Raw (Raw Instinct Book 1) Read online

  RAW

  Book 1

  In the Raw Instinct series

  Lee Quail

  Lee Quail currently resides in South Africa where he has a full-time position with a worldwide media company.

  RAW is his second MM novel.

  Gideon (2018)

  MM Dystopian Thriller

  RAW (2019)

  MM Sports Romance

  RAW

  All Rights Reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 Lee Quail

  The author has asserted his moral right

  as the sole author of this work.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored, transmitted, recorded or distributed by any means without the written consent of the author in whose name copyright exists. This includes photocopy,

  e-book, or any form of binding. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover images courtesy of 123RF

  Cover designed by Lee Quail

  Set in Times New Roman 12pt

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  ASIN: B07RN4P6FL

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Boxing is one of the many sports where there still exists a certain stigma attached to being gay. Only a handful of professional boxers have come out but most prefer to live their gay lives secretly for fear of discrimination. Those who have conquered that stigma include Al Brown, Freddie Mills and Welterweight champion Emile Griffith, who won six world titles and also killed a man in the ring.

  “I keep thinking how strange it is; I kill a man and most people understand and forgive me. However, I love a man and many say this makes me an evil person.” – Emile Griffith

  Boxing is, as one commentator put it, “a man’s sport”. There exists the very real and tragic threat of dying in the ring, or permanent brain damage. More than 230 boxers died in the 1920s and 103 in the 2000s.

  In Memoriam:

  Michael Norgrove “The Zambesi Hitman” (British) 6 April, 2013

  Frankie Leal “The Little Soldier” (Mexico) 23 October 2013

  Davie Brown (Australia) 14 September 2015

  Scott Westgarth (British) February 2018

  Roman Simakov (Russian) 8 December 2011

  Magomed Abdulsalanov (Russian) is still in a coma after his fight in Madison Square Gardens in November 2013.

  DISCLAIMER

  The author has claimed his right to use the Oxford University Style Guide during the writing of this story. Spelling and comma placement will be different to the Chicago Manual of Style.

  Raw has been written in the third-person omniscient point of view. A method of storytelling in which the narrator knows the thoughts and feelings of all the characters in the story.

  DEDICATION

  In memory of Diana Engela –

  this special love story is for you dearest angel,

  and

  for my husband, the dream has just begun.

  Amateur boxer, Rawson Curisco isn't out of the closet, he's the kind of guy who gets his tricks in cruise bars and nightclubs. He's the guy who takes you home for a night and forgets your name. But, life as he knows it, screeches to a halt when he meets uber-sexy, ex-boxer Edward Canton, who has other ideas. Raw's base is his father's boxing gym, and when Edward joins, Raw's world is turned upside down much like a rogue wave capsizes a ship in deep water. When the gym starts failing financially, both boxers team up to save themselves and the gym. A tragic episode in Edward's life prevents him from moving forward, an incident so devastating he refuses to awaken it, while Raw continues his quest to boxing greatness, knowing that any fight could be his last . Their secrets are heavy burdens, but what are they worth when the only difference between winning and losing is when the purse holds your heart?

  1

  Exhausted and bloodied, Raw staggered towards his corner where he frantically removed his mouth-guard. Someone slipped a bottle of water with a straw into his mouth and shouted, “Drink.” The voice echoed through his brain and his vision blurred like the background on a photograph.

  “Vaseline! Vaseline! Where’s my goddamn cutman!”

  In an instant, the team’s cutman appeared, cleaned the blood from the wound above Raw’s eye and lips then quickly applied petroleum jelly mixed with a coagulant to stop the bleeding. He gently rubbed the mixture to the boxer’s nose, eyebrows, jawbone and cheeks.

  Finally, Raw’s vision came into sharp focus. His father, Roberto Curisco, on his knees in front of him, wide-eyed and anxious, shouted above the noise of the crowd, “You can do this, Rawson! Get onto your feet and wait for the right moment. You’ll see the moment in his eyes. Use what I taught you. Get rid of him!”

  He hated the name Rawson.

  Someone shoved another bottle of water into his hands and he tipped the water over his head. Exhausted and battered, adrenaline raced through his body, blocking the pain to the cuts on his face and the wear on his cardiovascular system, not to mention the concussive blows to his head.

  “Left hook punch to the jaw!” Curisco spat the words out. “You had one year to perfect it. The moment he lets you in, blast him out like I showed you. You got this! Do it!”

  The left hook punch.

  Unnatural.

  Deadly.

  Raw had practiced it during shadowboxing; used it on hand pads, heavy bags, and double-end bags.

  It was now, in this round, or never.

  Curisco got to his feet. “One more round, big man. One more round and you’ll have this in your pocket.”

  The bell rang.

  “Round 4!” A sexy, suave woman in a bikini paraded around the ring, holding the Round 4 sign high above her head.

  Raw danced around his opponent waiting for the opportunity. Like a fearless weapon of destruction, his opponent rushed in, pounding his fists into Raw’s stomach, until they clinched.

  “Break!” The referee separated them with a stern warning.

  “Fight!”

  Raw should have taken advantage right there and then.

  Instead, he hesitated.

  Every now and then, a punch lands with the sound of a car crash, and makes you legitimately hope the other guy gets up in one piece.

  With over a minute gone in round four, Raw’s opponent connected with a left hand to his jaw, landing with one of the more sickening thuds you'll hear inside a boxing ring.

  Raw crumpled to the mat in such a lifeless and disturbing manner, everyone watching held their breath in the hopes he would be okay.

  ***

  Raw woke up in the hospital with a sweet perfume attacking his senses from the bouquet of yellow roses on the cabinet beside his bed. His father, by his side, holding his hand, stared at his bruised and swollen face.

  “Sorry.”

  Curisco shook his head. “Sorry? What you sorry for?” He said in a fluent English/Italian accent. “You cannot win all the time. We’ll have to change our endgame. Next time, we’ll win.”

  “I feel totally pounded.”

  Raw’s words caught Curisco completely off guard. “I’ve never heard you say such a thing. What do you mean?”

  “I’m tired.”

  On the odd occasion, Raw had lost fights but he always came back eager to go into battle again. He loved the ring. He shook his head as if mourning the loss of a loved one. “I’ve had enough, Dad. I can’t anymore. I’m tired.”

  “No such thing as can’t. We’ll talk about this when you’re better and thinking like a boxer.”

  Raw didn’t have the energy to argue about how he felt inside, or the frequent headaches rendering him helpless and disoriented.
His soul wanted to fight on, but his heart had other plans. It would take time to explain.

  He nodded weakly. “Sure thing.” And closed his eyes.

  ***

  Raw had spent his youth in boxing rings. Curisco taught him the basics of self-defence; karate, judo, Tai Kwando and kickboxing, but his Zen lay in boxing. He would make up any silly excuse to watch his dad box. His passion for boxing started to shine as a teenager and Curisco taught him to plan every jab, right and left hook, uppercut and knockout. All controlled - even the adrenalin.

  He had no time for romance. He had wet dreams. Lots of them. At first, it bothered him, not the sticky wetness, but the dream itself. He was always with another man. Never a woman. This was his secret, one he was loathe to reveal. With romance out of play, he devoted all his time to perfecting his body and by the age of 21 had developed a perfect masculine physique.

  His nose had been broken in several places. Washboard abs took a beating in every fight. His short, brown hair, parted across the left temple, never grew an inch further than his neckline.

  Now, at the age of 26, with 13 winning fights behind him, he felt it was time to call it a day.

  He could become a boxing coach; at least he’d earn some money. A minimalist by nature, he needed a roof overhead, a chair, bed, TV, and food to survive. He could become a motivational speaker, explaining how the rules of boxing could help students and even businessmen make a success of their dreams.

  Did he want the same life as he had now? A life without fulfilment? A vulnerable life? One without direction? One without romance? A life where the only thing he knew was his father’s gym and boxing?

  In a world where men lived by their choices, he had other options.

  He didn’t see or hear his visitor enter until she touched his hand.

  “Are you awake?”

  Startled by her touch, he opened his eyes. “Angie.”

  Angelica Freeman leaned across the bed and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Hell of a fight.”

  “What can I say, win some lose some.”

  Beside her stood a man whom Raw had never seen. Tall and muscular, with an angular face and a short, well-kept, five-day shadow. He wore a white t-shirt and a pair of loose, faded denims. The buckle of his belt showed a silver Rhino horn pointing south. A tattoo of a yellow rose protruded from his shirt up his neck, and his arms were a gallery of impeccably designed tattoos, rich in colour and absolutely hypnotic. He carried a bunch of white chrysanthemums wrapped in newspaper and gazed directly into Raw’s bruised, hazel-brown eyes.

  Raw’s heart skipped a beat. He floated high above his bed as if in a dream. “Who are you?”

  “Edward Canton. Pleased to meet you.” A husky quality percolated in Edward’s voice with a gentle, breathy quality. He stepped forward and extended a hand, but Raw refrained, his body far too painful to reciprocate. Embarrassed, Edward withdrew and stood behind Angie.

  “Edward used to fight,” Angie said.

  “I watched the fight.” Edward came out from behind her. “You have a mean punch.”

  “I’m not asking for your opinion.”

  With Raw, one never knew when the bitch would out. Even if Edward looked like a god, smelled like grass after rain, or even had a pregnant bank account, Raw would never show his vulnerability. Not to a stranger and least of all to such a good-looking stranger.

  Angie saved the moment. “Oh, Edward darling, won’t you be a star and ask one of the nurses for a glass or jug of water for those flowers.”

  Edward nodded and backed out of the room, shoulders hunched.

  “Did you see the buckle on his belt?” Raw said, eyes wide.

  “Edward’s dress sense is impeccable. He collects and wears vintage male clothes from the 1920s, 1930s and 1940s,” she whispered.

  “And he’s into boxing?” Raw rolled his eyes.

  “He’s into a lot of things. Clothes, landscaping, fine music. Men mostly. What do you think?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Edward, silly. Do you like him?”

  Angelica believed in instalove and expected people to fall all over each other within minutes of meeting.

  “He looks okay.” Indifference played out like a thief robbing him of his true feelings. He had noticed the sparkling blue, warm searching eyes, as though everything Edward gazed upon had a story to tell. The body, lean, muscular and yearning to be touched in all the right places. His strong legs, and chiselled face. The golden hair combed back and puffed up in the front like James Dean. Michelangelo had sculptured this man to perfection, not to mention those wonderful tattoos.

  He had noticed but kept it all to his vulnerable self.

  “A sweet catch, darling. You should get to know him.” Angie smoothed out the sheet covering him.

  “Stop! Angie. Stop! Stop trying to pair me up with people, especially ones I don’t know.”

  Angie’s face turned serious. She hated seeing Raw alone. She had told him if he ever did find someone, it would be the happiest day of her life.

  “No, darling. You stop. It’s about time you focussed on your love life. You’ve managed to lose two fights in a row. You get more and more depressed with each passing day. It’s high time you found a guy and if you don’t, I’ll find one for you.”

  “You should stick to knitting instead of interfering in my love life.”

  “Oh, that’s nasty, Raw. Just nasty.”

  Edward returned carrying a jug with each flower perfectly arranged. He placed it on the rolling table at the foot of Raw’s bed. “Sorry I took so long. First, they had to find a jug and then nature called. I may have arranged the flowers a little…”

  Angie took Edward’s hand and led him to the door. “We were just leaving, Edward. Think about what I said, Raw. Phone me to pick you up when you’re done here.”

  Edward turned and coyly waved a snappy goodbye, but Raw ignored him, instead, he stared out the window into the garden courtyard.

  One thing Angie said echoed through his mind like a shout echoing across mountain peaks: Focus on your love life…losing fights…depression…

  2

  Romance.

  The only thing Edward lacked in his busy life. In fact, he tried too damned hard.

  Date Your Man, an online gay dating agency, had become his best friend. Over the last few months, he’d dated a hairstylist, a doctor, a professor, and a car salesman. All landed up in the air. Nowhere. The professor and the hairstylist were honest; they played the field and were not the marrying kind.

  Two months ago he met Peter.

  A guy with the voice of an angel and a looker too. Peter absolutely and positively had the same aspirations as himself; marriage, lots of sex, and adopt two kids at the right time. Edward had planned tonight’s dinner for over a month and tonight he’d tell Peter how he felt, ask him to be his boyfriend and confidant. Tonight he planned to have sex; a long time overdue.

  17.00

  Edward: Looking forward to tonight. Can’t wait to see you.

  Peter: See you in two and a half hours.

  Edward: You into vegetarian?

  Peter: Depends on the company. LOL.

  17.30

  Edward: Can’t wait to see you.

  Peter: Me too.

  19.00

  Edward: The door downstairs is open. Walk on in.

  No reply.

  Edward: You there?

  No reply.

  Edward: I’ll be on the balcony.

  19.30

  Edward: Where are you? Miss you already.

  No reply.

  19.45

  Edward: I’m waiting. Dinner is cold. Are you okay?

  No reply

  21.00

  Edward: Guess you’re not coming. We can work this out. Please answer. Talk to me, please.

  No reply.

  If there had been an accident, surely someone would have called. If Peter had changed his mind about the dinner, he could have texted. Night turned to morning and th
e smell of dinner still lingered in the air, faint, but there, dangling like a deflated balloon from a string.

  On his balcony overlooking Zoo Lake, Edward had set up a lonely table with two tall wine glasses throwing a kaleidoscope across the white tablecloth, and yellow roses in a glass vase about ready to wilt. Candles sought a flame. All seemed to personify the agony of waiting. Of not knowing the reason. Of the tears at the end of the world. It felt like the lights going down in a theatre; not knowing what to expect.

  Darkness filled his mind without an immediate support structure to reassure him things would be all right. The old grandfather clock in the hallway struck eight as a struggling winter sun streamed through the large picture windows of the apartment.

  He’d read the messages he’d sent to Peter dozens of times: still, he scrolled with one finger through each of them.

  Suddenly, his phone pinged.

  The vibration in his hand caught him off-guard and the phone slipped but he caught it in time.

  Peter.

  Edward opened the message immediately, and his heart sank.

  Sorry about last night. Truth is I lied. I’m married. Best you move on. Peter.

  Edward shook his head in disbelief.

  He’d wasted two months on this lowlife.

  Two months of rendering naked his soul.

  Of showing him erotic images of himself.

  Texting sweet nothings. Of giving him time.

  He returned a text.

  Why didn’t you say something?

  No Reply.

  He texted again, expecting immediate gratification. But that was it. No more.

  Edward cleared the table; packed away the candles and dumped the wilting rose in the trashcan in the kitchen when his phone rang.

  “Hi, Angie.”

  “Did he sleep over?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you mean?”