Bad Boy, Good Boy (boyxboy)

2 - hello old friend, my nemesis

A/N: Okay, I know I sound desperate, but please read Ugly Boy too. (sometimes it's OK to sound desperate, right?)  Now, back to this. New chapter. New characters. And I'm very-very excited to hear your opinion on these new characters. (I know you're missing the old ones too, same here. they haven't disappeared anywhere, they will show up eventually)
Oh, and thank you @BewareOfThorns for voting on every chapter, and then thank you to a couple of people, actually, but unfortunately I have your usernames written in a different notebook which I don't have at the moment, so you're going to have to wait a little for a personal thank you note. 

votes and comments, pretty please

Happy reading x)

Chapter 2 – hello old friend, my nemesis

An old construction site. That's where he's waiting for me.

This sounds awfully like some horror film. Or a hitman film. Did I upset someone important?

Marcus is leaning against his car. He spreads his arms, and says "Ta-da."

I'm frowning. "Is this your idea of fun?" Standing in a deserted site.

He rolls his eyes and pushes away from his car. "A fight," he says and stops me. "You won't be participating–" He exhales. "–but Nolan will."

Say what?

My fingers curl. "No, he won't."

Marcus snorts, and crosses his arms. "He told me he wanted to," he says and shrugs. "I don't think it's up to you to decide."

I run my hand through my hair. I should've washed it.

"Boyfriend, not owner," Marcus goes on.

I bite on my thumb, then lower my hand. "Here?" I ask, trying to maintain control over my emotions, but it's difficult. Nolan said nothing about the fight and we were together yesterday. Why did he keep this from me?

Calm down, I think. Just because he didn't mention it, doesn't mean he was keeping this from me.

"You're not ready yet," Marcus explains and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans. A habit he has. "But Nolan is. And of course you're invited because he wants you to be here. Not to see the damage, but for your support."

The taste on my tongue is vile. Bitter. Disgusting. I drop my head. "I guess," I say.

I'm not ready. I've never fought for money, only for fun. Or out of necessity.

"But I need your help setting it up," he says and nudges me. "My fr– the people I know are coming too. I'll introduce you. Farley and Tom."

"What kind of a name is Farley?" I frown.

He chuckles, turning on his heel. "Surname," he says. "We don't call him by his first name."

We walk to his car and he opens the trunk.

Everything set for a gamble is there. Loudspeakers, a metal box (looks like a lunchbox) for the money (or the bets – would be correct to say), and sixpacks of beer. "Not for us," Marcus clarifies. "The winners like to drink. Even the losers."

"But–" he says. "What I would like you to do..." he takes out neon pink wristbands. "...is to put these on our fighters. So everyone will know who'll be in the ring. So they'll know who to bet on, or who to bet against."