen him at his lowest point. I held him through it.

“No, it’s ok. I’ll just – I’ll sleep in this.”

He stands at his guard post by the door, watching as I climb over his bed. The sheets are a dark, steely grey, crinkled and soft.

“You can get in, I don’t mind.”

The offer is kind but my thoughts are anything but. I’m unwilling to open myself up to those sort of condemning emotions. I don’t want to warm myself in his bed only for him to shut the light of and leave. Even if Harry stayed with me, I can’t stand the thought of sleeping amongst the same sheets he’s laid himself bare for other women. It’s not a path a wish to travel down and the longer I take to reply, the more it settles in Harry’s mind as to the mechanics and wanderings of mine.

“It’s ok,” I decline.

I fold my jacket up and place it under my head, curling my legs into my body. It’s enough to make me feel almost insignificant upon the large mattress. We exchange a few short blinks and an even couple of breaths before Harry sinks to the floor. I watch as his head lolls back against the wall.

“You shouldn’t still be fighting.”

My opinion raises his head, the length of his hair curling around his ears.

“I can’t see, it doesn’t make me a cripple,” Harry lightly frowns.

I ignore the bitten undercurrent, shifting slightly to lay in comfort. A hairband would be much appreciated but I come up short after checking my wrists.

“Do they know? Does Mack know that you’re bli-“

“What do you think draws in the crowds on fight nights?” he smugly asks. “Half blind in one eye and can still kick someone’s arse to the curb. People like an underdog.”

His little explanation is left without comment, because I know it’s unlikely he wants to hear that the club’s clientele aren’t particularly bothered, as long as he wins them money to fuel their binges. They don’t care about him.

“Are you at university?”

He runs a thumb across his knuckles as I sit up. I wasn’t aware I would be the centre of our question and answer session so it’s odd when he gazes at me for a reply.

“Yeah, it’s down on the coast. Sussex.”

Harry nods in comprehension, pulling his knees up. The small light on the bedside is dim, throwing off peculiar shadows onto the walls. Eyes shine with the lamp’s attention, the damaged one of the two looking softer, less of a reminder for him to carry.

“You taking English?”

“No, Development and International Relations.” Harry’s face twists in repulsion, it’s comical to watch. “It’s not as tricky as it sounds.”

“Do you like it there?”

It’s a simple question, could be considered as small talk but I know what he’s really asking; are you happy?

“It’s fun, I’ve made friends. It’s somewhere different.”

We continue to informally chat with the brunt of conversation leaning towards my life, the new life I’ve crafted for myself. It’s with genuine interest and slight disgust that Harry listens to ramblings of essay assignments and the trials of sharing a thin wall with the boy who vastly enjoys nights out, and his fondness for continuing the fun back in his room. I don’t tell him of James, or how we’ve been seeing each other for nearly two months. It’s not something I feel either of us would be glad for me to share.

It’s heading towards 2:15am and Harry’s fighting the tempting clutches of sleep. By 2:17am we’ve parted, separated by a door in a tiny flat.

It’s not particularly cold, but I can’t sleep. It feels like the first night of halls - a new mattress and unfamiliar room. There’s only so much shuffling I can do before I admit that I don’t like the suggestion of lingering smoke, or the fact that this isn’t Harry’s room, it’s just somewhere he sleeps, or tries to. Joints click as I roll my shoulders in an attempt to relieve a hunched body. Even with just my steady breath to fill the room, I can still hear the labour of Harry’s from earlier this evening. It’s silly, but I want to check on him.

The door is obediently silent as I open it, navigating an alien space which I’m yet to mentally plot the whereabouts of furniture. Images flicker wordlessly upon the TV screen, the mute pictures a comfort to someone who wishes not to sleep in the dark.

“Are you leaving?” Harry croaks.

Once sprawled lengthways on the sofa, Harry now sits slouched and rubbing at his eyes.

“No, I just couldn’t sleep,” I admit.

“Same.”

I take the seat next to him without permission and sit for a moment with our breathing as background noise. There’s movement out in the corridor beyond Harry’s front door but the hum passes by quickly and we’re left to exist together.

He yawns.

“Come on,” I encourage.

Placing a cushion in my lap I make it clear that he can lay his head down. He always appreciated kind touches, so I pet his hair to calm the thoughts preventing him from sleep. It’s with a drowsy glaze that he looks up to me and my thumb tenderly traces the scar that mars his face.

“You’re like an angel,” Harry murmurs heavy with sleep. “Have you come to save me?”

He’s burdened with the promise of sheltered rest as I pull the blanket higher and settle with his question. Tears prickle the corners of my vision as I realise that’s all I want to do. I want to take him away from here, liberate him from the life he feels trapped in, love him.

“I think I’d like that,” he rolls, face nearly pressed into my stomach. “To be rescued, I mean. That would be nice.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 6

Thank you for reading!! The next part to this chapter will be posted tomorrow :)

(Mentions of drug use)

My stomach clenches, that horrible feeling of frightful shock you can’t seem to quell. He’s looking to me for some sort of reaction and all I can convince him of is a rabbit caught in headlights. Of all the silly things to think, I’m wondering if it’s impolite to stare. He must be used to it, it’s not an imperfection or embarrassing tattoo you can hide under clothes or a pass off with a jovial anecdote. It’s one of the most valuable senses, helps ground you in the situation and environment around you. I can’t imagine how lost he’s become.

“Do you – “ I quietly begin before re-evaluating. “Do you have anything for me to mop up the water?”

My hands become partially shielded behind my back because I can’t keep them from quivering. I’m unsure if he’s disappointed with my initiate reaction, but his brow grows heavy before mumbling about something in the kitchen. I take off after him, carefully watching his movements to try and determine how extensive the disability is. The short walk is a poor indicator because this is his home, he’s mentally mapped out the interior and could probably navigate it with his eyes closed anyway.

It’s completely normal as he riffles through nearly empty cupboards, apart from the obvious fact that he’s blind. Fuck. I clear my throat of nerves and Harry twists his head as if I was calling for his attention. Maybe it’s like looking through frosted glass, or perhaps his left eye is shrouded with dark silhouettes. If he closes his right, what will he see? I don’t get to enquire because he’s returned to his search of kitchen roll. Any other time I would have moaned at him for the dirty mugs left scattered by the sink. It’s a little chaotic shrine of used cereal bowls, food encrusted saucepans and a horde of utensils.

 “How?”

Armed with a roll of kitchen towels, Harry looks like a child being asked about the mantelpiece ornament that’s been bluetacked back together. It’s probably not the best approach, but there’s no point in beating around the bush. He has to have known I’d ask.

“What?” He replies.

There’s a skittish nature to the way he holds himself, almost as if he’s unaccustomed to someone being so direct. Or maybe it’s because I don’t waver in maintaining eye contact. It’s still him, despite how cold and shut down he’s become.

“How did it happen?”

With a face void of emotion he replies, “with a knife.”

The revelation causes a small choked off laugh on my part. It’s humourless, like I can’t begin to get my head around how lacking he is in conversational interest. He used to make me smile.

“I could have guessed that.” The thought of a blade slicing his face pulls at the tension in my voice. “Why then? What happened, Harry?”

He grabs a plastic bag before moving back to the bedroom. The water has run rivers out from the initial point of impact, making the clean up on the wooden floor more wide spread. It’s as Harry crouches to assess the damage that he speaks again.

“I said things I probably shouldn’t have.”

I’m careful not to put a foot wrong whilst walking around to sit on the side of his unmade bed. As he soaks up the water I’m deciding if I want to know details, or if it’s best to not delve too deep into something I shouldn’t become invested in.

“To who?” I stress.

“They give you –“ Harry pauses, looking warily to me before continuing to pick up shards of glass. “It was new,” he says quietly. “You get the first couple of pills free to latch you onto it, make sure you come back for more.”

My hands tighten in the bed sheets as I listen.

“Drugs?”

I shift uncomfortably on the bed, trying to suppress thoughts of, “my Harry wouldn’t be so foolish, that’s not who he is”. But of course he’s not my Harry, not anymore; and now the boy knelt on the floor at my feet is even more of a stranger to me.

“He said it was legal, not sure how well tested it was though. But it took everything out of here,” he taps in forehead. “Gets rid of it for a while. It made me feel happy again.”

I want to cry, scream at him but I don’t because the idea of Harry being so utterly lost that he could only find happiness from something dangerous, temporary and artificial leaves me feeling broken. I want to bundle him up in my arms and shout at him all at the same time.

“I couldn’t afford it and I didn’t find out until later that the distributor I used manages one of my main competitors. I was a dual income loss so it was bit of a bonus for him I guess,” he gestures half-heartedly at his face.

The damaged left eye glints, following the path of the right but not really seeing. My lips purse, eyes water and the lump in my throat threatens to choke me.

 “And he left you?”

“They. It was two of them,” Harry corrects me calmly.

“You were on your own?” I ask with a tremble.

He looks up from the task in hand upon hearing my voice break. I don’t wish to become an ugly mess of disastrous tears but Harry recognises the signs and we both know I’m going to cry.

“Don’t get upset, Bo,” he almost sighs. “It’s already happened, can’t do much about it now.”

His reassurance is piss poor, like he can’t be bothered or more than likely he’s let go of any human response to comfort. Regardless of his lack of concern, I can’t seem to shake the image of him crumpled to the floor in some dirty alley. He’s alone, frightened and hurting.

 “Did you go to the police?”

More water is mopped up until the paper is soggy. It’s thrown into the plastic bag.

“No, they came to visit me in hospital. I didn’t allow them to pursue it though.”

My teeth grit in frustration and I stow the need to grab him by the shoulders and shake.

“Why not? You knew your attackers?” I ask in disbelief. “Those people left you permanently scarred. You’re blind, Harry.”

The fury in my words is returned with a fogged, steely stare. He stands and so do I. We’re matched in passionate words, but far from equal in height.

“Don’t you think I know that?” he bites back with venom.

“Then why didn’t you press charges?”

My body slumps with disappointment. It’s a hopelessness of nearing defeat. What’s the use in arguing with him? He seems to deflate, puffing out the aggravation that has his muscles tense.

“Because I know they thought I deserved it,” Harry admits softly, head bowed in shame. “The way they were looking at me made me feel worthless, like it was a waste of their time.”

“That’s their job, Harry. They’re supposed to help you.”

My reasoning is brushed aside.

“There wasn’t much point anyway. It would be like adding fuel to an inferno. I know who it was but you don’t play games with those sort of people, Bo.”

I look to his face, dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones more prominent and no hope of even a hint of a coveted smile. I miss him.

“I wish I was there.”

He folds his arms across his chest, defensive and less than pleased with my wish. I would never have let him get to that stage.

“No you don’t.”

“Are you still on it?”

“No, I got help.”

“Were you injured anywhere else?”

“No, just my eye.”

Our short quick fire round finishes with me sadly nodding before crouching to complete the unfinished clean up. Harry mirrors my position, assessing my stature for a moment whilst burdening himself with a frown that seems to be a permanent fixture on his face.

“Leave it, Bo,” he firmly speaks.

The kindness he once had in his voice has been cut away and replaced with foul bitterness. It’s a stale reminiscence of past memories and a short temper. Fuck him. I carry on with the delicate task of picking up the small slices of glass that he’s unintentionally missed. It’s not his fault.

“Bo,” Harry scolds once again.

My patience explodes.

“How could you be so fucking stupid?!” I shout.

The sudden volume alarms him, falling back on his haunches with startled eyes. He stutters a response before we’re both left in a forced silence. I wrestle with controlling my breathing, so worked up it’s difficult to multitask and get up from the floor.

“I have to go.”

I’m shaking my head and screwing my eyes closed to hold back the bombardment of emotions I can’t deal with. This isn’t fair. My desire to shed all thoughts and feelings gained this evening is denied as Harry trails after me into the living room.

“You don’t have to leave,” he desperately offers.

Harry’s eyes flicker around the room as if searching for something to prevent me from departing. It’s heart wrenching because it wasn’t long ago that all he’d have to do was flash a smile and I’d go sprinting back to him. But now he’s not enough for me to stay; and he knows that.

“Please,” he swallows hurriedly. “Just-Just stay for a bit longer.”

His hands are shaking, bottom lip bitten with the anxiousness of a child. If he were to hold a teddy bear, you would think he was a toddler on the verge of tears before bedtime.

“No.”

I turn away from him to the sofa, fighting the pillows for my jacket. It suddenly feels overwhelmingly stuffy in the pokey flat and I want to get out. I need to get away from him because he’s dragging me down to a place I’m desperately trying to claw out of.

“You’ve only just got here.”

He runs a sweaty hand through the hair taken back with the scarf. It had escaped my attention before, but now I can see Harry’s nails are bitten nearly down to the quick. He’s the embodiment of a nervous wreck and I’m an awful person for abandoning him.

“I don’t want to stay.”

The words burn my throat as I speak them.

“I can walk you down.”

“I don’t need you –“

I was going to tell him that his offer was unnecessary but the sentence is left unfinished and hanging between us. If my heart wasn’t already shattered it would have fractured with the devastated look he gives me. The minuscule thread of a connection we share has been cut, with each of us left holding a tattered end. His eyes water with imminent release, chest beginning to heave.

“Please,” Harry wheezes.

I almost fall backwards into the corridor. The door slams shut and it’s finally just me. But the guilt and responsibility I felt whilst inside remain at the clutches of my throat. It clings to my skin like sweat on a sticky summer’s day. I’ve marched halfway down the corridor before reason has me screech to a halt.

“Shit.”

It would please me greatly to just walk away, escape from the nightmare this evening has become; but my own stupidity has had me leave my bag slung over his sofa. I would have left it there if the items inside weren’t vital for me to travel home. It’s pride and reluctance that have me feeling sour about walking the short distance and re-entering the flat. A gentle press is all that’s needed for me to gain entry.

“I left my – Harry?”

He’s on the floor, thirsty for air to fill his lungs and despite his long, sporadic inhales he doesn’t seem to be making any headway. I call his name again, but his posture still curves his spine. His fingers splay out on the carpet, chin almost touching his chest and I think he’s going to be sick.

My knees throb with a dull pain as they hit the floor. I take his face in both my hands so he knows he’s not alone. He uncurls slightly and I’m greeted with eyes blown wide. The shortness to his breath unnerves me.

“I – Bo, I can’t –“

Hold him. With panic tight in my gut I think to the people that know Harry best, when he was a little boy, when the threat of his father’s presence got too much. Hold him.

The unique set of eyes lose focus as I slip into Harry’s peripheral,  and he feels lost to me when I position myself behind him. My hands soothe the unnatural arching of his back as I prepare to move him. Harry’s still crowded in of himself until I softly speak his name. He sits up slightly, head tilting back, body seeking another like a flower to the sun. I take the opportunity to wedge my forearms under his armpits. When his sister used to hold him, I imagine he was small, easy to cuddle and nothing like the man he is now. The weight of him is more than I can cope with, even with the urgency of the situation I can’t haul him back. I cry in frustration, heels anchoring into the floor and it’s seconds later that Harry exerts his already strained breathe to press back into me. With my heart jackrabbiting in between his shoulder blades, I lean against the sofa to support our forced embrace. He sits within the “v” of my outstretched legs.

“It’s ok,” I speak in hurried reassurance. “You’re gunna be ok. Try and breathe with me.”

I purposefully exaggerate the movement of my chest so he can feel the motion beneath him. But he isn’t listening. His body shakes as I cross my arms around his front. Harry’s sobs are deprived of emotion because instinct has commandeered, hammering out any other thoughts other than those of human survival and the pursuit of oxygen.

“Shhh.”

Asthma attacks have a similar effect. I remember watching as my cousin fell to the floor with grass-stained knees and a wheezing chest. My aunt had shoved an inhaler in her mouth but I have no medicine for Harry. There’s no magic pill or puff of an inhaler that can take away the attack he’s experiencing.

Harry’s head rests back on my shoulder as I relieve his hair of constricting bandana. His chest fights against the firm press of my right arm whilst my left hand runs trails through his hair. He’d always found it of comfort before, a sure way of guaranteeing his relaxation to help him sleep. But it seems he’s far beyond that now. I jolt in surprise as an overly hot palm clutches at the material on my thigh, the other yanking at the neck of his top until I offer him my hand to hold. The bond we create lies over his chest in a tangle of haphazard limbs, sweaty palms and bruising impressions of fingertips.

I’ve got you, baby.

The longest four minutes of my life span out and the astounding display of Harry’s chest and lungs gradually slows to someone partaking in a brisk walk. I feel like I’ve run a marathon with a pack of wolves on my tail in the blistering heat of summer. My exhaustion is evident so I have no idea what Harry is experiencing. I gently rock him as his pulse slows beneath my critical observation. He’s treated to kind whispered promises of his ensured safety and how I’ll hold him for as long as he needs me to.

I’m convinced I’ve ushered him to sleep until he murmurs my name.

“I’ll stay, just please don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not to.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 5

Motivation!!

The car practically rocks as I slam the door, hurling my bag to the passenger seat whilst unsuccessfully prodding at the ignition with my keys. He’s shouting and the roar unnerves me. I’d be useless as a getaway driver.

“Bo!”

The engines splutters, complaining as I jerkily shove the gear stick into first. My belt prevents me from shooting through the roof in fright as a palm claps to the driver’s window. It’s enough of a shock to have me press the universal lock on the doors. I don’t bother indicating out of the space because the street is quiet at this time of night and I have no desire to hang around. The hand smacks against the window again with more urgency this time. As I pull away the glass is streaked with hopeful fingertips, smudges that blemish any promises made.

I fail to shift into second gear because my brain has apparently disconnected from my feet and the mechanics of the car groan under my misguided pressure. The vehicle jolts and I’m left panting for breath in a stationary car. My hands come up to instinctively cover my face, using the philosophy of “if I can’t see it, it’s not there”. I haven’t quite mustered up to crying, so I sit here sobbing parched of tears.

The hand-break is yanked on and I cautiously swivel my head to check my blind spot. He’s not there. It’s not until I’ve unbuckled my belt and carefully vacate the car that I see him. Harry’s sat on the curb just out of range from the street lamp’s halo of light. Crowded in of himself, knees to his chest and head tilted down. All folded up, you’d never know the extent of his size.

It’s with a heavy heart I walk to him, sitting down to his right; just far enough away for us to look like strangers if anyone should pass us by. Harry’s head rises as if he can feel the air my body has displaced. He doesn’t look at me. The space between us is slowly being filled with all the things I can’t say. I’m afraid that any movement or vocal interaction will have Harry curl back up into his hedgehog position. We can’t sit here all night.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe.

The buzz of the world has fallen silent as if we’re the summit of existence. And it slowly kills me as Harry drags out the distance between spoken words. Please say something.

“For what?” he asks, as if there’s million things I could possibly be apologising for. There probably is.

“It was wrong of me to run. I shouldn’t have.”

He gently nods and I’m not sure whether it’s in confirmation that’s he’s heard me or if he agrees it was wrong of me to flee. I’m just happy for any sort of response as I delegate all concentration into observing the movement of his jaw, taking his lower lip to nibble between his teeth. A side profile is the best I’m offered.

“Are you –“ I begin, but my question is cut short.

“Why are you here?”

Even though the enquiry is addressed to the pavement, my crumbling exterior takes the brunt of it.

“I’m not really sure,” I admit.

Morbid curiosity I think, a lack of discipline and not possessing the strength to say, “enough, that’s enough”. I should never have returned.

“Bo, this isn’t the best of places during the day.”

Momentarily I glance down the road to see a few giggling women trip up the curb, handbags swing from their forearms, ignorant to the two us. They continue out of sight. Truth be told, I’m a little put out that that’s all he’s concerned with. I’m sat beside him and all he can think of to say is that I shouldn’t be here in the dark. Screw him.

“I’ve been before,” I reply offhandedly, rubbing the sweat from my palms to my jeans.

“I know,” Harry grits.

His disgruntled tone turns my head and I’m surprised to see him unfurl from vulnerability. I’m not fooled into thinking he’s opening up, despite his body language displaying confidence and certainty within the situation. Straighten up, look big, take charge. Bullshit. It’s a front that he seems to have perfected.

“I didn’t do it to upset you.”

“No, you came to have a good gawp like everybody else, right? Was it worth it?”

He’s almost gathered the courage to look at me, but bails out before making any progress. There’s an edge to his words that jaggedly rips through whatever courteous veil shrouds the situation.

“What are you talking about? I just –“

“What?” he interrupts once again.

“I wanted to see that you were all right.”

“Well, fuck,” Harry bites. “Does it look like I’m all right?”

Sarcasm embeds itself within his rhetorical question and I’m doing my best to keep up with this new attitude he’s sporting. It’s a whirlwind of curt responses and snide remarks that further convince me this certainly isn’t the boy I’ve reminisced about. Harry’s back is to me as he stands and strides away.

“You’re being unfair. Stop being a dick and talk to me.”

I follow after him, seeking out his hand as it swings back and whilst words fly between us. My fingers barely have hold of his and the spark I expect to feel has been extinguished long before this moment. There’s not much left to salvage.

“No, you – don’t be cruel,” Harry fumbles over words through distaste as I attempt to pivot him around. I imagine a deep frown of disapproval as he rips his hand away from mine. “You don’t get to do that,” he almost spits.

It’s horrifically painful to think he can’t actually look at me. His hands wedge deep into his pockets, a defence against me.

“When you leave me here,” he shakes his head. “Bo, I won’t be able to…just please - just don’t touch me.”

We’re backpedalling so fast it’s a challenge to overcome. He doesn’t wait for any sort of acceptance before continuing to part from me. Pretty soon there’s a whole road’s width between us. I stand in isolation staring at my hands as if they hold the answer as to why Harry couldn’t bear me touching him with them. But they’re just hands, lines marked into the palms like tributaries in a river. They won’t hurt him.

I think about leaving him there. Not giving him any more of my futile time. I pray for rain, drench him.

Despite my wishes of carelessness, I find myself gravitating to him once again. I don’t make the mistake of reaching out to him, my body couldn’t take another onslaught of enemy fire. I’m greeted by the back of him.

“Where’s your car?” I ask quietly as not to startle him. “I’ll take you to it.”

“I don’t have one.”

“I’ll take you home then,” I press further. “Or I can drop you off at someone else’s, I –“

“Home.” Harry replies solemnly. 

“Ok.”

It feels a little strange to have him steadily follow after me, especially after the exchange we’ve just had. It’s all terribly familiar as he passes me my bag from the passenger seat and buckles in. Harry folds his hands into his lap as I pull away from the curb a little more gracefully than my previous attempt. I don’t want to drown his existence out with the sound of the radio so it remains off. He picks at the fray of jeans where it’s ripped at the knee and I have to stem the part of me that wants to motherly scold him.

“Where are we going?”

His voice pries away at the silence rhythmically interspersed with the car’s indicator tick. We’re turning right at a junction. It doesn’t matter much that we’ve paused as there’s no-one behind us to press their horn.

“I’m going to take you home, to your flat.”

Jittery fingers continuously rotate the silver band on his index and then on his middle.

“I don’t live there anymore.”

I flick the indicator off.

“Where do you live?”

***

I climb from the car to be greeted by the menacing sight of three large blocks of flats. The moon peeks through the gap between the first and second, almost relieved when it’s granted shelter to hide behind the passing cloud. Friendly and approachable are two words absent from the list of descriptors I would use to advertise property here.

Harry’s lingering by the car, head cast down in toil of what comes next. I take the pressure from him.

“I’ll come in if you want me to.”

“Yeah,” he says without pause.

I’m shoving my keys back into my bag as he strides across the road with me trailing him. A few paces in front and he realises I’m lagging behind, forgotten that he used to be considerate of my shorter legs and fall in step beside me.

The entrance door to block number two is held open and I thank Harry as he allows me through first. It smells a little damp in the lobby and I account it to the mismatch patches of colour upon the ceiling in the corner. There’s no buzz-in so individuals can walk in and out freely.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Harry softly states. “Rent needs paying.”

He’s gone through a heavy fire door and I’m left to amble around the lobby on my own. A light on the flaky wall flickers, a glassy click every few seconds to accompany music blaring obnoxiously from a boy racer car outside. We’d passed them on the way in but I hadn’t taken much notice, instead choosing to stick close to Harry and pray for anonymity. I have the urge to validate the security of my car; they’re probably stealing parts of the engine by now or messing with the brakes.

The entrance door we used surges open and I’m surprised the handle hasn’t become a permanent fixture in the wall vulnerable to its swing range. My assessment concludes two males and one female. Their conversation aborts when they eye me.

 “You live here?” the woman with scraped back hair asks.

I’m not quite sure what the right answer should be because my mind summons the same image of me being preyed upon regardless of a “yes” or “no”. A brief decision is hastily reached.

 “No.”

One of the men steps forward, shorter than the woman and with a shock a honey coloured hair. Despite his jeans being belted, they still hang low on his stocky frame.

“You lost then?”

“No,” I repeat.

The uncomfortable feeling digging away at my stomach intensifies as a sly smile is unified between them. In a conscious effort to become less of a target I’ve shifted conveniently over to the door leading further into the building.

“My friend went off this way, I’m gunna see if I can find him.”

My forearms press to the wood in a misplaced sense of hygiene inappropriate for the current circumstance. It’s the least of my worries now that one of them has followed. I can tell because I’m yet to hear the door close behind me.

“And which floor is your friend on?”

I peer down one of the corridors stemming off from the main route and then down the one opposite. It’s a fucking maze.

“I don’t know, he didn’t say.”

My reply is sharp as I turn to face them once again. The woman and one of the men are present in the hall with me; the other is hanging from the doorframe with a knowing grin. The way amusement slips from his mouth is almost comical and I’m the last to understand why as the three of them pale.

“She doesn’t want what you’re selling,” Harry’s voice echoes.

The woman is caught in headlights as the men retreat back. I can feel Harry stood behind me, along with an odd sense of superiority at having people cower away. “It’s twenty-eight, it’s twenty-eight,” is background mumbles to the sudden chill in the atmosphere. She draws her head down in submission, following after the others who have abandoned her.

I watch the door after they’ve gone and only twist around upon hearing Harry step away. It seems I spend most of my time conversing with the back of him.

“What were they selling?”

I receive a humoured hum as we continue to play a low spirited version of follow the leader. The doors to the lift ping open just as Harry takes another door which I presume leads to the stairs. I don’t know how high we’re going up, but even the graffiti scratched interior of the lift beats climbing the stairs.

“Aren’t we taking the lift?” I call through the gradually diminishing gap of the closing door.

I can see the back of Harry through the tiny window as he pauses on the first step.His head turns slightly to address me and I’m not of commendable fitness to stop the dented lift doors from uniting.

“I wouldn’t,” he replies. “There are kids on level six that like to jam it. There’s no guarantee we’d make it to three alive.”

I’m certainly not spending my night trapped in a metal box hanging over probable death just to give some children a few giggles. Jogging after Harry I find him to have proceeded up the first bend of staircase. It’s a grotty ascent to level three.

“The people downstairs, when they saw you they said twenty-eight. What does that mean?”

We pass the same washed-out green doors whilst travelling the length of the deserted corridor. Noise from TV sets can be heard from some flats, others are deathly silent.

“Er, I live at number twenty-eight,” Harry tentatively concludes.

We stop outside an identical door and Harry roots around in his pocket for keys. It’s only as the corridor lights time out and the passageway progressively darkens that he allows us in. And my first thought is that this isn’t his home. The front entrance enters straight into the living room. It’s cramped. I presume the only natural source of light the room receives is from the window at the back, which happens to be the kitchen. Although with the grime masking the glass it’s probably not of any benefit.

Harry stands to the side of the sofa, head marginally bowed and he looks out of place in his own home.

“It looks nice, Harry,” I offer kindly.

“You don’t have to be polite,” he weakly laughs. “My mum and sister won’t even visit me here, and I don’t want them to. I know it’s a shit hole.”

I’m at a loss for words so instead busy myself with looking around. The telly is much smaller, there’s no trace of any games console and the lamp on the side needs a new bulb. It’s as my eyes wander over the leaflet stuffed sofa that my snooping comes to a heady halt on the baseball bat propped up on the arm.

“I got broken into a while ago,” he tries to explain. “Haven’t been back since.”

“Shit,” is my immediate response.

Harry’s boots are toed off before he ambles to the kitchen. As if attached by a string, I make my way over. I watch him lean up to retrieve a tall glass from the cupboard.

“Do you want a drink?”

I approach from his right. My hand faintly brushes his side upon stepping closer and he reacts in a way I’m unaccustomed. Just like before, Harry creates distance to centre himself. White knuckles grip the glass and I’m a little worried as to pressure it can successfully sustain.

“I’m fine,” I answer.

The kitchen tap is levered on, water swirling around the plughole as Harry waits for it to cool. He’s crumbling, I can see it happening. Hand trembles and increased rate of breath. He grips the counter top to steady himself.

“It’s ok,” I tell him. “I’ll bring it to you.”

The glass is placed upon the worktop, a move to avoid accidental touch.

“I’m gunna go lie down,” Harry nods at himself.

“All right.”

I track his wavering walk until he disappears through to the bedroom. My jacket and bag are slung onto the sofa before I return to the kitchen. I think of getting him something to eat but my exploration of his fridge condemns Harry to a left over Chinese food and out of date milk. I would throw it away but I don’t want to interfere and I can’t help but think that he hasn’t been looking after himself. Just the water then.

There’s a smoky aroma that clings to the space as I enter the bedroom. The bed is vacant and I discover Harry fiddling with objects strewn across the top of his drawers. I’m fairly sure my advance is anything but frightful, however the alarm Harry moves with creates bit of a mess. He rounds so quickly from fright that the glass is knocked from my hand, smashing to the floor in an eruption of shards and water.

 “Bo, Bo, I’m sorry,” he desperately tells me. “I didn’t – I didn’t see you.”

It’s in a fluster that I’m blessed with a clear view to his face and it nearly knocks me flat. When I reach for him Harry understands the mistake he’s made. I take hold of his chin before he has a chance to stop me.

“Don’t,” he lightly protests. “Bo, stop.”

My other hand cups the side of his face. Harry freezes as my thumb skims the scar, the connection taking me back to earlier with the persistent woman and how we’d approached Harry. “It doesn’t bother me,” she’d said, and the statement hadn’t made sense until now. His eyes are closed and there’s no mistaking the healed wound cutting almost diagonally through his eyebrow and across his left lid. It’s not a smooth line, the top is somewhat jagged and it makes my stomach plummet.

“Open them.”

Harry no longer fears my touch, it’s just stubbornness now.

“Open them,” I demand.

My hands fall like dead weight, body backing away. I’m unable to despise my response because the rest of me is going into shock.

“Yeah, I tend to get that reaction,” he bitterly states.

The pupil has been damaged, no longer perfectly aligned and leaking slightly into the iris, which is an angry combination of dark green and blue. The whole eye is lightly clouded in a milky white and it feels like the bottom has dropped out of my world.

“I don’t…”

Harry’s still, allowing me to process what’s in front of me.

“Partially sighted.”

He weakly smiles.

I shake my head and try to catch the breath that’s escaped my lungs.

“I don’t understand," I plead.

His vision flickers down before mustering the courage to fully engage me for the first time. 

“Bo, I’m half blind in my left eye.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 4

I really hope you enjoy this chapter! 

Despite lack of better judgement, I’m back again. Having upheld commitments on Friday and Saturday with James and Tiff, I’d bargained Sunday to return home. Tiff had whinged saying my mum was going to get sick of me. But it’s not really my mum that I’ve come to see.

My knee can’t seem to stop hopping, bouncing in excitement and apprehension. It’s an odd combination to feel, the butterflies in my stomach just as confused as me. Their wings beat against my insides as the back door opens and Harry strides out. He’s on a mission, unperturbed by the distasteful taunts shouted from liquor swilled mouths.

“Freak!”

He’s different tonight, more alert, more aware of his surroundings. I sit back down, watching him through the fleeting gaps between people ahead of me. There’s no show of entering the ring and the announcer flusters through the introduction Harry didn’t give him any time to deliver. The black hood is taken down and Harry’s interest in the crowd is abnormally high. He never usually sees beyond his opponent, but tonight he’s not even given a passing glance. There’s a hot clench in my stomach, similar to the feeling of the moments before you’re found when playing hide and seek.

Harry does another skim of faces as the announcer removes himself from the ringed fight. He stops occasionally, scrutinising people, pressing himself to the ropes in order to extend his range and confirm identity. He’s searching for someone.

Regretfully I can’t clearly see his face; if I could, I would hope that it would give me an indication as to who captures his thoughts. I sit shrouded in my own as the fight begins, cheers interspersed with ugly words of torment. He shouldn’t have to listen to that. The situation is like that of a quarantined animal, people poking and shouting with cruel intent in attempt to get a rise, hear the animal roar. Harry’s not going to bite this time.

The ink covering his left arm is smudged and stretched as he uses it to block attacks and counter them with his own. Not only does he have to defend against fists, elbows and ramming shoulders, Harry’s also acutely aware of jabs from knees. He ducks out of a right hook, challenging the aggression with a sharp kick to the man’s thigh.

I’m still astounded by the combination of hits, the abandonment of any rules, no guidelines. All that remains is the objective to take your opponent down, in any way possible apparently. Harry can hold his own, skilled in this new form of fighting that involves almost no protective gear despite the unequivocal need for it. Each hit stokes the audience, thirsty to see if the champion can provide them with another spectacular knockout.

Harry knocks the brawl to the floor after sweeping his right leg ‘round and catching the other fighter in the back of his knees. He collapses forward, slamming his chin into the solid ring floor before squirming to turn on his back. I feel for him, his body language reflecting his understanding of the position. Forearms shoot up to protect his face as Harry repeatedly swings at him. His hair is taken back with a bandana, less of a distraction when it’s up off his face. But it doesn’t seem to help with other interferences. Both Harry and I, along with others, are drawn to the ruckus over by the bar. There’s already volunteers to bring order to a scuffle the involved should be ashamed of. Delusions of grandeur are displayed as one man takes it upon himself to claim pathetic victory over the drunk he’s shoved to the floor. I shake my head with disapproval as he makes a sceptical of himself.

Back in the ring, Harry’s been shoved aside with the challenger already taking the power position up on his feet. Harry’s on his knees and I can’t quite come to terms with just how fast the tables can turn. No mercy is given and I visibly recoil as the fighter prepares to boot Harry in the shoulder he’s already cradling in pain. The assault is interrupted at the last possible moment by Harry’s right arm. I slip from my seat with my heart pounding in my ears and frantically claw through the people in front. Four seconds, five? I’m not sure, but it is just a few mere seconds. Harry’s the only one standing.

Nasty words are thrown at him yet again, people disappointed with the outcome of the match and the loss of bets. He seems to take no notice, stooping through the ropes and jumping down. The baffled announcer is left in the ring with a bloody fighter and without a winner’s arm to raise in victory. My eyes trail after Harry as he clutches his shoulder and creates a forced path to the back door.

***

He’s hunched over himself at the bar. There’s a radius clear around him of sober people, the drunks don’t seem to care. Harry’s been thrown off his usual routine of, fight, win, leave. He’d escaped a monstrous beating in the ring tonight and when he exited through the back door to the staff corridor that should have been the last I’d seen of him. It was a little perplexing to see him skulk back into the bar and secure a place amongst the swaying groups. It was mostly shock that had me promptly park my behind to the chair again, that and the unquenchable want to indulge in any time I could have in his presence.

His dress sense hasn’t changed much, although he’s definitely acquired a tendency to favour anything black, washed out and ripped. There’s hardly any colour to his wardrobe and I can’t help but feel disheartened for some reason. Customary skinny jeans are worn; black to match the top under the checked shirt. I can tell his shoulder is still causing him a bit of trouble, choosing to rest his forearm in his lap.

Mack’s late, I haven’t seen him all evening so I’d grabbed a table and a drink to sit on my own. Many people had left after the last fight of the evening, the temperament of the bar cooling until it was unrecognisable as a battling arena. It wasn’t long before I was approached to share the table. I don’t mind the company, it’s nice to hear snippets of chat and tipsy laughing.

“Do you like him?”

I turn to the girl sat beside me. Her eyeliner is purposefully smudged and there’s a small silver hoop piercing her lip. She suits the scruffy bob her hair has been cut into.

“Who?” I ask, even though it’s pretty clear who she’s referring to.

Apparently I’ve been less than discrete in my admiring. I hadn’t intended it to be more than a few greedy glances and I hadn’t imagined anyone would be taking notice of me.

“Harry.”

I shake my head in embarrassment of being caught. It’s odd to hear his first name, most seem to refer to him by last, as if ‘Harry’ is too personal.

“Do you dye your hair?”

It’s a sharp turn in the conversation that I hadn’t expected we would take. Her index rubs thoughtfully over her mouth as she busies herself with ponderings over my nature colour.

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” her fingers flick the ends tucked behind my ear. “I heard he likes little brunettes,” she teases with a smile. Although I presume her intentions to be friendly, I’m still burdened with slightly sinister objectives. “You should go and talk to him.”

“It’s better to be left.”

I don’t think it would be the wisest of things to do, especially as he’s just barked at one man for trying to spark up conversation. He’s not into small talk, even if it is between him and one of his “fans”.

“I’ll come with you.”

My hand is taken, and she drags me from my seat and along behind her to the bar. I’ve barely managed to sling my bag over my shoulder and there’s no time to grab my coat. It’s left with the group whose faces I certainly won’t recognise individually under Hollister style lighting. I feel like a child throwing a tantrum, objecting any further would have me digging my heels into the floor and screeching. I can see where she’s leading us, a free space to Harry’s right. It’s big enough as to not cause too much disruption to our pushing in and she makes the executive decision on which side I’m placed. Her body is a barrier between Harry and I. She tips her head at me, a little nod and I have no idea what she wants me to do. There’s no time to ask because she’s already pivoted away, still clutching my hand. My body feels boneless. 

 “Do you want a drink, handsome?” she asks, voice dripping in sultry allure.

It’s quite possibly the worst opening line I’ve ever heard; so awful I momentarily lapse in what’s playing out before me and I’m forced to quell the eye-roll. Instead, a stab of fury pierces through whatever apprehension I feel bumbling around in my stomach. My mind is full on sprinting to keep up until the nameless girl cocks her hip and I realise it’s not rage, it’s jealously. I don’t want her coming on to him and in some juvenile part of my brain I’ve labelled Harry as mine. Just for me. Keep your hands off him.

 “I’ve got one,” he gruffly replies.

From my obstructed view I see him gesture to the tumbler of amber liquid pressing to his temple. The thawing ice tinkers against the glass and I’m sordidly pleased with his shrugging off.

“I can get you another.”

I hear the glass meet the bar top none too gently. It’s painfully clear he wants to be left alone but she’s going to hound him, goad him with unwanted offers. Let’s see you roar.

“No,” he retorts bluntly.

I pull on the hold she has, but the bony little fingers have more strength than I’m willing to admit. Yank anymore and we’ll both end up on the floor and I’m not really enthused by the idea of being jeered at by drunks.

“Well, maybe you could buy me one.”

Bitch.

Harry’s head sharply turns and my body reflexively jolts the other way. I pray that he doesn’t cotton on to the pounding reverberating in my chest. It’s the music, it’s the music, I repeat in mantra. The girl’s hand has constricted like a python, suddenly very aware of any mistake made, or perhaps it’s because his attention is now fully on her. They don’t speak while I play at waiting on service, casually scanning the bar and pretending the fingers wrapping around mine aren’t painfully tight. But the façade falls through as I catch her movement in my peripheral. Her hand gently cups Harry’s face and I’m stunned.  I expect him to shout or push her away, but he doesn’t. I wish he would.

His eyes are closed as I cautiously take a peek, face shadowed from inadequate lighting. There’s a pink crescent moon shape curving his left eye socket and I assume it’s a lingering consequence of dodging a full fist to the face. I’ve seen minor injuries like that before, nothing to worry about as it will be gone in a couple of days. What really nips at my interest is the more definite looking scar.

“It doesn’t bother me,” she faintly speaks, snapping me out of my almost daydream of a stare.

There are any number of things she could be referring to but the way in which he leans into her gentle affection has me utterly floored. I don’t understand. Her offerings were refused, Harry was perfectly clear on where he stood and now he’s almost defenceless against her advances.

Her hand falls from his face, drifting down his chest to rest alarming on his upper thigh. It’s uncomfortable to be here, to see her touch him so intimately. Harry doesn’t move, but I’m safe to freely observe because his consideration only goes as far as her. I don’t stray above his shoulders because I have no desire to see the small suggestive smile he used to give me. My lips pinch together in spite, and regardless of her successful catch, she still hangs onto me like her life depends on it. She’s almost in Harry’s lap and I feel like punching her in the gut and running.

What the hell is she playing at?

I watch with a distasteful scowl as she leans further into him, and he doesn’t refuse her. His eyes remain closed, enjoying her attention. The bar continues to provide a heady atmosphere, people now pressed too close for my liking.

“You can have both of us,” she murmurs sensually into his ear.

And I’m lost. A slow burn builds from my toes, incinerating anything in its path to create a hot mess of panicked butterflies in my stomach. It’s something I’ve never felt with James, and probably never will because he’s not Harry. James doesn’t excite me in the way I feel now, he won’t have me panting in mercy or begging for the simplest of touches. And I feel guilty for still stowing these emotions for a boy that I should have forgotten.

Please don’t. Not like this.

“You can fuck us both.”

I see her step back slightly with the aid of Harry’s arm but I don’t turn. His watchful eyes should be familiar as I blindly become aware of his assessment of me. He’s given a reluctant side profile, my face cloaked by a box bought, dark gold. The girl reaches her free hand to try and push the hair away from my face but I don’t let her. I can almost hear her snarl as I moodily recoil from her touch.

It’s as if my reaction sparks at Harry’s sudden turn. She’s shoved from her prided place wedged between his legs, releasing my hand in surprise. Her weak attempt to take his arm is stunted immediately.

“I’m not here for your sick entertainment,” Harry spits. The girl is so taken aback she bumps into me in her bid to escape. The depth of his voice dictates just how low his tolerance has become.

“No, no, I wasn’t…” she frantically defends in vain.

“I’m not gunna fuck you or your friend, so just do yourself a favour.”

Harry unwittingly knocks into the stool he once sat on, now up on his feet. He jostles into wide-eyed onlookers, his injured shoulder forgotten and replaced with vexation.

“Come on,” I say with quiet urgency, taking her wrist and towing her away.

I grab my coat on the way as we pass the table we once sat at and I don’t stop until we’ve exited out into the night.

“What the hell was that?” I demand, dropping her hand.

There’s people outside smoking and they’ve suddenly taken an interest in the two girls stood shouting. I make an effort to try and calm down.

“Well, he wasn’t going to take just me home was he?” she bitterly replies. “Needed a pretty little thing to sweeten the deal. Just his type.” She reaches again to flick my hair behind my ear and I force the hand back to her side. Her laugh is one of mocking irritation. “You ruined it.”

“I’m sure it’s not the end of the world.”

“Should’ve just sucked him off in the toilets, would have been less hassle.”

She barges into my shoulder upon her huffing departure and I can’t recall ever having a conversation like it. I don’t realise until she’s gone just how tightly I’ve screwed my fists.

***

I’ve had to walk around the back of the club. There’d been no parking spaces out the front when I’d arrived so the car is a little further than I’d like to journey, but I have no choice. Rubbish litters the pavement and one of the street lamps casts an eerie flickering light.

There’s three guys making a slightly tipsy performance of play fighting. I don’t count them as a danger as one of them has just fallen over his own feet. They’re laughing as I manoeuvre around them.

“Hey!” one of them calls.

I continue placing one foot in front of the other, slightly faster than I was before. My car is just across the road, if I sprint I can be inside with the doors locked in under ten seconds.

“Hey.”

My body falters in concealed alarm as the man rounds to my front and grins at me.

“What do you think? I could take him, right?”

His speech swims in a distinct slur, the pungent stench of liquor polluting the air between us. There’s an ominous stain dribbled down the front of his top, a hiccup accompanied by a cruise ship sway.

“Who?” I ask, fingers discovering the whereabouts of my keys.

He doesn’t notice.

“Styles.”

I could almost bark out a patronising laugh. Expectation in his glassy eyes command me to agree with him and it’s as he raises his brows that I’m overcome with recognition. The guy from the bar, the delusional one who’d proclaimed himself winner of some infantile playground fight whilst Harry was in the ring.

“You’d hardly be worth his time,” I honestly reply.

I hadn’t intended to be so blunt and by the flush of his cheeks and his friends’ laughter, he’s embarrassed that I was.

“It was a clean knockout,” he challenges.

The smart thing to do would be to agree and walk away, but apparently I’m unable to do that even in a situation like this.

“No,” I shake my head in fierce objection. “You just pushed over a drunk. You picked the easiest target in there, he wasn’t going to put up a fight and you know it.”

I want to sellotape my mouth shut before anything else spurts out that I’ve not had a chance to think about. His friends have come closer and I have to gulp down my fear as I fiddle in my bag, slotting a key between each finger on my right hand. The man’s unfocussed vision glides unnervingly up and down my figure. It’s time to leave.

“I wouldn’t say he was the easiest.”

The path to the car is blocked. I think about using the keys, slashing across his face and making a run for it.

“How about you? Am I worth your time?” he grits out.

“Please move,” I say, willing it to sound more authoritative than it probably does.

The metal is hot in my hand, take a step closer and I’ll use it.

“Oi!”

Four of us drag our eyes over to the fire escape at the back of the club. I’m no damsel and I’m not even sure if this new Harry is into playing the hero, but I don’t think his timing could have been more spot on. The air is filled with a fresh tension which hopefully puts me out of the firing line.

“Oh look, the man himself,” the guy snidely smiles at me. “We’ve got one of your groupies here, mate.”

I’m shoved a little in Harry’s direction. He’s close, boots crunching the lose sprinkles of tarmac. He steps around me, placing himself between me and the tormentors. I stop myself from bustling up beside him and stay partially sheltered behind him.

“Why don’t you and your mates just fuck off, yeah? She’s done nothing wrong.”

Harry’s still got his hands shoved in his jean pockets like this whole thing is a strain on his time. I imagine the short ends of the bandana tickle at his neck, although he shows no sign of discomfort from where I’m standing.

“She hurt my feelings,” the man fakes wounded.

I hear Harry snigger, casually wandering forward to address him personally.

“I find that hard to believe with a skull as thick as yours.”

It’s as if intimidation comes with just a simple glance. The men are backing off all too easily. They make a performance of leaving, kicking at the empty cans on the floor to have them rebound off the wall.

“Freak!”

The shouts echo down the road but Harry is oblivious to them. I peer at the floor as he shifts his weight and strolls back. The unsure hand glides inches above my shoulder before thinking better of it and letting it fall to his side once more.

 “Are you all right?” he asks.

“Fine,” I gulp. “Thanks.”

If he recognises me from the bar he doesn’t mention it, and I’m glad because my hands are already starting to sweat and I can practically hear the drumming in my chest. I hadn’t planned on a face-to-face encounter like this; well, it’s hardly much of an interaction as I haven’t given him the decency of looking up at his face. He probably thinks of me as rude and ungrateful.  

 “Do you need me to walk you anywhere?”

I softly smile, still evading full face visuals with my hair. It’s the first indication I’ve received of his past self still present in this different form. Not all of him has been lost.

“My car is just..” I trail off, gesturing towards the grey vehicle. “It’s ok, thank you,” and I leave him there.

The brief walk that I’d been prepared to sprint a short time before is strangely calm. That is until I momentarily peek over my shoulder and then immediately regret it. Harry’s still stood there. He’s overseen me walk away and cross the road. Why is he still stood there? It’s not a relaxed kind of lingering, it’s purposeful. He’s remained there for a reason.

I fuss with my keys, cursing myself as I ineptly drop them and then hastily scoop them up. My hands are shaking.

He’s going to let me get into my car. I’ll drive away and won’t even be tempted to look at him in my rear view. Please let me get into my car.

“Bo.”

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 3

Hello! Hope you like this chapter :) Please let me know what you think! (I read tags!)

“When does he fight?” I pryingly enquire.

I’ve accepted a drink, non-alcoholic, what with the long drive back home. Mack’s giving me odd looks as I return my devotion to him after scanning the room for the third time. It’s precautionary. I know Harry’s gone; an abrupt exit with a stunned crowd and an unconscious competitor was pretty conclusive. But I still keep my wits about me.

“Huh?” he strains over the noise.

“Harry, when does he normally fight?”

“Most weekends, occasionally during the week,” Mack almost shouts in reply. “Come through to the back, it’s quieter.”

I shuffle along behind him, dodging people who can’t seem to keep their drink steady. I feel oddly privileged to follow Mack through the door label, “PRIVATE”. It was used as an entrance and exit for the fighters a little while before and yet again I’m overcome with a sense that I’m trespassing. A short walk down the corridor leads us to an office at the back. It’s not overly big, but the space is used well, desk, computer, filing cabinet, and a not so well hidden safe.

“Look, if you want to meet him, I can arrange something, Bo.”

My head turns so quickly I think I’ve jarred my neck. I rub at the nape trying to ease the discomfort. Mack’s sat at the desk, riffling through paperwork in order to retrieve his phone which has just pinged with a text.

“With Harry?” I ask, my eyebrows shooting up.

He doesn’t look up, instead rummages in the furniture’s drawers.

“Yeah, I mean, it might be a bit difficult,” he pauses with a grimace. “He’s not really a people person.  But even I know that he must have something going for him. Since he’s been here, the amount of women turning up on his fight nights have increased.”

 “No, that’s ok,” I shake my head.

“Sure? I can tell him you’re a fan. I know the - urr..” he gestures in the general area of his face, leaving me puzzled before continuing. “It’s a bit intimidating, but he’s alright.”

“No, thanks.”

I can tell he’s about to nose further into my fascination with one of his fighters, so I quickly change the subject.

“What’s that?”

Of the paper collection on his desk, the one I pick up is handwritten. Words and occasionally whole sentences have been scribbled out. By the crumpled appearance, it’s obvious this single sheet has been given more attention than the others. It’s taken from me before I can decipher the recipient. 

“A letter,” Mack curtly replies.

“Who are you writing to?”

A heavy sigh exhales as he slouches back in his computer chair and I pull out the seat opposite him.

“My girlfriend.”

It’s spoken with a little unease.

“Is it a love letter?” I ask, smiling more than I probably should.

He shakes his head with a flush colouring his cheeks. It’s kind of cute.

“She’s been reading these God-awful books where the characters confess their love for each other through the written word.”

His nose turns up as though the sentence spoken disgusts him. Romance is often as foreign to some people as a different language, so I don’t make any snide remarks.

“It’s not like I don’t talk to her on the phone every day. She wants me to write down my feelings and send them to her.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

A feeling of joy bubbles up, happy to hear that love exists outside of my perilous experiences. He taps away at his phone as I sit quietly and observe. There’s a couple of framed pictures, a pin board littered with calendar dates and a small potted plant that could do with a water.

“Of course you do,” he rolls his eyes.

I’m fully acquainted with sarcasm, living with the likes of Tiff. His putdown won’t dampen my spirits.

“Where is she?”

“Studying up in Manchester.”

His eyes drift over to the phone he’s recently found and I know the constant buzzing is messages from her by the smile he wears.

“I could help you if you want.”

Mack’s torn away from the screen, latching instead onto our conversation, which apparently has taken an interesting turn.

“What do you mean?”

I shift forward to the edge of the seat, repositioning the pathetic cushion used to combat the heavy wood of the chair.

“With the composition. If you’re struggling, I could give you a woman’s perspective.”

“You’d do that?” he asks, slightly amazed.

“Sure, if you let me sit in on the fights.”

I hope it’s casual enough to not raise suspicion, but I’m not sure if the silence we’re currently swimming in is him contemplating the offer, or if he’s trying to work out if I’m bit of a crazy groupie. I give him a soft smile which I hope doesn’t come off as odd.

“Alright.”

“Brilliant,” I grin, leaning over the paper peppered desk to shake his hand. “Just please don’t tell him.”

“About what?”

“About me.”

***

Apparently I’m not competent enough to take command of the trolley, so I’m stuck walking alongside like a child as Tiff points out items on the shelf. We’d brought Rob on our food shopping expedition after discovering he’d eaten pot noddle for breakfast and lunch. He’d scowled as we’d tried to explain that the “food” had about as much nutrition as water sodden cardboard.

“You’re going home again?”

I place tins of sweetcorn amongst our swelling food supply.

“Yeah.”

The trolley screeches to a halt, an old lady tutting behind before steering around us. Tiff’s brown eyes are swarming me with disappointment, brows furrowing as she continues to push forward.

“Why? We were meant to go to the cinema. You remember? I have that voucher for Saturday night, I can’t use it any other day.”

“Shit. I’m really sorry,” I shake my head with genuine regret.

“Ugh,” Tiff grumbles, throwing a box of cereal into our shared trolley. “Oh God, I’ll have to take Rob instead.”

“Take me where?” Rob pops up, mouth full of grapes and arms full of rubbish microwave meals. “Are we going on a date, Tiff?”

He suggestively nudges her with his shoulder, eyebrows dancing around in a supposedly flirty way.

“You wish,” she bites back, helping unload the items from his clutches.

“You’re supposed to pay before you start eating the shopping,” I point out, taking the nearly empty bag of fruit and placing it on top.

I’m not surprised that they ignore my scolding in favour of racing down the frozen aisle to see what’s on offer. We’ll divide it between us if the food goes towards a main meal. But if it’s ice-cream, it’s none negotiable, there will be no sharing, just stomach aches after eating a full tub to ourselves.

“Well, Bo was supposed to come with me to the flicks, but now she can’t, so I’m taking you.”

“Brilliant! What are we seeing?”

***

“Well, what do you want to tell her?”

The point of my pen digs deeper into the page and I’ve resorted to doodling in the margin. I’m working on a full meadow of flowers, complete with bumble bees and butterflies. We’ve been sitting on Mack’s side of the desk for near forty minutes, still deliberating as to how his heartfelt letter should begin. I imagine that somewhere around now, Rob is hassling Tiff to share her popcorn, and they’ve already argued over who gets the middle armrest.

“I want her to know that I miss her.”

“Well, that’s a start,” I say, ripping off my mindless illustrations and starting a new page. “What do you miss?”

“Everything.”

I force back the urge to coo at him, because I know it will put him off and we won’t be any further forward. To combat the pins and needles tingling in my right foot, I shift it out from under my left thigh and rearrange myself again. Mack’s been up and down like a yo-yo during our time together, and I’m coming to realise his attention span is probably the hindering factor in his inability to complete the letter. Wide brimmed glasses are propped on the end of his nose and I can’t help but liken him to James and their mutual distaste at having to wear them. James keeps them safely tucked away in his bag, only recovering them when it’s absolutely necessary to see the TV. The fact that his lashes are long enough to brush the inside of the lenses always fascinates me.

I pen a star into the margin of the lined paper, readying myself for the flurry of bullet point ideas I hope will follow. It’s probably a bit optimistic as Mack has taken to riffling through a diary of appointments in his lap.

“Mack!” a shout echoes from outside.

His head instantly snaps up, eyes boomeranging from me to the door.

“It’s Harry.”

His voice is low, enough to warn me, but not to draw attention to the fact that he has company in the office. I release the chewed up end of the pen from my teeth, hearing it clatter to the desk and roll to the floor. I’ve no idea where it lands because I’m consumed with the need to hide.

“He’s early,” I hiss.

The easy tread of footsteps outside in the corridor sound like thunder to my ears, heart in my mouth and I’m crawling to the impossibly small space between the filing cabinet and safe. My hands feel dirty and my denim covered knees are probably filthy with dust from the neglected floor. It’s not the best hiding place by any means, but it serves a desperate purpose as I squeeze and wriggle back to relative safety. I knock my head on the worktop that runs above the safe, but the curse is bitten down in favour of keeping my whereabouts unknown. From where I’m wedged in I can see Mack’s legs from knee down as he gathers the paper we’d been working on before slamming the evidence into a drawer. My stomach feels as though it’s fallen out of my arse and I silently reprimand myself for the packet of bourbons I’d shared with James on Thursday night. I can hardly breathe and I don’t want to now that the office door has been opened.

“Harry,” Mack greets a little uneasy, probably the fact that he’s allowing a stowaway to take refuge amongst his furniture.

I gulp down the bile rising in my throat.

“I’m gunna need my money,” Harry gruffly demands.

I press back further into my dark spot. There’s probably spiders lurking in here with me but there’s no way I’m going to be ousted out by creepy crawlies. I’m more uncomfortable with the thought of being out there.

“You already have it,” Mack replies, casually leaning back against his desk.

“Not for last night.”

I still can’t see him, he’s not walked any further into the room and I feel even more childish for concealing myself; hiding from my unaddressed issues instead of confronting them. This was a stupid idea. My flustered self didn’t really weigh up other options, there was no time. And now that I’m sat, wedged into a space not meant for a person approaching their twentieth birthday, I can’t help but plague myself with the question, would it really have been that bad if he’d have seen me?

I can’t come out now though, I’ll look like a crazy person for hiding.

A breathless squeak is supressed by the palm of my hand as Mack crouches down almost in front of me. For a horrific couple of seconds, I’m fraught with the worry that he’s going to rat me out. But he doesn’t. Eyes communicate words unspoken and he continues, attending to the number combination on the safe.

Notes are stuffed into a white envelope and he unfolds from his squat, kicking the door closed with his foot. It’s a short break from fear of blown cover.  

“Did you have a woman in here?” Harry asks.

My mouth dries and I have to supress the need to hack my guts up. I dabble in the unsavoury idea that he can smell me, like a predator with its prey. But we’re not playing cat and mouse, despite the fact that I’m holed up and out of sight.

“No,” Mack replies a little too quickly.

“Is this yours then?”

I duck my head down as far as I’m able, peering out at what is being discussed. My tube of lip balm is pinched between Harry’s thumb and index, looking stupidly small held in one of his bear paws. It makes me feel more vulnerable to discovery knowing that he’s holding something of mine that I’d used only ten minutes prior.

He’s too tall for me to see his face; my only view is of his lower body and half of his torso. Dressed all in black, I imagine him to come and go as he pleases during the hours after dusk, sinking back into the dark.

“Didn’t think it was your colour,” Harry jokes.

There’s no well-versed guidelines as to how I should be feeling; no blueprint to reassure that me being oddly comforted by the familiarity of his oversized feet is weird. That part is Harry. It’s the bitten tone that has me swaying between guarded and calm. He’s a concoction of what I once knew and something unnervingly different. Skinny jeans and long legs, Harry. The stern posture and unthinking clenched fist belong to someone I’ve never met before.

“Maybe it’s one of the girls behind the bar, a few of them were in here earlier for their wages.”

Even if I didn’t know the truth, I wouldn’t be convinced enough to believe Mack’s lie. He’s atrocious at acting, a five year old would have performed better.

“Look, it’s not my place to judge.”

“I’m not cheating on my girlfriend,” Mack states with solid conviction.

Now that I can believe.

The money changes hands and I’m more than thankful for the help Mack offers to free me. Harry’s gone and it’s probably time I left, too.

“What was all that about?”

I collect my bag and jacket from the drawer Mack stuffed them in before our ambush. A tiny stick of lip balm could be explained, anything else would have raised the red flag and then shoved it in Harry’s face.

“I told you, I don’t want him to know.”

“He probably wouldn’t have seen you anyway,” he says with irritation.

I wrestle my jacket on as Mack pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You not staying for the fight then?”

“No, but I’ll see you soon.”

He checks the situation outside the office, returning to escort me along to the fire escape at the end of the hall. Night air extinguishes the fiery flush coating my skin as I walk towards where the car is parked. James pops up on my phone screen and I take his call before driving home. 

[dark128]

KNOCKOUT - chapter 2

If there's any mistakes, I'll mix them tomorrow!! Hope you like it :) x

I was late. Thankfully it was only by a few minutes so I could slip into the back without most of the class noticing. Discussion on the set reading and enquiries about the essay due next week filled the session’s allotted time. I glance back and forth the clock for the last fifteen minutes, keen to escape the stuffy room and assignment questions that make my stomach churn. I haven’t started it, and the fact that some people are on their second draft weighs heavy on me and most of the other unwashed students.

I’m out and tripping over poorly placed legs to whom the owners decide the corridor floor is a marvellous place to wait for their semin ar to start. I shouldn’t really complain as I’m the first one to slump down the wall and furiously read the assigned articles that should have been completed days before.

I’m just about to take the stairs down to the ground floor when a familiar laugh echoes in the dead-end where the vending machines are crowded by hungry students. He’s wearing the same navy bobble hat I’ve seen him in for the past week.

“James.”

The flush to his cheeks makes me smile because it means he was late in getting up too and the chocolate bar he’s midway unwrapping is his breakfast. Sandy hair is unkempt and escaping from his headwear, a “fashionable accessory”, rather than something he rushed to wear whilst jogging for class.

“Did you enjoy your run this morning?” I ask on approach.

My tone is mocking, but I’m in no position to doll out verbal gibes.

“It was more of a sprint,” he cheekily grins.

“Is your class now?” I ask

“In a few minutes, I got Kit to save me a seat though. I’m not sitting at the front again.”

He squashes me in a hug, making a point of munching his chocolate in my ear range. Regardless of the ponderings Tiff has placed in my mind, I’m happy to see him. I am. He’s sort of dorky, in a weird I-don’t-care-if-it’s-not-in-season-any-more-I-want-to-wear-my-Christmas-jumper kind of way. There’s an oddly shaped blemish just above the corner of his right eyebrow; a consequence of him succumbing to gravity when he was seven and falling from a tree. I’d gained this information whilst helping him collect dropped stationary up off the library floor. James’s words had run along with his mouth, filling any potential awkward silence before being shushed by irritated people nosing through books. He’s not what I’m used to, there’s no issues to work through, there’s no horrendous skeletons hiding in the closet; and that should come as a comfort to me. But there’s just something yet to click into place.

“Oh, while I’ve got you with me,” James continues, still locking us together. “Do you wanna go out on Saturday?”

He laughs as I squirm away, using his ticklish sides as leverage.

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m going home for the weekend. The manager of the music shop I used to work for phoned me the other day. He said they were desperately in need of someone.”

“That’s not your problem though,” he moans, pulling his hat down further.

“He’s a friend.”

One of James’s mates is beckoning him to hurry up from an open seminar door. The tutor isn’t there yet, but I guess he has about two minutes.

“When will you be back?”

The chocolate bar is finishes and I can feel him slyly slipping the empty wrapper into my back pocket.

“Either Sunday night or Monday morning.”

He heavily sighs, leaning against the wall and puckering his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

“My flatmates are out, thought we could spend the evening at mine.”

The glum expression he wears tells me he’s sincere in disappointment.

I kiss his cheek.

“You know I’m not –“

“Yeah, I know. I wasn’t..” he struggles for words. “I wasn’t thinking anything other than playing a few board games and possibly snogging for a bit.”

“Sure,” I laugh, lightly shoving at his shoulder.

It amuses him as I continue towards the stairs, joining other students and dodging the impatient ones. I feel him follow behind me, apologising for obstructing the route to other users.

“I promise,” James grins after catching up. “But I mean, if you want to play strip scrabble, then I won’t complain.”

I flick the bobble on his hat as he laughs. His tutor passes by on the stairs unnoticed by James, and I fight to keep from giggling. He’s more interested in lightly tugging on my pony tail.

“It’s that your lecturer?” I nod in the direction of the woman almost at the top of the stair well.

“Shit.”

He’s off like a rocket, speeding passed the lady I’d called to his attention. As I descend to the ground floor, I can hear him bellow, “I’m not late! I’m not late!”

***

It’s Friday afternoon and the train journey this morning gave me a much needed opportunity to look over my highlighted readings. I’d frantically gathered papers together before departing from the carriage and waiting for my mum to pick me up outside the station.

I expect to just bundle into the passenger side, but my mum vacates the vehicle before I reach it. She smothers me in a hug that’s been vastly overdue, kissing my forehead and repeatedly telling me how much she’s missed me. I wriggle free and usher her towards the car before the embarrassing tears can begin.

I worry about her a lot, now that she’s on her own. However, I find that the distance makes visits more enjoyable, soaking up the few days a month we have together; there’s no time for the silly arguments that used to ensue when I was permanently at home. It’s nice to have a quiet weekend with my mum before returning to deadlines and presentations.

Yet, this weekend may be more work based than I’d previously thought. With only two other people working the shop floor, I’m stuck up front with pricing and occasionally dealing with tricky customers. My eyes shoot up from my current task of applying sale stickers, to find a man navigating the aisles whilst rummaging through the bag slung over his shoulder.

My attention deviates for a matter of two seconds, but it’s more than enough time for the man to unload the contents of the backpack.

“Hey! We don’t want these here!” I disapprovingly yell after the guy who has just dumped a pile of fliers on the cash desk.

I roll my eyes as he scampers out the door, cleverly avoiding any instance where I might impolitely hand them back to him. A couple of the printed advertisements have fluttered to the floor, carried by the breeze slipping through the open shop door. I sigh before walking around the desk to retrieve them.

Any other time I would have binned them. It’s a rare occurrence for trashy hand-outs to hold my attention. But these ones do. I unfold from bending down, placing the rogue papers with the rest of the pile. The black and white print is cheaper to produce in bulk, and I assume that’s why the colour is drained from the background image of two male fighters; both frozen in position, one about to take a right hook to the face. To the left hand-side a list of surnames are stamped neatly in a column, two per row with a “vs.” wedged between them.

It’s not until I scan the second to last pairing that my hands begin to prickle with sweat.

 “Styles vs. Simmons”

I double check and the letters scorch my mind as I read over it again. My body runs on autopilot as I take off in a sprint towards the door. He’s ready to swing his leg over the motorbike just as I call out.

“Wait!”

It’s with my heart thumping that I stand before the guy who sneakily left the duplicates of the flier I’m accidently crumpling in my hand. He’s not overly tall, with scruffy hair scraped back in an elastic band and a harsh looking beard.

“Look, you can chuck them away if you want, it…” he begins but soon wavers off as I shake my head.

“Is this Harry?”

The piece of paper is held between us, the man squinting as if he’s having trouble reading the bold lettering. When all I receive is a crinkled forehead my index prods at what I’m referring to. He takes the hand-out from me, indulging me in a quick glance.

 “Is his first name, Harry?” I confirm the question with a more encouraging tone.

“Look Love, I don’t know their first names, I just advertise..”

“Is he fighting tonight?” I rudely cut him off the second time in a matter of minutes.

“No.” He shakes his head with a condescending smirk. “What makes you so interested?”

I’m not playing this game with him, not giving him the satisfaction. The way he’s now casually leaning against the side of his bike, assures me of his desire to have me hanging on his every word.

I’m not a fool, and I repeat that to myself as I turn to walk away.

 “He’ll be fighting tomorrow,” he calls out. “You should come along and see if it’s the Styles you’re looking for. I’ll even buy you a drink,” he winks.

“Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable of buying my own drinks.

I watch in amusement as he dramatically clutches at his chest.

“Way to shoot me down, Beautiful.”

The undesired pet name hardens my exterior, taking quick strides back towards the shop.

***

“Mum, I’m going out,” I inform her, collecting my jacket from the rack.

She’s sat with a friend from work on the sofa. Another bottle of wine has magically appeared, the contents drained by half. A trashy rom-com plays unnoticed on the TV as they chat mindlessly about the new doctor on shift the previous evening.

“Where are you going?”

She smiles, cheeks pink with the alcohol and I know she’s very much settled for the night. There’s more than a good possibility the tin of chocolates hidden in the kitchen will come out after I’ve left. It’s my mum that will stuff the empty wrappers back in the container instead of putting them in the bin. And it’s also more than likely that she’ll deny the nuisance behaviour.

“I’m going to see a match.”

My coat is on, collecting the car keys from the side table. I push back the length of my fringe and collect the braid I’ve just plaited to sweep over my shoulder.

“A football match?”

I rush to the door before answering her question, using lateness as an excuse and calling my goodbyes, falling out the front door a few seconds later.

***

I give the folded flier another fretful glance, clutching the paper tighter. Night had descended upon my journey a little after I’d left the house. It was further than I’d thought, a good forty minute drive.  I’d parked the car across road, gathering my valour to exit the vehicle and walk to the opposite pavement.

It’s a pretty rundown area, police sirens on continuous loop in the background. The building looks unassuming from the outside; all on ground level, flashing signs hammered to the external wall advertising free pool. It’s not somewhere my friends and I would frequent as the company lingering around three parked up motorcycles look like they could eat me for breakfast. I’m on my own and out of my depth.

Nevertheless, I proceed to make headway and bravely walk straight towards the solid looking bouncer on the door. I’m jeered at by the line of people waiting to give an admission fee, a line I’ve ignored, which possibly wasn’t the best idea.

“Excuse me.”

My politeness holds no concern to him as he stamps another woman’s hand. I stand taller in hope that he’ll commend me for remaining persistent.

“Are you sure you’re in the right place, love?”

I briefly scan the queue and it only confirms just how out of place I must look to him. My plan was to ask him about the ‘Styles’ on the list of names I’m still in possession of. But it’s clear I’m going to have to use a different approach.

“Is this legal?”

My question definitely catches his attention, the safety of his job and the future of the establishment could be in jeopardy for all he knows. I have no intention of reporting the place, but he’s not going to take that chance. I have to suppress the grin forming as he quietly converses with another man on the inside of the door, holding up the line and gesturing rather rudely to me.

“Go in,” he cuttingly instructs.

“Don’t I need to pay?” I ask sweetly.

“It’s fine,” he almost spits. “Mack will take you inside.”

I offer him a cheerful “thank you”, to which he snarls and allows me passed. A man in ripped jeans and plaid shirt greets me, smiling unconvincingly, the nerves bubbling to the surface.

“I have all the paperwork,” he says, moving with me as I walk. “This business is completely legit.”

“Sure,” I smile.

“I mean, there’s a couple of bets placed on the matches, but that’s nothing to do with us.”

I have no doubt that what they do here is something they’d rather not have the police sniffing at. They’ve taken a risk with advertising, but by the amount of people waiting outside to get in, it’s a risk that’s paid off.

“Would you like a drink? On the house. I can get you a good spot to watch, right down the front,” he rambles at me, nodding his head in encouragement.

I’d rejected Mack’s offer of a drink, and somewhat difficultly convinced him that a stool at the back would suit me just fine. He’d ceased in his attempts of buttering me up, becoming aware that I wasn’t really interested in the perks. “Just let me sit in on a match or two”, I’d asked, a request he was more than willing to grant me in hopes that I’d keep my mouth shut about the illegality of club’s business.  

Mack takes up residence on the seat beside me, the atmosphere a little stifling as more people continue to crowd in. There’s a makeshift ring in the centre of the vast floor, raised slightly and roped off. It seems a little armature to me, having witnessed other boxing matches in proper regulation rings. This place doesn’t compare, but I’m pretty sure people aren’t here for refined entertainment; and most of them won’t know the difference by the way alcohol is being necked back.

The lighting makes the place look even dirtier, gloomy in corners where light bulbs have failed to be replaced. I stretch back, hanging my coat over the back of my high stool and turning around before Mack excitedly grins, leaning in.

“The next match is about to start,” he voices over the noise.

His next words are carried away with the vigorous cheering. It doesn’t seem to matter though, because Mack has jumped up beside me, his shouted support accompanied by a fist pump that I have to laugh at. It’s not until I’m up and peering over people’s heads that the scene settles. Harry’s here. Well, at least I think he’s here, and I feel almost ashamed that he’s ignorant to my presence. I’m prying into his life, ripping the veil away and meddling in something that I’m clearly not supposed to be a part of. I shouldn’t be here.

My reasoning forces me to begin collecting my things in order to slip away unnoticed. It’s with my heart in my mouth, and fingers gripping my coat that the back door by the bar opens. The action of rising upon my toes is easy and apparently automatic. My mind is in a frenzy of conflicting thoughts, but it appears my body knows exactly what it wants. And it’s disappointment that overcomes my being as an unfamiliar man steps out first.

I draw away from the idea of a quick escape, instead watching as excitement washes the room, pumping the fighter up to spring on his feet. He’s clapped on the back by thirsty onlookers, moving towards the dilapidated ring to be introduced properly. Simmons.

He rolls his broad shoulders, stretching out the defined muscles in his back. Clad only in a pair of shorts, bare foot and grinning, he’s the prime example of over eager youngster. Bets are continuously being placed right up until the announcer gestures for quiet over the mic.

 “Be upstanding for our reigning, undefeated champion…Styles!”

I capture breath, willing my composure not to disintegrate before I even get a chance to confirm the identity of the “champion”. Seconds tick and I try to remind myself that it might not be him, don’t build this up, don’t push it.

My pulse thunders in anticipation, vision not straying from the back door.

Harry.

It’s him. The seat catches me as I duck down, terrified of being spotted, but he hasn’t charged his way through the crowd at me so I deem it safe to have another peek above heads in front. He’s parted the ropes and climbed into the ring. It doesn’t surprise me to find Harry’s not taken in by the roar of the audience, unlike his competitor, who had socked up the applause. Instead, he plays with a smug smile, the expression visible to me even under the questionable lighting and distance between us.

Mack’s still whooping beside me and it’s clear to see some of the female spectators give Harry more than a quick glance over as he drops his hood and unzips the black clothing. The material falls over his wide shoulders and skirts down his arms. I’m unconcerned about where he chooses to discard it because there’s more pressing matters widening my eyes.

I was primed to see him, that thought had kept me awake most of the previous night. But I was completely unprepared for the harsh, black print of tattoos hugging down the entire expanse of his left arm. I swallow back my disbelief, tracing my eyes over the intimate script on his cut hip. I’m too far away to identify singular tattoos, they all lace together into an abrasive combination. He doesn’t look like my Harry any more.

My scrutiny is cut short as the beginning of the fight is counted down and his opponent launches at Harry. I’ve been in this position before, worried sick and forced to watch as two men battle it out for victory. The volume of the crowd ceases to let up as Harry blocks a fist before retaliating with a swing of his own.

I frown, puzzlement setting in as I track the movement of blurry arms. There’s no gloves, and I swiftly come to the conclusion that this is far from the strictness of boxing as Harry’s knee juts up and impacts the man’s ribs. The only support given is the black strapping wrapped around his knuckles.

“This isn’t boxing!” I yell at Mack.

The thumping of my heart seems to keep time with the blows Harry’s fists produce.

 “It’s a dirty fight, there aren’t any rules. It makes for better entertainment.”

He beams in exhilaration, gesturing to the audience who are thriving on the beat down they’ve most likely betted on. I know Harry’s well accustomed to fighting without gloves, he’s just as lethal, if not more, without them. The knowledge doesn’t stop me from wincing as Harry takes a sharp kick to his right hip.

“You rooting for Styles? Don’t worry, he knows he has to make it last,” Mack nods in reassurance. “Entertainment. And maybe there’s some extra money in it for him.”

He’s laughing as attention turns back to where Harry’s dodged another left hook. He’s just as fast, just as well versed and comfortable in this setting as he’d been when watching him box. It’s the power and ferocity behind every well timed move that makes him look almost animalistic now. Harry, but with a sprinkle more recklessness.

His challenger is left wheezing in the ring as Harry suddenly moves away and towards the side. I fret for a horrifying moment that he’s seen me, fear draining as he climbs down and shoves a path through the front row. Mack’s presence has vanished until I spot him desperately trying to reach Harry and a man who I presume has shouted something particularly unkind to the fighter. Whatever it was, he won’t repeat it now that Harry is stood looming over him in threat.

“Say it again and see what happens!” Harry goads in a roar.  

The crowd is becoming restless with the undesired intermission, eager to get back to the fight, but none of them are brave enough to jostle Harry back to the ring. I’m struggling for a good view, using the chair to support my endeavour as anxious perspiration beads my forehead. It’s none of my business, I know that, I’m not going to interfere. The pint glass once held by the man is roughly knocked to the floor, its contents spilling over people standing too close.

“Styles, leave it.”

He ignores Mack’s warning, pressing the man further into the corner. There’s no physical contact, just complete intimidation.

“You need to shut the fuck up,” Harry spits.

Cowardice overcomes the defenceless male, unable to hold Harry’s eye contact.

“Don’t hit a punter, Styles. It’s bad for business.”

The bare foot fighter inches back, allowing Mack to step between and place his hands on Harry’s shoulders. He’s encouraged further away, much to my relief, and now the huge room trades its bellowing support for almost complete silence.

“Turn around and finish the fight.”

Harry cantankerously bats Mack’s hands away. I’m not close enough to see his face properly, but people more than willingly part for him to journey back to the ring, so I presume it’s more than just a scowl.

Back between the ropes, my hand clamps over my mouth, hiding my frightful inhale of sympathy for the other young fighter. He’s clutching his abdomen and staring at Harry in horror as he chillingly approaches. The entire room can predict what’s coming next, and with a sickening crack of Harry’s fist to the poor boy’s face, I know he’s not the Harry I left behind.

“KNOCKOUT!”