Our tongues brushed against each other, and I fought back a groan. God, she was everything—every-fucking-thing I would never have, which was why, as difficult as it was, I tore away from her soft lips.
"Shit…” I pushed up, pacing the pier with the taste of her still on my tongue, then, without another word, I turned tail.
21
Poppy
Brandon had kissed me and walked off.
I stared across the quiet lake, halfway floating, but mostly plummeting.
It was everything I’d imagined—brutal and raw. The taste of his mouth was still on mine, and I pressed my fingers to my lips, trying to savor it to keep from crying.
“Poppy?” Connor’s voice echoed over the water, and I quickly blinked away the pathetic tears building in my eyes.
"Down here.”
A few seconds later, footsteps sounded over the wooden planks. "Why are you out here by yourself?" The warmth of his jacket draped around my shoulders when he settled behind me and pulled me to his chest. "Just tired, I guess." But I wasn’t. I was devastated. Brokenhearted.
"I’ll take you home. I'm bored anyway."
That night, I stared at my window, waiting for Brandon to crawl through, but one o’clock came and went. Then two, and my bed was still empty.
I tried to force sleep, but every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was the look of regret that washed over Brandon’s face after he’d kissed me. No matter whether either of us wanted things to change or not, they had. And there was no coming back from that. At a quarter to three, I threw the covers off, slipped into a pair of shorts, and my shoes, then climbed through my window.
I’d always taken him in when he was hurt, and now it was his turn to return the favor.
The roads between my house and the Gypsy camp were empty. The metal gate clanked when I climbed over it to weave my way between the dark trailers.
I stopped outside of Brandon’s caravan, forgetting Sean wasn’t there to bark anymore.
The blue haze from the TV lit up the living room window. When I raised my hand to knock, I hesitated, wondering if he may have a girl in there. The thought of him going from me to someone else made my skin heat, and I pounded my fist over the door.
A shadow appeared through the glass. “Poss?”
The latch clicked, the door swung open, and I didn’t even care that he was in nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans, or that he looked like every bit the bad boy he was. I couldn’t take the time to appreciate any of that because he’d hurt me. And that was one thing Brandon was never supposed to do.
He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair, stepping to the side to let me in before he closed the door. “You okay?”
I was anything but okay. But how could I even begin to tell Brandon he was the reason I wasn’t when I feared it may end everything we were to each other?
“No.” My voice caught, and his brows furrowed. “I’m not.”
“Tell me who, and I’ll…” His fists clenched at his side. Brandon O’Kieffe, always eager to defend his possum. The only irony was that he couldn’t possibly protect me from the pain being in love with him caused. Not when he was so oblivious to it.
“Poss?”
At any given moment, a person has a countless number of decisions to make. Right then, I could have lied, or I could have brushed past Brandon and left. There are so many things I could have said, but words would cheapen things—like the eternal pull I felt between Brandon and me. And it was that gravity-defying push and pull that I was so over—so over being in love with a boy I thought I had no shot with, and I was so goddamn angry at him for giving me hope that I did.
So, despite the unsteady beat of my heart and the sinking feeling in my stomach, I stepped forward, gripped his jaw, and pushed up on my toes. Then I pressed my lips to his. Instead of him tensing the way I expected, Brandon’s arm came around my waist.
He may have been the only person I’d kissed, but I was certain there was an infinite difference to that kiss than any I would ever have. Because it felt like the beginning and end of everything all at once.
The heat of his bare chest bled through my shirt when he tugged my body flush against his.
“Poss,” he breathed against my lips. “I—”
But I swallowed his words on another kiss. And another. I wasn’t going to give him a chance to tell me no again.
His hands went to my hair, tilting back my head to deepen the kiss while he backed me through the living room. We bumped into walls on our way down the hall, and when we fell onto the lumpy mattress in his room, I followed his lead, just like I always had. Honestly, I would have followed that boy into hell if it meant I could have his heart.
We were a mess of lips and teeth, roaming hands, and before long, I was on my back in Brandon’s bed with nothing left on but my panties. His mouth traveled the length of my neck while his hand crept along my side, his fingers sweeping my hip before tracing lower. A ball of tension formed between my legs while I fumbled with his jeans. Then his boxers, but Brandon’s touch stayed right there, inches away from where I wanted.
“Fuck. I can’t…” he breathed against my throat before his teeth raked my lip.
I grabbed his wrist, shoving his hand between my legs, and that touch was enough to make my breath catch.
Brandon’s lips froze over mine. “Shit.”
The string of touches that followed, though—it had my fingers digging into his biceps and my back bowing away from the bed.
“Promise me you won’t hate me,” he mumbled into my neck, his hands gliding over my hips while his eyes touched every part of my body.
I kissed him harder than I had all night. “I won’t.”
The weight of his body shifted between my legs. I closed my eyes when he tore open a condom, fisting the blanket while I waited. His body pressed over mine, and then he hesitated, staring down at me with pinched brows. “I love you.”
“And I love you.” Then I grabbed his hips and pulled him into me, making the decision for us.
I wanted it to be Brandon. I had never been more sure of anything in my life, and no amount of meaningless girls would ever change that, because, at the end of the day, I knew Brandon in ways none of them ever would. And he knew me in ways I refused to let anyone else.
My naïve heart believed fate had finally taken its course, that Brandon loved me, and that nothing else would matter.
Then, the next morning came.
When I woke, Brandon was sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back to me. I shifted on the bed, and he pushed to his feet, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it on. “I have to train with Uncle Darren,” he said, his voice strange and cold. “I’ll walk you home.”
A palpable tension filled the tiny room, squeezing my heart in a vice. I was another Lola Stevens. The thought made me all too aware of my naked body, and I clutched the sheets to my chest just as Brandon turned to face me.
His gaze swept over me with a hostility I’d never seen before as he scooped my clothes from the floor and dropped them on the bed next to me.
The flimsy door closed behind him with a bang.
As soon as I was dressed, I crept from his room. He herded me to the door, without a word. Without a glance, and shame draped around me like a heavy shawl, one that had me burning up from the inside out.
Brandon marched across the camp, toward the gate with such determination, I had to jog just to keep up, and when I did catch up, he kept space between us. Two houses down from mine, the silence was unbearable. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine.”
Whatever I thought it would feel like to be with Brandon, this wasn’t it. This is how he treated other girls, but I had foolishly believed I would be different. A storm of emotions churned inside me.
“Fine,” I said and took off toward my gate. I didn’t need whatever chivalrous bullshit he was trying to pull by walking me home—like that would lessen the pain. I ran up the stairs and into my house, an
d he never called for me to turn around. When I peeked through the living room window, he was already halfway down the block, his hands shoved deep in his jean pockets.
My breath stuttered, and my jaw tightened. I wanted to cry and scream and curl into a ball on the floor for being so stupid.
When Daddy’s car pulled down the street, slowing to park, I rushed out the backdoor. Each step I took jarred loose tears until an endless stream poured down my cheeks. By the time I reached Connor’s, I couldn’t catch my breath.
He opened the door and pulled me into a hug, one that felt safe. “What’s wrong, Poppy?”
I was too embarrassed to tell him, so I shook my head and buried my face in his shoulder. That was when I realized, the bad boys may break a girl’s heart, but the good ones will piece it back together.
Part II
The Present. The Beginning and the End.
22
Connor
November 2013
“This is feckin stupid.” Brandon rips the piece of paper from the notebook and balls it up, tossing it into the bin. “Grave letter… Can’t you just sign my name to yours?”
“No.”
With a huff, Brandon scrawls something on the new page.
These letters are protocol, and while I know the chances of it ever being sent are slim, it still leaves me unsettled. It brings an uneasy awareness of my own mortality crashing down around me.
I read over the few words I’ve written, and I hope to God Poppy never gets this.
Poppy,
I hate writing these letters. It’s depressing. But if you’re reading this
But what do I write? If she ever reads this letter, that means I’m gone. It means we’ll never have the life we spent the last seven years planning. And there is not a dictionary’s worth of words that I could write to tell her everything I would want to say.
That I was in love with her at nine—as in love as a kid can be, and those feelings only grew. That all of my happiest moments in life have revolved around her. How do I put into words the regret I feel when I think there’s a possibility I may leave her?
Poppy was the first girl I kissed. The only girl I had ever dated—we were each other’s firsts at everything…
Brandon tears off another page. “There. That’ll do.”
“You’re done?”
“Not much to say.” He clears his throat. “Poss, you and Con were always my best friends. Name your first born after me. Even if it’s a girl. Sorry I croaked. Love, Brandon.”
“Blunt and to the point,” I say and pen another line of my letter before glancing back at him. “But I’m not naming my firstborn after you. I love you, but you were a shithead as a kid.”
He snorts, then stuffs the letter into an envelope and tosses it to the table. “Afghanistan’s going to blow.”
“Probably.”
Brandon cocks his head to the side, considering something, although I’m not sure what that might be—with Brandon, one never knows. “Do you hate me for making you join yet?”
“You didn’t make me.” He always gives himself too much credit.
Brandon laughs. “Sure thing, Con.”
The day Brandon marched in, interrupting mine and Poppy’s dinner, to tell us he’d joined the army, it just made sense that I join, too. We promised to stay with each other always. And it does make for a nice career, at least when I’m at home.
“You would’ve gone AWOL during training,” I say, not really giving him much of my attention.
Brandon tips his chair back on two legs, pointing at me with a grin. “True. Those few days in the muddy ditch were enough to do me in.”
I nod. It was enough to do anyone in.
“How’d Poppy take the news of deployment?”
I drop the pen to the table and spin it. “Not good.”
She cried. Not full out sobbing or anything, but I could hear it in her voice. The strain, the fear. I promised her I’d come back, and I intend to, but writing this letter makes me picture what would happen if she ever received it. And it shatters me.
I never want to hurt her.
I never want to leave her.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. We’re supposed to grow old together…
And I had to believe we would.
23
Brandon
April 2014
I squint against the sunlight pouring through the windscreen. It always seems so much brighter here in Afghanistan, the sun that much hotter sitting amongst endless blue skies. It’s nothing but desert over a desert. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and not for the first time, I wish I could strip out of my body armor and rig.
“My balls are so sweaty, I think my swimmers have been boiled,” I groan.
The other three guys in the Foxhound laugh.
“Three weeks until you’re back to the piss-wet rain in Dublin,” Connor shouts over the rumble of the engine. “I can’t wait to go home.”
Home. I should be excited. I’m happy for Con, at least, but truthfully, I no longer have a home, anywhere. Every time I go on leave, I’m itching to get back here, to this hell hole because I fit in here. I crave the chaos, walking on the edge of a knife every day. Back there, I’m nobody, but here…here, I count. Here I have a purpose. Here I have Connor, but when we’re home, he has Poppy. They don’t need me, though they insist on involving me in their lives. The truth I can’t tell them is, sometimes it hurts to witness their happiness. I feel like an intruder.
“Yep. I’m going to drink all the whiskey Ireland has to offer.”
My sergeant glances at me briefly, a smile on his lips. “And by ‘all the whiskey,’ you really mean all the women. Careful your dick doesn’t drop off.”
“Why would you say such horrible things to me? I thought we were friends.”
The sound of laughter blends in with the hum of the engine, then in a fraction of a second, there’s a bang so loud that it shatters everything else. A deafening silence follows, and I’m weightless in my seat as the world outside whirls past the windscreen in a blur. It’s like I’m watching a nightmare through someone else’s eyes. Violent and unstoppable. I don’t have a chance to think or react before there’s just nothing.
Everything goes dark.
Blinking open my eyes, I try to lift my head, but pain ricochets through my skull, leaving nothing other than a continuous static ring in my ears. I flinch when something drips onto my face. When I lift my hand to wipe it away, my fingers come away crimson. Realization slowly creeps back in, and I lift my head, looking around. The Husky is on its side, and my Sargent limply hangs above me, his body held in place by the seat harness. A thick piece of shrapnel is buried in his neck, the blood dripping on me like a leaky faucet.
I manage to assess the situation with an odd sense of distance, nothing but blood and twisted metal. I release my harness and fall the short distance from the seat to the window grill. Groaning, I push up, shards of glass biting into my palms as I do. The stench of smoke, diesel fuel, and charred flesh hangs heavy in the air, and even though I’m disoriented, that smell sends me into fight mode.
I need to move. I need to get them out of here.
Pushing to my feet, I press my fingers to Serg’s neck. He’s gone.
Connor.
Panic pulses through me. When I glance into the back seat, I see him slumped against the rear door, lifeless eyes staring straight at me.
No, no, no.
The sight of his mangled face covered with burns and blood makes my chest heave. I choke out an anguished sob, but the sound is lost, falling on my own deaf ears.
I throw myself into the back of the vehicle, landing on him in a heap. With a tug, I lie him as flat as I can against the glass-scattered window grill, then rip open his vest, and start chest compressions.
He will not die.
He will not die.
A rabid kind of desperation falls over me, driving each push until I hear his ribs crack. Still, I keep going. Thir
ty compressions, two breaths.
Thirty, two.
Over and over, until my arms ache, and my lungs strain from the effort. His skin has now gone pale and waxy, and realization dawns on me like a sledgehammer straight to my heart.
Connor’s gone.
My best friend. My brother.
I finally close his eyes and break. My soul is being cleaved in two, and it hurts more than anything I’ve ever experienced. I just sit there—I don’t know how long—holding his hand, living in denial. I don’t want to leave him, but the longer I sit here, the more real it becomes, and the more danger I’m in. So I push to my feet and climb over the body of the final soldier before throwing the door open to get out of the vehicle.
The second my boots hit the sand, I start walking, stripping my vest, helmet, and jacket as I go. I don’t know where I’m going or why. I don’t think I care anymore because my last reason for anything just died.
So I just…walk.
24
Brandon
January 2015
The roar of the crowd reaches me from the end of the corridor, their cries echoing along bleak, concrete walls.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ring: The one. The only. Brandon The Breaker Blaine!
That’s my cue, and every time I hear it, my stomach bottoms out. I can’t fight under my real name. Brandon O’Kieffe died in Afghanistan, alongside his best friend, Connor Blaine. The Breaker isn't real. He doesn’t exist. He’s an apparition I became in order to survive.
I pass through the doorway, into the stripped-out basement of Larry’s Pub we call The Pit. This is the dark and dirty underbelly of London, where the corrupt and nameless come to trade punches, to draw blood, and to cash in. A place where there are no rules, only a winner and a loser.
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 11
