The Suicidal Peanut

Chapter 1-2

Welcome to Grangefields Boxing and Martial Arts Gym.

This gym operates a strict no-harassment policy. Any student found using or displaying sexist, homophobic, racist, transphobic or ableist language or attitudes will be excluded with immediate effect.

All visitors must sign in at reception upon arrival.

If this door is locked between 8 A.M. and 7 P.M., ring bell at bottom of stairs.

Not that the bell worked. Or the door was locked between those hours. Or ever, really.

Grangefields was the enormous roof space of a converted warehouse, a mechanics’ garage underneath, and the roof space split into two-thirds for the gym, and the remaining third for the flat. The entire top floor was owned by Tab’s Uncle Eddie, but though Eddie ran the gym, Aunt JuliKate ran the flat. With an iron fist, decorated in ugly rings.

Tab had come to live with Uncle Eddie (and by default Aunt JuliKate) when he’d been accepted at the arts college. He’d escaped Loonyville, Mumshire (seriously, Mum had changed her name to Serenity Moonchild and used to go out on the full moon to dance naked around rocks and s**t) to move in with Uncle Eddie, and not being woken at one in the morning to have his dreams analysed or join in an impromptu séance was a small price to pay for working in the gym. That had been Uncle Eddie’s offer. Man the reception desk, help out with the cleaning in the evening, and have a rent-free room in the flat.

And, really, what other choice had Tab had? He’d been only just sixteen, and Mum was…gone, really. The other option had been Nana, or some kind of scabby youth hostel for kids coming out of care, and f**k that, pardon his Klingon. So Uncle Eddie and the job it had been.

Tab didn’t really mind. The boxing students didn’t hang about and bother him, so he got to sit behind the desk and draw.

The door at the top of the stairs opened into a little lobby with a reception desk, walls covered in posters and framed awards, and a couple of sofas clustered in a corner, usually used by those who drove to the gym and needed to recover after one of Marcus’ bagwork classes. Off the lobby sprouted the changing rooms, the weights room, the training room, and the bag room. Tab was yet to work out why a boxing gym needed so many rooms, but then he’d rather visit the dentist for a root canal than box. Tab didn’t do contact sports. Or any sports more tiring than darts, really. Or darts. Darts involved pointy things…

It was Wednesday; the intermediate class was due to start in half an hour, so Tab went straight into the lobby rather than return to the flat. It was empty. Uncle Eddie was still finishing off with the beginners, and none of the intermediates had arrived—and Tab wasn’t going to risk missing them.

He was in the intermediate class.

If Tab liked going to art college and living with his (slightly) more sane aunt and uncle, then—actually—he loved his job. Not for the job itself. The job was boring, in all honesty. Uncle Eddie hated doing ‘that mundane crap’ and when Aunt JuliKate had started hormone replacement therapy, it had made her pretty sick for ages, so Tab had been given her old duties, pretty much. Which involved, ninety percent of the time, sitting behind a desk staring at the wall.

But he loved it. Because, not ten minutes after Tab arrived, he walked in.

Tab was tuned to this: the clink of the door as a boy with a black sports bag, dark blue jeans, and a zipped-up hooded sweatshirt ambled into the gym, pausing long enough to etch his signature onto the attendance sheet on the front desk, and then banging through to the changing rooms and totally ignoring Tab in the process.

Him.

He had no name. Tab didn’t know his name, and giving him one seemed sacrilege. His name, whatever it was, would be perfect, and maybe just a little bit exotic, because he looked vaguely Italian (stocky and dark hair and eyebrows, though he shaved his head and he wasn’t greasy). But anyway. It wasn’t like they were ever going to talk. He might be the most gorgeous guy Tab had ever seen, and Tab most definitely had a crush a thousand miles wide on him, but…

But, well. Look at him. He was obviously, totally, one hundred percent, holy-s**t-heterosexual, and given that he was like eighteen and an intermediate-level boxer and came to the extra fitness and bagwork classes on Thursday evenings, Tab was pretty sure that the mystery stunner could also kill people with his face. Especially gay people who had crushes on him.

It was one of those…boy-meets-boy-who-is-totally-going-to-kill-him-if-he-finds-out kind of things. Only without the happy ending, because, sadly, there wasn’t a God of Turning People Gay.

So Tab never asked. He kept it quiet, and didn’t breathe a single word of his crush, no matter how tempting it was. No matter how much he dreamed, and prayed to his gods, and hoped. A futile hope, but he did it anyway.

It never stopped Tab looking though. Or dreaming. Because he was stunning. Tab had seen him in boxing shorts and gloves and nothing else, and that was the stuff dreams (all varieties) were made of. A six-pack, but so lightly defined and wiry that he didn’t look bulked out until he lashed out. Shaved-down hair and slightly wild dark eyebrows that were always raised with the fists, giving him this totally ‘come at me, bro’ face, and a legit one, because Tab had watched him fight, too, and it was brutal. A long nose, but not sticking out; it had been broken in the middle, but not bent; a mouth crooked in a gorgeous kind of way, wide and messy, like he’d have a killer smile if he wanted to, and an oval face that was both steely and yielding. No square jaw or buttcrack-chin on him, no way. He was perfect.

(Tab had been icily informed by JuliKate that the boy in question was, in fact, just another kid getting his face smashed in by treated leather, but what the hell did JuliKate know?)

Okay, so he wasn’t very tall (maybe five eight, way shorter than Uncle Eddie) but he was fast and lethal and had probably won professional matches and everything, Tab was sure of it. And he had cheekbones that could cut glass, and probably people’s faces. Between the cheekbones and the eyebrows, the ‘come at me, bro’ face was common, and sometimes accompanied by the ‘oh really?’ face and the ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing’ face, and all three were horribly kissable. And the week Tab had arrived, he’d gotten concussed and Tab had had to hold an ice pack on his head until a paramedic arrived, and he had these beautiful green eyes that were flecked with little specks of gold and brown and…

So maybe Aunt JuliKate had a point when she said Tab ‘mooned’ over ‘that short lad in the middle group.’ But so what? It wasn’t like Tab was ever going to get anywhere with his mooning. The gayest things about the object of said mooning were those cheekbones. And maybe those amazing dark eyelashes around those eyes. And that was it. He probably beat up gay people for shits and giggles in his down time. He was not, never could be, and never would be gay.

End. Of. Story.

So Tab had never so much as said hi. The odd time he had nodded at Tab, Tab’s heart had exploded and he’d tried to hide under the desk. They’d never talked, and they were never going to, because between the fact that the God of Public Appearances hated Tab, and the God of Looking Cool In Front Of Your Crushes (and let’s lump the Luck God in there as well, because he was an arse too, as Tab never had any luck) thought it was funny to toy with him…

In short, Tab was never, ever, ever going to get beyond even the vaguest fantasies about The Gorgeous Maybe-Italian Boxer.

But he was going to draw the boxer for the portraiture assignment. Even if—and it would—it spelled certain death.