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  Then it was my turn on the floor for a week or two, to prove I was just as much the reincarnation of a Spartan soldier as my best bud.

  Our current thing was ice baths. At the moment, the crisp white tub was filled with water chilled to near-hypothermia level with four bags of ice fresh from the gas station.

  I wore nothing except a white towel around my hips. “Ten minutes,” I said, raising my voice loud enough to be heard in the next room.

  “Twelve,” James called back. He was babysitting me in his half-assed way while I took the ice bath, but mostly he was browsing the internet in a lackadaisical pretense of doing research. He was a math major, so he'd probably get away with some subpar survey paper meant to baffle 'em with bullshit. Lucky guy. I tried not to think about what I was going to do about my senior thesis.

  Ice bathing demanded a calm mind and a sense of focus.

  “OK.” It was a dare, and I'm not a guy who backs down from a dare. Anyway, I already knew I could do ten, so maybe that wasn't such a challenge. “Twelve minutes.”

  We keep each other on our toes, James and me. There's a word that goes unspoken between us, and it isn't “gay.” He's straight, and I'm gay, and it is what it is. Not a problem. “Masochist” was the word, and it felt like society had decided it was a negative word. What's a man who can't take a little pain? But you kinda, sorta weren't allowed to seek it out on your own. It was OK to rise to a challenge, though.

  Twelve minutes was going to be painful. There was a knot holding the towel in place, and I unknotted it very slowly.

  Anyway, the ice bath wasn't really an exercise in masochism. It's a proven technique known to speed up the metabolism and help enhance the results of regular weight-training. That's just science, even if it was an English major saying it.

  So here I stood about to speed up my metabolism and test my mental toughness.

  If you could make yourself stay in an ice bath for ten minutes... well, make it twelve minutes... what couldn't you do?

  I dropped the towel.

  “I'm listening,” James called. “Any time now.”

  I splashed into the water with a deliberate stomp, all the better to let him hear me from the other room. It was cold enough to stop a beating heart. I was supposed to close my eyes and dive underwater, and I did, for a minute, before I sat up with a grunt and a splash. My legs were turning blue, and goose pimples the size of goose eggs stood up on my arms.

  My body wanted to jump out of the tub immediately. As in right this second.

  Mind over body. Keep the head and the will in control, not the beast.

  “Eleven minutes.” James, who'd gone through this same test the day before, sounded positively chipper about it.

  Eleven minutes. Every second an individual spike of torture.

  Two minutes is easy, I told myself. Two minutes is nothing. Don't think beyond surviving the next two minutes.

  “Ten minutes,” James called.

  Two minutes down, ten to go. Five times as many minutes as I'd already endured.

  Just getting in is enough. You've proven you can do it. You have nothing to learn from staying in any longer.

  “Nine minutes.”

  Jump out now. Call her done.

  I was fighting my own mind as much as I was fighting the cold.

  Be the chilly-ass bear.

  The polar bear never says, “Fuck it, I've made my point, and now I'm fucking off to Florida.”

  I wriggled my toes. Ouch.

  Were we still on the same minute? This was a very long minute. Is he still counting down? What if he got distracted? What if he wandered off to buy some beer?

  The body—the beast—is very clever at planting doubts in the mind.

  Of course, James would never wander off during an ice bath. That isn't what bros do to each other.

  Then I heard the buzz of voices. Maybe somebody had come in to distract him. This minute was definitely going on for way too long...

  “Eight minutes,” James called.

  “Eight minutes?” The unknown growled the words back at James. “You're going to leave him there for eight more minutes?”

  “Come on, dude,” James said. Not to me, but to the grizzly voice. “We do this all the time.”

  “Fuck this.” A body bigger than the door shouldered its way into the bath. Two big hands grasped me by the shoulders and yanked me right out of the ice water like I weighed fucking nothing.

  “The fuck you doing?” he asked.

  “The fuck you doing?” I might have sounded angrier if my teeth weren't chattering. Somehow, I grabbed the nearest white towel to wrap it around my hips. Nobody needed to see my ice bath 'nads.

  He was already wrapping a bigger, fluffier towel around my shoulders. “Do you have any idea of the potential for cardiac shock from this undergraduate display of machismo?”

  “I, um... it's perfectly safe. My roomie and I, we've been working up to it. Lots of elite athletes do it. You can search YouTube.” I stomped my bare feet on the rug to warm them up. My toes felt like frozen peas that would break off and roll around the floor at any minute, but they were fine. Pain was an illusion. That was the great lesson of ice bath. I could face down pain just fine, fuck you very much.

  Brayden Brent kept wrapping and patting me through the towel. The patting was the move of a man who'd spent a lot of time outdoors in the Gila Mountains in winter—you never rubbed frostbite, you only patted it warm. I guess he was genuinely worried about me.

  “I don't have frostbite.” My teeth were still chattering, but I got the words out.

  He smiled when he realized what he was doing, then forced himself to look stern. “Yeah, you look like you're gonna be fine, but I don't want you performing this stunt on this campus ever again. You understand me, Nicky?”

  Nobody called me “Nicky.” It felt almost like a pet name, especially because of the way he was touching me. My cock stirred under the towel, a natural response to a guy built like him, and I realized it was time to scoot out of his arms.

  “You understand me?” he repeated.

  I must have had brain freeze, because I couldn't think of anything more intelligent to say than, “You're not the dean of students. You're an adjunct, you're not even supposed to be in the residence hall.”

  In other words, I sounded about as mature as a five-year-old saying, “You're not the boss of me.”

  Brayden joined that club of professors who felt a need to roll their eyes toward heaven in my presence. “Sure, I'm allowed. In fact, I'm signed in as your guest.”

  My heart skipped a beat. The blood was already rushing back to some strategic places. My toes curled into the rug and felt like toes again. “But I'm a student.” More brain freeze. There was no real reason he couldn't be my guest, especially since I'd told Dr. Anders I planned to interview him.

  He didn't look away as I pulled both towels more tightly around me. “You're not my student. You've never taken course one in the music department. Besides, you came to me. I want an explanation of what you were doing in my fucking gym. But, first, get some fucking clothes on.”

  Chapter Four

  “An ice bath is a perfectly valid way of speeding up your metabolism,” I said.

  Dr. Brent did not look entertained. “What I should do is whip your tiny ass.”

  By now I had my fucking clothes on. Designer skinnies to show off the shape of the ass in question which is not, I'll have you know, particularly tiny. It's sculpted. Fat-free. But not tiny.

  As for my black mesh shirt, hey, it was a warm evening in May. Practically summer. It wasn't like I thought there was anything datey about this situation, because there wasn't. Not one fucking thing.

  Brayden's choice of bar had turned out to be as skeevy as Brayden's gym. A ceiling fan creaked overhead, its progress apparently impeded by the visible cobwebs. A stringy-haired fat man bent over the pool table to show off his plumber's butt while taking his shot. The dude seemed to have a tramp stamp, but I wasn't inte
rested in taking a closer look.

  I didn't need to be looking too hard at anybody here besides Brayden Brent.

  A pitcher of beer sat between us. I'd somehow gulped a glass already, but Brayden's glass sat untouched.

  The fat man missed his shot and swore. When he stood up, I noticed a tat under his eye which suggested he'd like to be given credit for having killed somebody.

  Yeah, real romantic. The thoughts in my head about the way Brayden's big body felt all over me when he pulled me out of the tub were thoughts I didn't need to be having.

  Dr. Brent, I told myself. Not Brayden. Keep it businesslike.

  “What were you doing at my gym?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Wasn't.” So much for businesslike. I felt as if I lost fifty points off my IQ every time he looked in my direction.

  “You think I don't know what Nicky Kensington's son looks like? You think everybody on this campus doesn't know?”

  Nicky? How was my dad a “Nicky?”

  Not to mention, how was I a “Nicky?” Dr. Brent was making a hell of a lot of assumptions.

  I lifted a single shoulder, then stopped in mid-shrug. There was no point in this reactive shit. Anyway, Brayden probably knew already what I was looking for from the smirky ex. “Well, um, Dr. Brent, you see, my senior thesis is on Fight Club, and everybody knows you run a Fight Club, and I wanted to check it out and maybe do some interviews.”

  When I said those words all in a line real fast like that, it didn't sound like such an outrageous request.

  “The fuck,” he said. “You're gonna sit there and tell me Roy told you that? Because I know damn well he didn't tell you that.”

  Royal Anders was so much not a “Roy” that I almost choked on my beer. Did Brayden have a pet name for everybody? “He denied it right to my face. But everybody knows.”

  “Everybody knows a lot of things that ain't so. Such as the health benefits of taking ice baths.”

  “This is my senior paper,” I said. “If Morrison doesn't accept it, I'm fucked.”

  “And these goings-on in the English department concern me how, exactly?”

  “You're the only one I know to ask. You and... Dr. Anders. And I already know he's not involved anymore.”

  “You sure know a lot for a guy who doesn't know anything.”

  “Everybody knows.” I was saying that too much. Somehow, he had me off-balance. It was the gold in those eyes. I'd never seen eyes that color in a human, only in a bird. And always a wild bird, never a caged one.

  “And what, precisely, does everybody know?” Brayden leaned forward. The golden eyes flashed.

  My cheeks felt hot. Hard to believe I'd been sitting in a bath full of ice cubes less than thirty minutes ago.

  “I, um, well, everybody knows Dr. Anders got a shoulder injury and had to get medical treatment and, I guess that was enough for him and he quit. But he still acts like he's all superior and he knows something the rest of us don't. Like he's proved himself in battle somehow. And, see, that's the whole question I'm exploring. Is Fight Club still relevant to a generation where you can just join the Army and test yourself in a real war? The whole point of the novel is these guys had no war to fight. Palahniuk even says it in there somewhere about how that generation didn't have a war or a depression. It's about guys who can't tolerate peace and prosperity because they need something to fight for.”

  I could have said more about gay subtext in a book by a guy who wasn't out when he wrote it, but then I realized I shouldn't have babbled on as much I had already. It was too many words. Brayden had folded his muscular arms over his chest. Eagle eyes never blink.

  “And you think I know something about that,” he said after a moment. “About being some purposeless dude without a real battle to fight, so I make it all up. And you want to play tourist and check out our pathology and then write it up for your senior thesis.”

  Fuck. When he put it like that, it did sound kind of awful. Not to mention, I was probably asking for a major violation of rule number one and two of Fight Club. That whole you're not supposed to talk about it thing.

  “I didn't mean it like that.” My voice sounded lame in my own ears. “I, um, you know, original research, personal interviews...”

  Brayden was already pushing out of the booth. “Here's the thing, Nicholas. None of this is what you think it is. Nobody cares about your research. Nobody cares about whether you graduate on time. Nobody gives a fuck about Nicholas fucking Kensington the Second's spoiled child of a son. Our business is our business, and it's going to remain our business.”

  He walked away. Boom. Just like that.

  He hadn't taken a single sip of the beer in front of him. Who does that? Who has the willpower to stare down a beer that's already poured?

  I thought about letting him go. Chasing him down was a weak move. I knew that. On the other hand, giving up was a weak move too. Sometimes, you can't win, so you might as well do what you feel. I tossed a twenty on the table and caught up with him outside.

  There was a dirty yellow light casting strange shadows in the dark parking lot.

  “Hey, I'm not afraid to fight,” I said. “I'm no fucking tourist. I'll fight you right now if that's what you want.”

  A couple, three guys had somehow collected to watch. Brayden could deny it all he wanted, but everybody knew what he was all about, so I didn't get the pretense. Still, he kept on laughing and, more important, he still had his arms folded in front of his chest. I don't care how much he trained, that shit was going to slow him down.

  I could recognize a shitty attitude when I saw it. I had a lot of practice from looking in the mirror.

  “I'm not going to knock you down unprovoked, but you say the word, and I'll do it,” I said. “I'm challenging you right here, right now.”

  “You, Nicholas Kensington the Third, you have the audacity to challenge me to a duel.” Brayden couldn't stop laughing. “That's actually kind of... cute.”

  I am not fucking cute. I am one hundred eighty-two pounds of highly trained muscle. “If I knock you down, you have to let me join the club.”

  “You're not making the rules here, Nicky.”

  “Come on, man,” said someone in the peanut gallery. “Is this a bar fight, or is it a meeting of the Debate Team?”

  “These college boys really bring down the tone of the place,” said his buddy.

  That smirk was crying out to be wiped off Brayden's face. There was a slight bruise along his jaw—the aftermath of the sparring session. I should feel bad about that but, instead, I narrowed my eyes to make a mental note of exactly where the weak point was.

  “Debate Team,” said a third lookyloo. “Couple of wussies. I'm bored. Let's go back in.”

  Nobody moved. I only knew that because there was no motion out of the corner of my eyes. My gaze was locked absolutely on Brayden.

  “So you're the wuss here,” I said. “You're the one afraid of a fight. There's no club, there's no nothing. You're nothing but a big ole ball of hot air.”

  “Fine. If you insist. Fine.” He turned his jaw slightly, and now the bruise was left open and exposed. An invitation. A trick, maybe, but I wasn't worried about his trick. I was faster than any guy his size, especially a guy his size who was sloppy from over-confidence. “Go ahead. Do your worst. Throw your punch.”

  I bounced forward on my toes like Muhammad Ali, and the guys in the peanut gallery let out some war whoops, and then I moved in with a right hook to that granite jaw and then...

  A big meaty hand closed around my right wrist. Half a second later, a second big meaty hand was locked around my left wrist. He lifted me off my feet like I weighed nothing.

  How could he move that fast? How could anybody move that fast?

  The crowd went wild, screaming and shouting.

  “Throw him across the parking lot!”

  “Let's see him bounce!”

  Jerks.

  “Show's over, boys,” Brayden said. “If you don't mind, I'm goi
ng take this young man home. He's had a bit too much.”

  Somehow, he was driving my car, and I was letting him do it.

  “I want another chance to fight. On a day when I didn't just do ice bath and a couple of beers.”

  “You have a lot of guts. I'll give you that.” Then he shook his head. “The thing is we're not running a Fight Club in the sense you mean, and I'm not sure how our thing could possibly help you move forward with your paper.”

  “Please. Give me a chance. It would mean so much to me.”

  He'd pulled into the parking lot for the residence hall, but neither of us got out of the car for a moment.

  “You should be careful what you wish for,” he said. “Because you're highly likely to get it.”

  Chapter Five

  Midnight at the gym on the wrong side of the railroad tracks. Two guys played one-on-one night basketball under the jaundice glow of a flickering street light.

  I ignored them, and they ignored me. There was a heavy padlocked chain across the front door. Friendly.

  The city fathers wouldn't have bothered to fund only a single street light. The others had been shot out years ago.

  Phone in hand, I hit the flashlight app and walked around behind the building.

  No parking lot back here. Brayden's Toyota Tacoma was an inky shadow standing tall among waist-high weeds. The interior light was switched off, and the passenger door hung open to welcome me into darkness. I hesitated for a moment.

  Was I sure about this?

  “I want to remind you again that our thing isn't what you think. This isn't a movie, and it won't be about a fair fight.” Brayden's voice was coming from the shadows, a sinister and yet sexy effect.

  I shivered even though it was a warm night. Somewhere a cricket was singing. When I turned my flashlight app to light him up, Brayden was holding something that could only be described as a black leather hood. It had a lot of straps and buckles, the kind of thing you could pull over somebody's head and then buckle down tight.

  A hole for the nose, a hole for the mouth. No holes for the eyes. It looked like something from a bondage porno. I'd be completely blind if I let him put that thing over my head.