by Jane Henry
I wave her away. “Tell me more about tonight.”
“There’s a fight in the town centre. Best of the best, they say, and not only do the winners get good money, but Vivian’s promised both fighters choice one of her girls for the night.”
“No kidding?” I ask, blinking to try to clear my mind, but it doesn’t work.
“Dead serious,” she says. I try hard to get her into focus. She’s got the body of a dancer, petite and willowy. In fact, I think she might have been a dancer back in her time. I can’t remember, to be honest, and I’m angry at myself that I can’t remember much about her at all in the moment.
Her short hair is dyed vibrant pink, and it matches the hot pink gloss she’s brushed over her lips.
“You’re pretty,” I murmur. “You look like cotton floss.”
She laughs and rolls her eyes, then playfully reaches down and smacks my cheek.
“Sober up, darling,” she says, and though she’s teasing me and the little smack doesn’t hurt, the seriousness in her eyes does sober me a little. I sit up.
“Tell me more.”
“Now you’re talking. Listen, Vivian owes me a favor, and I mean to cash in. Tonight will be worth it. Think on it, Ais. You get to watch one of the brawls, and woman, you know how hot those guys are.”
A sudden memory assaults me, and I’m pulled away from the present. Oh, I know how hot those guys are. I swallow hard and try to shove the memory away, but I can’t. I had a crush on a fighter once, but the memories of his family pains me.
“They are,” I say with a sober nod. “So fucking hot I can’t even stand it.”
She laughs. “Right? All muscled and inked and sweaty. And young.”
I know why she notes their ages. It’s not uncommon for us to be paired with older men.
“Jesus, tell me about it,” I mutter. “If I have to suck the dick of one more cheating businessman—”
She rolls her eyes. “Or a fucking politician…”
I sigh. “Exactly.”
Politician. Why does that ring a warning bell in the dimmest part of my mind? I can’t place it, and it doesn’t matter. I need to focus on what she’s telling me now.
“I’m a fucking mess, Klara,” I say, not able to completely hide the catch in my voice. “Vivian’s lackey assigned me last night and I ended up with a fucking arsehole. I think he even stole from me.”
She sighs. “You must stop letting yourself lose your shite on a job, babe. No more drinking. No more shooting up. I don’t even want you—”
I hold up a hand to stop her. I know she’s right. It’s dumb as fuck to allow yourself to lose your mind when you’re with a client. Men do shite like steal your damn money and fuck you up, if you don’t have your head about you. I couldn’t even prove that he took my money. I couldn’t even tell someone who he was or where to fucking find him.
I know she’s right, but I also know I can’t get through those nights without numbing myself first. One might say it’s complicated.
“Back to the job. You said she owes you a favor?”
“Oh, aye,” Klara says. “So you take a little rest. I’ll be back and we’ll doll you up properly. And I’ll cash in on that favor she owes me.” She reaches for me hand. “You’ll come, won’t you, Aisling?” She leans in, and her eyes go wide. “It pays big, babe. Real fucking big.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand quid.”
Now I think I may be fully sober. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
She giggles and covers her mouth. “Promise I’m not. Let’s do it.”
I shake her hand, which makes her giggle even harder. “Deal. Let’s do it.” I roll over and pull the blanket straight up over my head. “Now let me get some fucking rest first, will you?”
She leans in and tucks the blanket around me. “Of course, love,” she says softly. “I’ll be back later, and I’ll help you get ready.”
But her voice is distant, and even though she’s still speaking, I don’t hear her last words as I drift off into sleep.
Chapter 3
Tiernan
“This is ridiculous. No. No way.”
My older sister Sheena paces outside in the garden, her hand on her hip. Her reddish hair’s pulled back in a messy bun on top of her head, and she’s taken to wearing glasses now, but when she gets fired up, she still looks like the sister I remember back when I was a child. Hell, she seems to think I’m still a child now.
For Christ’s sake, I’ve been a man of the Clan now for years, and a planned fight is literally the least of my concerns. I’ve taken lives for the men of the brotherhood, conducted major business transactions that brought millions into their coffers, and Sheena lost her privilege of telling me what I can and cannot do ages ago.
Doesn’t mean she doesn’t still want to, though.
I sit on the stone bench under the green archway to the garden and cross my ankles. I don’t speak to her at first.
For one brief moment, it strikes me how everything changes here but the garden. The flowers bloom in the spring, fade by summer’s end, then wither and die with the cold of winter, freezing rain, and occasional snowdrift. The garden sleeps then, only to bloom once more in the spring. The same stone pathway lies here that I crossed my very first time coming to the mansion as a lad, this bench the very same I sat on as a sixteen-year-old lad with a chip on his shoulder.
I didn’t like the McCarthys then. It angered me that my sister got roped into one of the most powerful mobs in all of Ireland.
The garden hasn’t changed, but we have. Fiona’s no longer the shy, reserved, neglected thirteen-year-old with freckled cheeks, who chattered all the livelong day to anyone who’d listen. She’s older now, married to Lachlan, and will graduate university soon.
Sheena’s no longer the fire and brimstone investigative reporter who was hellbent on bringing the McCarthy family down. She went and fell in love with Nolan, the third in line to the throne, who watches her now with that steadfast look of his I know well. He’ll give her just enough space to speak her mind, but she loses her temper easily and he knows it.
Back then, when we first came here, baby Sam was only two years old, ignorant to the abuse and neglect he suffered, mercifully shielded by Fiona, Sheena, and me.
And hell, I’m definitely not the stony-faced teen who hated everyone and everything save his siblings. With Nolan’s steadfast perseverance, I learned that there was a place for me, right here in this brotherhood of strong, principled men. In my mind back then, they were only criminals I couldn’t trust. Over the past seven years, they’ve become the brothers I always needed.
I fold my arms across my chest and wait for Sheena to finish. When she finally huffs out a breath and faces me, she throws up her hands in exasperation.
“But I suppose you’ll go ahead and do what you want anyway, as you always do!”
I can’t help but share a smile with Nolan at that, and she doesn’t miss it.
“Oh, you’re on his side, aren’t you?” she rants at Nolan.
Nolan smiles at her, his blond hair falling onto his forehead as he tosses his head, the McCarthy green eyes of his narrowing on her. “Course I do, lass. Why wouldn’t I? Your brother’s a born fighter, and it’s one of my life’s greatest accomplishments having a hand in his training.”
Jesus, my throat tightens at that. And right then, right now, under the overhanging leaves in the McCarthy family garden, I vow to myself I’ll win tonight’s fight, for the whole fucking McCarthy clan.
“And moreover,” Nolan continues, with an uncharacteristic formality to his speech that makes me smile. He’s learned that logic and reason pair well when negotiating with my sister. “Tiernan hasn’t been under our authority for years, Sheena. If he wants to fight, he can. If he wants to buy a sailboat and sail down the coast of Africa and lead others on safari, he can. If he wants to—”
“I get your point,” she snaps, her brows snapping together and her features darkening.
>
Nolan sobers a touch. “Careful, Sheena,” he says quietly. She clamps her mouth shut, draws in a deep breath, then lets it out again. Like every man of the clan, Nolan’s old fashioned. He’s the head of his home and doesn’t tolerate disrespect or backtalk from any of us.
“But Nolan,” she pleads, softer this time. Her voice cracks, and her eyes water a bit. I feel a little twinge of guilt. “You weren’t the one that had to doctor up his wounds. You didn’t hold his hand when they reset his shoulder for the seventh time or see the pain on his face every time he drew a breath because he’d broken another rib.” She shakes her head. “I love you all so much, and it kills me to see you hurt. I don’t want him in the ring again.”
Nolan reaches for her hand and tugs her over to him. I feel almost as if I’m looking in on a private conversation, though neither of them modulate their voices. They want me to hear this, too.
“Didn’t I, lass?” he says softly, chucking a finger under her chin so her eyes meet his. “How many times did I train him at St. Albert’s, and you weren’t there?”
She winces.
“I know it’s hard for you, sweetheart, but you’re blind if you don’t see how much this means to him.” He gives me a sad smile. “Your brother has the blood of a fighter in his veins, and he will until the day he dies.” He leans in and kisses her forehead. “And you didn’t have to doctor him up, lass. We have a doctor right here at home. But you did it because you wanted to, and you did it because you love him.”
He looks over to me. “Now,” he says, his voice deeper now. “It’s a done deal, isn’t it, Tiernan?”
I clear my throat and keep my gaze on his instead of Sheena’s. “Aye. Done deal, brother. Signed the contract not an hour ago, and I’ll leave to prepare in another hour.”
“Right, then,” Nolan says. “We’ve time for some food and a pint, then.”
“Aye.”
I join them for lunch, and Sheena’s thankfully dropped the subject. She still pouts a little, though. When we’re finished, I head out to get a ride to the ring. I have a locker prepared for me, and clothes, and want to prepare myself beforehand.
The time before the match flies by, and nervous excitement skates through me like electricity. I haven’t been in the ring in ages. Do I still have what it takes? I haven’t stopped my training, but training for a match is one thing. Actually remembering the feel of being in the ring is another thing altogether.
I limber up with a punching bag, remembering everything I was taught by Nolan, by Malachy at St. Albert’s, by my brothers of the Clan.
I remember the first time Nolan bested me. I was a mouthy teen who thought he was an arsehole, and Nolan had had enough. He never raised a fist to me, never even raised his fucking voice. But he took me down a peg or two.
And then he taught me to fight.
I chuckle to myself in the dressing room, as I strip to my boxers and face the mirror. I remember my teenaged years well. Nolan’s got the patience of a saint.
I’ve worked hard to train my body, my muscles now at peak form, my body lithe and nimble. I wear McCarthy ink along my shoulders and chest, down my arms and neck, and across my back, the signature markings of the Clan. It’s widely known here and incites respect in anyone who sees it.
I bounce on my feet and throw a few punches, spin in a circle and get ready to fight. Christ, how I missed this adrenaline rush. I imagine it must be similar to how soldiers going to battle feel, at the knowledge that I either face certain pain or I’ll be on the delivering end. Though the fights here in Ireland are moderated, bareknuckle brawls can be brutal. They’re rarely fatal, but it’s still a distinct possibility.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Yeah?”
The door’s pushed open, and a short, portly man with a balding head and scars along his face and chin peeks in at me. A former fighter, likely. Ring referee.
“You ready?” he asks, then he freezes when his eyes come to the McCarthy ink.
“Aye.”
He blows out a whistle. “Bloody hell,” he says. “It’s you.”
Does he recognize me?
“Not sure we met before?” I ask, trying to be polite. I grab a bottle of water and chug it before the match.
“Can’t say that we have,” he says. “But you’re the McCarthy fighter?”
I look away. I hate recognition like this. “I’m one of them, aye.”
He snorts. “One of them. They taught you to be humble, eh?” He pushes the door wider open. “There’s only one known as the McCarthy fighter, son. You’re feckin’ legendary. Why’d you leave the ring?”
I don’t answer. It isn’t right for him to favor one of us before the fight, and I won’t make friends with him.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Oh, aye,” he says with a chuckle. “It always is, isn’t it? Bet you have a pretty girl who can’t bear to see her mate’s nose broken again, eh?”
I frown, then quickly school my features. More like two sisters and pseudo mother. Don’t I fucking wish I had a girl who’d care.
“Something like,” I mutter.
He claps my back, but I’m so pumped up I hardly feel it.
“Good lad,” he says, then he mutters under his breath. “I hope you kick his feckin’ arse.”
Jesus. Who am I facing? Someone I know?
The cheering of the crowd increases in volume as I make my way toward the ring. My heart slams against my rib cage as we draw nearer. Christ, I forgot what this was like, the bright lights, teeming crowd of people, the cheers and catcalls, hoots and hollers. Makes me feel like a goddamn celebrity, and I’m not sure I like it.
The stadium’s filled to standing-room only, and an announcer’s voice comes loud and clear over the speakers.
“Please welcome the one and only Tiernan Hurston!”
The one and only? Bloody hell.
I jog up onto the platform, the crowd’s energy spurring me on, and for one quick moment, I lose my focus.
My God. They’re all here.
Keenan and his wife Caitlin at the very front, beside his brother Cormac and his wife Aileen. Beside him sit Nolan and Sheena. When she catches my eye, she gives me a sad smile, kisses her fingertips, then blows me a kiss. On instinct, I blow her a kiss back, and the stadium erupts.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They think I blew a kiss to my lover, no doubt.
Next to Sheena and Nolan sit my youngest sister Fiona and her husband Lachlan. Fiona grins at me and waves excitedly. Lachlan rests one hand around her shoulders and waves to me with the other hand. Beside Lachlan sits the rest of the entire clan inner circle.
Clan techie Carson and his wife Megan are there, gangly Boner with a girl on each side of him as always, and at the very end, Tully, the largest of the lot with his thick beard and probing eyes. Boner gives me the one-finger salute as good luck, and Tully waves.
They all came. Jesus, I’d better fucking win.
They like to drag things out in here, so my opponent hasn’t entered the ring yet.
I shouldn’t look at the crowd. I should be getting ready for the fight. But then my eyes fall on a row of women sitting front and center, and I know immediately who they are. Vivian’s women.
I try to keep my gaze casual. I try not to think about what it means to win this fight, but I know. Winning this fight means I get my pick of any one of them. I’ve already decided I’m going to win. I might as well figure out which of them is coming home with me tonight.
There’s a lovely woman with high cheekbones and sleek black hair, utterly gorgeous. Beside her sits a brunette with an ample bosom and full, cherry red lips. They’ve lovely, every one of them, and unique in their own special way, but when I get to the very end of the row, I stop and stare.
I know those eyes. I fucking know that woman. Does she remember me? She’s got the same wild and crazy blonde hair, the same fetching and vivacious eyes, though there’s a hardness about her that wasn’t there before. When
her eyes meet mine, they widen. She gets to her feet, but her mate looks up in surprise, grabs her hand, and yanks her back to sitting beside her as the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers again, announcing my opponent.
“And now,” he says, “A huge stadium welcome for our returning champion, none other than Cedric Cage!” I tear my eyes away from Aisling as realization dawns on me.
Cedric Cage? Jesus. Was I set up? Every fucking person in this room knows that Cage is vicious and unpredictable. I thought he was banned from the ring forever, but it seems the organizer of tonight’s events has no qualms about hiring a bloody killer for the battle tonight.
He races onto the stage as if he can’t be bothered to slow down, and I immediately take my stance. I look him over, and my blood chills just looking at him. His shaved head seems to magnify his features. One eye’s already half-swollen shut, like he brawled with someone on the way in. Good. Maybe that’ll give me an advantage.
He has scars along his chest and abdomen, as if he suffered street fights in his youth. His eyes are cold and soulless, like looking at the face of a corpse, and it sends a chill straight down my spine. I’m no saint, but this man’s known for his brutality and the way he stops at nothing to win a fight.
He spits to the side and gives me a wide, toothless grin.
“Y’alright, McCarthy?” he says. His voice is oily and nasally, and I have the distinct feeling I’m speaking with a rat.
“Name’s not McCarthy.”
He shakes his head. “You bear their ink, you’re fucking McCarthy.”
I crack my neck and start bouncing on my feet to warm up.
“Alright. You?”
“Fucking brilliant,” he says through his missing teeth. He takes a step toward me. “I fucking hate the McCarthys,” he says softly, so only I can hear him. He doesn’t break eye contact. “One of my life goals is to wipe the floor with a McCarthy. Bucket list, ya might say.”
“Is it?” I ask. “Sorry to disappoint you, son, but today won’t be that day.”
