I lift the barbell over my chest. Ten. I press it back down, feeling my muscles bulge against the weight. Up again. Eleven. Pounding that barbell. Twelve. Up and down, the sweat runs down my body. I feel powerful. Thirteen. Strength ripples throughout my chest and arms. Fourteen.

I finish my workout and grab a sports drink from the fridge. I practice my American accent at noon, reading back the words from the CD I bought, while eating the finest eggs in town, hand delivered by the chef himself. I pay extra for that kind of service.

At 2 PM, I have basketball practice at the courts and at 3:30, I do some more pushups to tide me over. I eat a steak over at Monty’s and I’m feeling on top of the fucking world. Still, when I look at my phone, there’s no sign of her. She refuses to return my calls.

I know it was her. I just know it.

I grab a bloody mary, to loosen myself up a little. It’s been a full and productive day. Time to take it up a notch. A woman sitting with an older man at the bar keeps looking back at me. By the third time, I have to smile. Hell, if whatever-her-name won’t call me back, I’ll have to keep my options open, right?

I give her a wink and she smiles back, biting her lower lip. She’s some skimpy blonde woman, not typically my type, but I tend to make exceptions. Her man eventually heads to the bathroom and of course, she walks over to say hello. Her ass is almost on my lap, she’s sitting so close.

“I hate to ask,” she says, “But are you Walker Hambell? The boyfriend experience guy?”

Shit. One of those. I frown and take a sip of my drink, wondering how I’m going to answer this. “Never heard of him,” I say.

“Are you sure? My friend loves you,” she says. “She won’t stop talking about a date you two went on.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” I laugh. “Sorry.”

I glance over at the bathroom hall and her boyfriend is leaning against the corner, just staring at us. My heart starts to race faster than normal. “Look over here, sweetie,” she says, placing her hand on my cheek.

I quickly reach into my pocket and put a hundred dollar bill on the table. “Hey, where are you going?” she asks.

I move out of the booth I’m sitting in, headed for the door. “Where you off too, so soon?” the man asks. His voice is grim and tinged with a north London accent.

I ignore him and walk out to my Bentley. I get in, start the engine, and peel out of the parking. The man slowly walks out of the steakhouse, watching as I drive away.

“Fuck!” I scream, pounding my steering wheel. Hawk. He’s found me.

It’s time I face my demons. Back in England, I lived on the worst streets there are. IRA sentiments, young thugs looking for a fight, skinheads on every corner… and then there was me, a young wanker who refused take shit from anybody. I roamed those streets on my own. I took the beatings with pride. Each time I was bludgeoned, I got stronger.

Hawk eventually got to me. He got to every young kid without a home. Not to say I didn’t have a home. I did. Well, somewhat. But it was a small flat with a lonely mother. She couldn’t give me what I needed. The only person that could was Hawk and he knew that.

He took me in. First, he fed me. He gave me the best fucking steak dinner money could buy. “Can you imagine? Eating like this every day of your life?” he asked me. At the time, I couldn’t. I couldn’t imagine eating more than a biscuit and hard-boiled egg for lunch, maybe with a slice of ham on the side.

Soon, he’d give me cigarettes. He’d buy me a cider or two. Sometimes, he’d see me out with my friends and he’d ask, “You really want to hang around lowlifes like them? Why don’t you find better people? You’re destined for greatness.”

Destined for greatness. Well, I liked the sound of that. Deep down, I did feel like I was destined for something bigger than my current standing. I knew I’d get out of England. I’d get away from those cobblestone streets, stained from years of boots and the blood, sweat, and tears from the city’s working class. I knew I wouldn’t end up in one of those factories, destined for a life of drinking in pubs and singing during football matches.

I’d end up in America, like so many others. I’d head out west. I’d feel the sun for once in my life. “Give the people a service,” he’d tell me. “Something unique, but nothing drug related. You don’t want to go down that path, my boy.”

It confused me at the time. What could I do that was unique? I was just a bloke from a poor town and poor mother. My father didn’t even know my bloody name. But women, they took a fancy to me. From the very start, it was the squeezing of my cheeks and the kisses on the tops of my head. “He’s so cute, this little one,” they’d squeal. I knew if they said something like that, I could get something out of them. It meant cookies before dinner. It meant a fiver so I could go to the market and get a little something for myself.

Later in life, it meant loads of fucking cash. Hawk dealt in everything shady. He may have told me to stay away from drugs, but that didn’t mean he did. He was building a little empire for himself and the police turned a blind eye once they got their cut every week. There was Adi, the young bloke from Pakistan. He was a drug runner and he was considered the best. There was Boris from Russia. He dealt in entertainment. Women from Czech. That sort of thing.

There was me. I had charm. Somehow, I always looked and acted like I had class. Hawk didn’t know what to do with me. He’d tell me, “Someday, I’ll have you run this whole thing. You’re the only one I trust over here.”

Eventually, it was obvious I needed to make some money. He sent me to the entertainment clubs with Boris and I saw what they did for money. I couldn’t fathom it. Sex? It was unsettling. Boris didn’t give two shits about it. He laughed at their plight.

As he showed me around the club circuit, I realized the life of the freelancer. I read about the divorce rates in America. I knew about the sad housewife, the woman who lost her husband, and the females who just wanted someone to talk to. That paid twice the price of sex. It was the most unique thing I could think of and it didn’t take that much talent.

Hawk loved the idea. He sent me to the richest country clubs in London. I collected cash from politician’s wives. Fucking Tories even. They confided in me. Soon enough, Hawk became the richest man in the city.

I grew weary and left. I made for the west coast, just like I said I would. No one would find me there. I’d become my own boss and I’d build my own kingdom in the comfort of the sun.

I should have known Hawk would be searching for me. I should have been more careful. Fuck, I shouldn’t have gone by my own name. How stupid am I? It won’t be long before they drag me back. Whatever happens after that is a mystery. Before I go, however, I have one wish. To find that woman and give her everything I have. I want to show her what it’s like to be touched, to be tasted, and to be savored. I want to show her what it’s like to fuck a real man.