The regular drunks and gamblers shout and wave handfuls of cash through the air while chanting: Breaker, Breaker, Breaker.
I ignore it.
I ignore them as I duck through the ropes and into the pitiful square of bloodstained concrete that serves as a ring.
My opponent bounces on the balls of his feet, then punches the air. He laps up the cheers while I stand with my arms loose at my sides, waiting for the ding of the bell to sound.
This moment, right here, is all I have any more. It’s all I’m good at. I tune out the shouting and screaming, the commentator’s voice crackling over the microphone until the only sound is the steady pounding of my own heart. In this moment, nothing outside of this ring exists, and that makes it a strange kind of salvation.
The bell rings, and he comes at me like a train, swinging twice. I duck easily before throwing a right hook. My fist makes impact with his cheek with a loud smack. There’s one perfect moment where he staggers back and sways for a second. Then it’s over. He goes down hard and is out cold.
The room explodes. The referee steps toward me and reaches for my arm, but I turn and walk out of the ring, straight to the exit in the corner that leads into the storage room.
I both love and hate to fight. The power in the moment of a win is always overshadowed by the shame I feel afterward. I was supposed to be better than this rage—my father’s rage. I was supposed to be more.
I’m almost done unwrapping the tape from my hands when Larry bursts into the room and slams the door behind him.
“You gotta give the crowd a fight, boy!” His southern drawl booms around the small space.
I glance up without much thought as Larry grabs an aluminum chair from the corner, spins it around, and straddles it. He rests his thick, ink-covered arms along the top, and I stare at the tat of the topless hula girl smoking a joint on his right forearm.
I don’t know what more he wants from me besides a win. “I fought, didn’t I?” I take off my shorts and pull on a pair of jeans.
“That ain’t no fight." His glass eye drifts in the wrong direction, and it makes it hard for me to take him seriously. "It's a fuckin’ massacre.” He laughs.
Larry is a Vietnam Vet, and at one time in his life, he was a boxer. Which, I guess, is why he owns the pub and the fight ring.
I stumbled in here one day, looking for some whiskey and a brawl. Just so happened, Kyan and Finn, two of Larry’s fighters, were both sitting at the bar that night. It didn't take much. One cross look and wham. I knocked Kyan's smartass right off the stool. Even with two of them, I still won. Instead of kicking me out or having me arrested, Larry welcomed me into the fold.
I yank a hoody over my head and stuff my fight gear back inside my bag. “I'm not here for a show, Larry. I'm here for the money." I toss my bag over my shoulder. Some days, I want a world of pain, but others, I just want to inflict it. He knows the drill—he’s repeated the same charade with countless other vets tormented by their own memories.
“Get your panties out of a wad, you miserable shit," he says. "You should go on out there and grab yourself a lady friend. Something. Every winner has to celebrate. And you won, boy."
No, I lost—a long time ago.
25
Poppy
Poppy,
I hate writing these letters. It’s depressing. But if you’re reading this, then it means I’m dead, and well, that sucks. Don't let them play shit music at the funeral, okay? I want to go out in a blaze of glory with all the Catholics looking positively scandalized.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go. We’re supposed to grow old together and annoy our kids because we won’t hurry up and die already. I’m destined to be the guy who farts at the family dinner but accidentally shits himself. But seriously…
Poppy, I have been in love with you since I was ten years old when you put gum in my hair before hacking a massive bald patch in my scalp with a pair of safety scissors. My ma went mad and shaved my whole head on pure principle. I looked like a right prick, but I was still like a love-sick puppy for you. You had me by the balls, and everyone knew it.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left you when I promised I never would. I can honestly say I have lived with no regrets, until now. Until I’m faced with the idea of leaving you. But you won’t be alone. Brandon will always watch out for you because he loves you almost as much as I do.
Look after each other, and make sure he doesn't drown at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
Life can be shit, but it's also short, and it does go on. The sun will still rise in the east tomorrow and set in the west, so I ask nothing of you except this: Don’t die with me. Live. Be happy. Love again because you deserve to experience as much love as this life has to give. I only wish I could have been the one to give it to you.
You are my world, my heart. Whatever lies beyond this life, at least I can rest easy, knowing that all the best pieces of me are right here with you. If you just close your eyes, you’ll feel me. I love you in a way that transcends life and death.
This isn't goodbye, only see you later.
Love always,
Connor
I can’t breathe…I lean forward and rest my head on the steering wheel, fighting against the pain twisting my chest. I’ve read these words countless times, and each time, I break all over again.
Ten months later and it’s still hard to accept that Connor is never coming home, and Brandon…I glance at the dark-wood facing of the old London pub across the street and anger swallows my grief.
Brandon left Connor in that crumpled Foxhound. He ran off and left him.
Just like he’d left me…
My mobile dings with rapid-fire texts. Exhaling, I fold the letter and slip it back inside my purse, then grab my phone.
Hope: Where are you?
Hope: Poppy!
Hope: I just went by your house, and there's an eviction notice.
Hope: Call me back, or I'll have the MI5 after your arse!
Me: I’m fine. Don’t worry…
To say my life has fallen apart over the past ten months would be an understatement. Hope is one of the few people who knows just how far I’ve fallen, but if she knew I was here for Brandon… That’s a fight for another day.
I silence my phone and wait for the string of black taxis to sputter past, then I climb out of the rental and cross the street to The Dog and Bell Pub.
It took months and a PI that cost me most of Connor’s life insurance—and my house—to find Brandon. The military assumed he’d died in the explosion or been captured by the enemy, but with no proof of either, Brandon had essentially just vanished. And that wasn’t good enough for me.
When the investigator informed me that he’d found Brandon in London, I’d waxed and waned from wanting to hop the ferry from Dublin and come straight over to wanting nothing to do with him. The last person I expected to abandon Connor—the last person I expected to leave when our entire world crashed and burned—was Brandon.
But he did both of those things.
My hand comes to rest on the old, brass door handle, and I hesitate, still unsure how I’ll react when I see Brandon.
The tinker of glasses and the low buzz of conversation filter onto the sidewalk when I open the door and step inside. The pub is crowded with men chugging pints and shouting at the football game broadcast on the flat-screen at the back of the room.
I skim the faces while I approach the bar, my stomach knotting.
"Larry, my money’s on Breaker.” A burly man slaps a wad of cash on the bar top.
"Ah, of course, it is." The gray-headed man’s American accent rises above the hustle and bustle of the bar. One of his tattoo-covered arms comes across the counter, and he swipes the money, then shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. "Boy ain't lost a fight yet."
Larry lets the man through a door to the side of the bar, and that kink in my stomach tightens.
I sidle closer to Larry and clear my throat before sliding a crisp twe
nty-pound note across the wood bar. "My money’s on Breaker.”
The old man grabs a bar towel and wipes the counter. "Don't know what you're on about, darlin'."
He must take me for an idiot, anyone in the bar can hear the shouting bellow up the stairwell. He pushes the money back toward me.
"I said"—I shove it right back with a firm glare—"I'm here for the fight."
With a grin, he pockets the cash. "A little thing like you don't need to be down there with all them sweaty men. It’s awful bloody." He feigns a grimace and shakes his head.
"I don't care."
“All right.” Shrugging, he flings the bar towel over his shoulder, opens the door, and then motions me through. "But don't complain if you get blood on your pretty dress there."
The scent of stale cigarettes and beer wafts up the stairwell. Larry closes the door behind me, plunging me into darkness. I use the cold, concrete wall as a guide on my way into the dingy underbelly of the pub.
The stairs open into a room with bare concrete walls and a thin haze of cigarette smoke. Rough and tumble-looking men are packed in like a can of sardines. Shouts and cheers mix with the dull smack of punches being exchanged.
"Knock 'is teeth down, 'is throat, champ!"
"Kick 'em in the nuts."
I slip between the men where I can find space, dodging pints of ale and beer guts, until I reach the tattered ropes that mark the boundaries of the ring. My heart misses a few critical beats before going into a full-on sprint when Brandon dodges a punch.
A quick smile flinches over Brandon’s lips before he throws a punch that leaves his opponent dazed. One more jab and the guy falls flat on his face. The men in the room go crazy, shouting and exchanging high fives.
Brandon’s effect is completely flat while his gaze drifts over the crowd, but then his attention freezes on me. His brows pinch together. His stare turns cold.
A man steps in front of me, blocking my view, and by the time he moves away, Brandon is gone.
It’s like I don't even exist.
26
Brandon
A heavy fist collides with my jaw, and I relish in the pain. Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, I slowly lift my gaze to my opponent to see sweat trickle down his brow, still bouncing on the balls of his feet. He grins at the cheering crowd before he comes at me again—mistake. My temper rises with each clumsy step he takes. By the time he lunges, I'm all out of patience. I duck, then drive my fist into the side of his head. Once. Twice. And he goes down hard, his skull cracking against the bloodstained concrete. The crowd roars.
I close my eyes, chest heaving as I attempt to chain the rage pulsing through my every muscle. When I snap open my eyes, and turn toward the ropes, I pause. There, in the middle of all the drunk punters, stands a woman—the only woman who has ever mattered. She’s out of place like an angel walking among the cursed—her aura making her stand apart. My gaze glides over the dress that covers everything, yet shows me all the curves I need to see. Long, chocolate waves of hair spill over her shoulders, and when I finally meet her face, my heart seizes in my chest.
Poppy.
Her steel gray eyes, branded in my mind like a familiar scar, meet mine. Her face washes white like she's just seen a ghost, and in a way, she has.
The shattered fragments of my heart pitifully attempt to pull themselves together as a thousand memories flash through my mind—every single one revolving around Connor. And that hurts. It hurts so much. She might as well have doused me in petrol and set me on fire.
Someone cuts between us, blocking my view and breaking the debilitating hold she has over me. I drag in a lungful of air as though surfacing from deep, dark waters. In an instant, I’m past the ropes and shouldering through the packed room until I finally fall into the storeroom.
The door closes with a heavy thud, muting the cries of the basement beyond. And in the silence, the pounding of my pulse against my skull is like a drumbeat I can’t stop. I brace my back against the wall and close my eyes, willing calm. How the hell did she find me?
The door against the wall opens, and I know it’s her without looking, so I keep my eyes closed, a bleak attempt at avoiding this inevitable train wreck.
"Brandon Patrick O’Kieffe!"
My stomach clenches at the sound of her voice. I can't do this with her. I’m not ready. Heels tap over the concrete floor, and as suddenly as it started, the noise stops right in front of me. The familiar, floral scent of her perfume almost brings me to my knees. Maybe, if I don't look at her, if I stay just like this, maybe she'll go away.
"Brandon!" She pokes a finger into my chest, and I react on instinct, swiping her hand away and meeting her startled gaze.
"You…" Her jaw clenches, and she inhales an unsteady breath.
I don’t even see her move, but in the next second, her palm meets my cheek. The clap bounces around the room as the sting sets in.
"I thought you were dead!"
I tear my gaze away from the only girl I’ve ever loved, focusing on the wall behind her. "Well, I'm not."
"You should go, Poppy," I say, feigning indifference I wish I felt. But the truth is, every second that I stand here feels like a sick form of torture.
"I'm not leaving," she whispers.
I don't say anything because, in truth, there’s nothing left to say. Poppy and I were once best friends, and now we’re strangers.
She grabs my face, her fingers digging into my cheeks as though she could anchor herself to me permanently. "Look at me, Brandon."
Dark circles linger below her eyes, and her face has sunken with weight loss. It's as though everything that made Poppy, Poppy, has withered and faded away. Connor would be rolling in his grave. I promised, should anything ever happen to him, I would take care of her. But I can't even take care of myself. The guy that made that promise—he's long gone.
Tears well in her eyes. "Connor’s gone.” At the mention of his name, those tears fall. “And you left me.”
Guilt eats away at me, though I can't hate myself any more than I already do. If I were a better person, I would try to shoulder her pain, but the fact is, I can't see past my own grief. It's too big, too all-consuming. I’m drowning, slowly suffocating under the weight of it. I can’t help her when I can’t help myself.
She forces me to look at her again. "Say something."
Pulling out of her hold, I step around her to retrieve my clothes from the storeroom. "You shouldn't have come." My back stays to her while I shove my shorts down my thighs. "Whatever it is you came here looking for, you aren't going to find it."
Long moments pass in unnerving silence. I’m fully dressed before her voice breaks the stifling tension.
“Did he suffer?"
I stiffen and take a deep breath, holding it before air slowly hisses through my teeth. “No.”
“What happened, Brandon?”
"He died. I didn't." And isn't that the shitty truth of my existence summed up in four words? I should have offered her more, but what was there to tell that Poppy would understand—she’d never get the truth of war.
Her footfalls cross the room, and she grips my arm in an unforgiving way—the way a widow deserves to hate the last man who saw her husband alive. "Why’d you leave him?"
"I…" The words stick in my throat. I want to punch something until my knuckles rip open and bleed, then drown myself in whiskey, all in the hope that my mind will switch off for just one second. "He was dead," I say in a strangled breath. "And I left him because there was nothing to stay for. Just bodies." I pull on my tracksuit bottoms and finally turn to face her. "I'm sorry about Connor."
"Sorry? That's all I get? Sorry?"
"I try not to look back. There was nothing left but bodies."
She brings her gaze to mine, the pain I’m causing evident on her face. This isn't the part where we heal each other, which is why I shoulder my bag and leave the room without a backward glance. She knows I’m alive, but it would be better if she di
dn’t. Her being here isn’t going to help either of us.
If I'm honest with myself, I've thought about contacting her a thousand times, but I just couldn't do it. I knew I would look at her and see everything we’ve lost, my own pain reflected back at me. Because it was never just Connor and me. It was the three of us. By running and avoiding her, I’ve let Connor down in the worst way.
I go upstairs and take a seat at the mahogany bar. All I need in life is to drown everything out. Whiskey and meaningless sex are old friends, ones I can rely on and expect nothing in return.
I flag Larry for a drink, downing in one quick gulp.
Larry thumps the empty glass. "What's got you drinking like a goddamn one-flippered goldfish?"
"You told me to drink. Here I am."
"Nah. Something's itching your butt. Wouldn’t have anything to do with that classy-looking girl that followed you out, would it?” He blows a long whistle through his teeth. “She’s a looker.”
Larry places two more drinks onto the counter.
"She's like my sister," I say, disgust lacing my voice.
"Hell, where I came from, girls like that, didn't matter if they were your sister." A perverted grin slinks across his face when he slaps me on the back.
"She's Connor's widow," I whisper.
Even breathing his name hurts, like a knife being wedged right in the center of my chest. I haven’t opened up to many people, but Larry knows all about Connor. Kyan, Finn, Larry, me, we're all ex-military. All running, still fighting a war we wish we'd never signed up for. I don't like to talk about it, but they understand. They've all seen things they’ll never forget, lost friends. Lost part of what essentially makes us human.
"Aw, hell." He hitches his pants back under his gut, and a heavy sigh slips through Larry's lips before he downs his shot.
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 12
