Page 1 of Craving the Edge

CHAPTER 1

CHAR

The six a.m. shift always hit the same.

A blast of cold Melbourne air followed the first fighters through the door, carrying the scent of petrichor that did bugger all to cut through the gym’s permanent funk. Stale rubber, liniment, and the sharp tang of disinfectant.

I scanned the barcode on another membership card. The guy on the other side of the counter gave me a clipped nod, his knuckles already wrapped, and moved past my desk towards the heavy bags. The familiar, rhythmic thud of leather on leather started up in the back, joining the clank of iron plates in the weights area.

Unfortunately, the morning’s first fire was already burning on the dog-eared schedule pinned to my battered clipboard. Gary had double-booked the ring for two private sessions. Again. Seriously, that man…

I’d already sorted it, shifting one of the fighters to the pads with a quiet apology he accepted without a fuss because he knew who actually ran this place. No point waiting for an explanation, let alone an apology, from a bloke who was probably still passed out in bed.

Gary treated Fighter’s Edge like his personal garage, a place to hang his hat and sink a few beers in the arvo, not like a business owner with revenue and permits to maintain. I was left to make sure the lights stayed on.

I tracked the bodies moving through the gym. The pros who came in with their heads down and got on with it. The wannabes who paraded about, checking their reflections in the mirrors. I knew them all.

I knew who paid on time, who’d try to talk their way in, and who was nursing an injury they wouldn’t admit to. My fort was this cheap laminate countertop, stacked with clipboards and paperwork that kept the chaos of the floor at a manageable distance.

For four years, I’d been the invisible glue that kept this place from falling apart. I ordered the supplies, paid the bills Gary forgot, and cleaned up the messes he made. I’d built a perfectly oiled machine out of his incompetence. Charlotte ‘Char’ Judge ruled Fighter’s Edge in all but name.

It was the only thing I knew how to rely on.

A rare gap opened between the six thirty and seven o’clock waves. For a moment, the only sound was the low buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead and the distant rumble of a tram on Sydney Road.

My hand found my phone in the pocket of my jeans, a twitch I no longer bothered to fight. I tapped the screen, opening the message thread that never moved from the top of the list. Carla.

A single, unanswered blue bubble of text sat there from two weeks ago. A nothing message. I hadn’t replied, let alone called her…and I didn’t even try to now. I just pressed the tip of my finger to the screen, right over her name. A dull pressure against the glass, checking the bruise to see if it still felt tender. It did.

This was the hole she’d left when I was fifteen, back when I still gave people the benefit of the doubt. It was the final piece of evidence in a case I’d been building my whole life. People always leave when something better comes along.

London was better. A career was better. Anything was better than raggedy Melbourne with its bitter winters and blistering summers.

I glanced around the gym, at the peeling silver on the mirrors and the water stain spreading across the ceiling tiles. This whole operation ran on the same dodgy principle. One unpaid supplier, one missed rent payment, and Gary would vanish just as fast as everyone else. I was just the idiot propping it all up.

I slid the phone across the counter, screen down.

As if it wanted to punctuate my point, the small television bracketed in the corner caught my attention. Grainy CCTV footage showed the moment a guy in a hoodie threw a Molotov cocktail into a tobacco shop in Coburg, before cutting to an image of the shopfront still belching smoke from its busted windows. The reporter mentioned a third underworld firebombing this month in an escalating arson war.

I reached for the remote on the counter. Dickheads everywhere, I thought, shaking my head.

Before I could turn off the sound, the phone on the desk rang. I picked up the receiver. “Fighter’s Edge.”

“Char, it’s Hendo.”

The sound of Gary’s voice triggered a sneer and my shoulders dropped. He had on his sleepy voice, the one that always preceded a logistical nightmare of his creation.

“Morning, Gary.” What I really wanted to say was, you’re never making that stupid nickname happen, Gary.

“Listen, great news. I’ve just landed us some very high-profile clients. We need to look sharp and make sure the gym is in tip top condition. They’ll be starting this Monday.”

I stayed silent, letting him dig his own hole.

“So what I need from you, love, is to clear the decks. The whole morning slot, six til eight. Block it out. No one else is to book for that time, got it? No walk-ins, no favours. Everyone out.”

My fingers tightened around the phone. Four years of colour-coded schedules, of carefully balanced bookings and staggered start times, undone by a single phone call. “The whole slot? Gary, that’s half the day’s takings. The regulars⁠—”

“They can come in later,” he cut in. “This is big. Discretion is the name of the game here, Char. It’s a very sensitive arrangement.”