"You're better than this, Poppy. I'll help you, but I won't watch you nosedive into this shit with me."
"I'll make a deal with you then,” she mumbles against my throat. "I'll get out of it when you do."
I can't agree to that because I thrive in the gutter. It’s where I belong. “You always were manipulative,” I say, smiling as I step away from her.
The torn look on her face tells me she knows I have no intention of getting out of here.
33
Poppy
February 2015
Brandon fights nearly every night. Then he drinks. And I’m just… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
The Pit is full tonight—as always. Drunk men line the walls and every inch in between. A few women stand beside the ropes of the rings, their breasts spilling out from too-small tops. I do my best to maintain my position against the wall, not too close to the crowd or the women, but where Brandon remains in plain sight.
Larry appears from the back of the room and slips between the ropes. “Ladies. Fellas. Welcome to The Pit. Tonight, we have three fights lined up, all-new challengers for your favorite boys."
There's a loud round of applause, which prompts a deep grin to set over Larry's weathered face. “Tonight's challenger—undefeated in his last three fights—it's Dale Winters!"
A brawny man with a shaved head steps into the ring, pumping his fist in the air. A few women cheer, but their enthusiasm is drowned out by the string of low boos that follow.
"And, like I need to introduce this bastard, Finn the 'Iron Fist' West."
The entire basement rattles from the applause when one of Larry’s fighters dashes through the ropes and circles the ring. The bell dings, and the two men round each other, knuckles up, gazes locked.
"Punch 'em in the face, Finn," someone behind me jeers.
Brandon stands behind the ring with his arms braced against the doorway of the changing rooms, brooding. He still hates that I come to the fights, and I don’t come because I enjoy them. I come to make sure he gets home safely afterward. God knows I can’t tell Brandon that.
The repetitive slap of skin on skin contact rises above the cheers of the crowd. Larry’s guy gets in a good punch, and then someone’s hands land on my waist. “Ain’t you a purty little bird?” His warm breath sticks to my neck
I shove away from him, but his grip only tightens.
"Ah, come on now, love. Only one type of girl hangs ‘round The Pit.”
I jab my elbow into his gut just before he’s yanked off his feet.
“Don’t you fucking touch her.” Brandon pins the drunk by his throat to the wall while he throws punch after punch at the man’s face.
People attempt to grab Brandon and drag him away, but he won’t relent. When a group of men finally manages to restrain Brandon, the man falls to his hands and knees, and Brandon kicks him in the gut while being hauled back.
I’ve seen him angry before, but I’ve never seen him so possessed by blind rage. "Brandon!” I shout, terrified.
“Blaine!” Larry charges through the crowd, carting a fire extinguisher, the fighter from earlier right behind him.
Brandon breaks free of the men, immediately grabbing the stunned man from the floor and hitting him again.
"Son of a bitch.” Larry pulls the pin to the fire extinguisher, aims, and douses Brandon in foam. Much to my surprise, he freezes. Brandon’s gaze falls to his blood-covered knuckles, and he flinches like he’s been snapped back from an alternate universe.
"Now, get your ass on to the lockers." Larry points to the back of the room, fire extinguisher still aimed. The crowd parts, giving a wide berth as Brandon makes his way toward the exit, while I stand dazed. People swarm around the now unconscious man, and my stomach churns. Brandon’s always had a temper, but that—he lost all control.
I step through the chaos of the basement, slipping unseen into the changing room just as Brandon’s fist smashes into one of the metal lockers. With each hard breath he drags in, his shoulders rise and fall, and my attention strays to the jagged scar that curves around his side.
Kyan is right. I have no idea what he’s been through. I have no idea who Brandon “The Breaker” Blaine is, but I do know that Brandon O’Kieffe is lost somewhere inside.
"Brandon," I whisper, lifting my hand and trailing my fingertip over his scar. The braille-like texture spells pain beneath my finger.
He spins around, grabs my shoulders, and slams me against the lockers with a bang. Fear bubbles to the surface when his eyes, void of all expression, lock on mine.
I need him to leave the warzone in his mind. "Brandon…"
His hold tightens, and his eyebrows pull together in a frown before his gaze drops to my lips.
"Brandon?"
Then his fingers wrap around my jaw, pulling my face toward his, and his lips touch mine. For a second, I can't breathe, I can't move, and I almost kiss him, but then I think of Connor, and I shove Brandon away so hard he staggers back against the lockers on the opposite wall.
He swipes his hand down his jaw, then over his mouth. Tension coils between us, tightening and constricting my chest until I feel like I can’t breathe.
“We can’t…” I swallow my uncertain words before turning to leave.
I left the bar, went across to the Tesco, and grabbed a cheap bottle of wine. It didn’t take me long to find my way to a random spot on the Piccadilly Circus fountain, where I sit, sipping from a brown bag, the absolute cliché of someone struggling with life. A red, double-decker bus spits out exhaust out while a band of tourist snap pictures left and right.
The last time I was here, I was with Connor and Brandon. It was one of the few times I got so drunk I couldn't walk straight, and Brandon carried me, in true possum fashion, from the pub to this exact spot. As soon as he sat me down, I started dry heaving, and he turned me around so I'd vomit in the water instead of all over my new shoes.
The few times I got to that state, Brandon was the one who took care of me. One, because it was usually his doing, and two—well, I never wanted Connor to see me like that.
I take a sip of sweet wine and wince. I wouldn’t want Connor to see me like this, either… But still, I drink, and when the bottle is half empty and a blissful numbness tingles through my veins, I call Hope.
“About time you answered your phone! Where in the world are you, Poppy.”
“London,” I shout over the hum of traffic and laughter of people spilling from the pubs.
“London!”
“I found Brandon. He’s fighting in some illegal fight ring.” I give a disheartened laugh. “Not much of a surprise.”
Silence falls over the line.
“Hope?”
“There’s so much I want to say, but I’ll save that for him.” She huffs. “Where are you in London?”
I glance at the bright lights of the Piccadilly Billboard. “Westminster.”
“I’m coming to get you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sound drunk.”
I shrug a shoulder even though she can’t see me. “I just wanted to tell you I was okay. And I love you.” I mute my phone when I hang up before I can tell her how confused I am, how torn. How guilty I feel that I wanted to kiss Brandon. How could I?
Placing the wine on the ledge of the fountain, I rummage through my purse for Connor’s letter. I read over the words I know too well, then pause.
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.
And I swallow.
It’s almost been a year, and I have done everything possible to die right along with Connor. People move on, not because they want to, but because it’s the only way they can survive. I rub at my chest, wondering if maybe I’m not as awful as I feel. But then again, Brandon was Connor’s best friend, and maybe one reason the guilt is growing insurmountable is that Brandon has always, always felt like a betr
ayal when it came to Connor, for the simple fact that Connor never knew…
34
Brandon
What the hell is wrong with me? Poppy? Of all the people. I just lost it. My mind was completely engrossed in violence, and then, there she was, like an apparition. For a second, all I wanted was to bathe in her warmth, to immerse myself in that glow she emanates. She's so beautiful and good and—Connor's.
She always was, and while she always will be, Connor's, she has always been my peace. She makes it all disappear; the hate and the anger and the battle raging in my mind. The second my lips touched hers, there was nothing but silence, and my mind hasn’t been silent since that bomb exploded. That one, short kiss, was peace in a lifetime of war, and it terrifies me. The guilt is eating me alive, gnawing away in the pit of my stomach until I feel physically sick. I've done a lot of wrong in my life, but my best friend's widow—that’s the shit that will get you a spot in the inner circle of hell.
I push and shove my way through the swarm of spectators, all focused on Kyan's fight. People turn and glare until they realize who I am, then they can't get out of my way quick enough.
I go straight to the fire exit on the far side of the room and shove it open. In seconds, I’m climbing up the short flight of stairs that lead into the alley at the back of the pub. I inhale the icy air deep into my lungs, allowing it to clear my mind.
A spark of light catches my eye. Finn leans against the wall of the alleyway, clinging to the shadows as he cups the flame from his lighter. Wordlessly, he holds out a packet of cigarettes, offering me one. I take the cigarette, and he lights it for me. Thick smoke lingers in my lungs before I allow it to drift past my lips.
"You're slipping," Finn says quietly.
I lean against the wall next to him. Finn fights like an animal when he's in the ring, but outside of it, he's practically a ghost. He's the guy that sits back. The one you forget is even there, but he hears and sees everything. He may not say much, but when he does, everyone listens, and, to me, his presence is a comfortable silence.
"It's just been a rough couple of weeks." I take another drag from the cigarette.
He shrugs one shoulder, throwing his fag on the ground and stomping it out. "Careful, friend. If you go up in flames with her standing too close, she's going to get burned."
I know. I know all too well. Finn pushes off the wall and saunters back inside. He has this way of putting thoughts in your head and then just leaving you to think. The hurt look on Poppy's face plays through my mind over and over. And It's not the first time I've put that look there, either. I'm an arsehole.
Later that night, I linger in the hallway outside my apartment, key in hand. I've tried to think of what to say to her the entire way home, but I can't come up with a single thing. I inhale, slide the key into the keyhole, and brace myself. But when I open the door, I'm met with darkness.
"Poss?" Nothing.
She's not here.
I switch the light on, head straight for the kitchen, and grab a bottle of whiskey. For a moment, I feel guilty that I'm not better than this. But I'm just not, and there's no point in pretending otherwise. I yank off the top and press the glass to my lips, swallowing back a third of the bottle in several gulps. Numbness, lack of feeling; these are the things I'm constantly chasing, and Poppy—she makes everything bright and shiny. I don't want it. So, I drink, and I drink.
By the time the front door clicks open, I'm three-quarters of the way into the bottle, and rain .pounds against the windows, thunder rumbling as though the whole world is mad at me.
Poppy steps into the room, her long brown hair drenched and hanging in front of her face. She gives me a short-lived glance before making her way back to the bedroom, banging into the wall as she goes. No way she’s drunk…
A few minutes later, she comes stumbling down the hall wearing one of my ratty, old Nirvana T-shirts that hits her mid-thigh. My eyes stray to her bare legs, and I try to block out the thoughts running through my mind. I’m fighting a losing battle. That kiss was like ripping off a Band-Aid. I haven't kissed Poppy for nearly ten years, not since I was seventeen years old. I blocked it all out, shoved any romantic feelings I had for her into a hole so deep, I hoped they would never surface again because I could never hurt Connor that way.
She plops down at the end of the couch, grabs the TV remote, and turns it on, surfing through the channels. I want to say something, but instead, I just tilt that bottle back.
"Gonna drink the whole bottle again?" she asks, her eyes glued to the TV.
I down the remaining whiskey and drop the empty bottle on the floor, allowing it to roll across the carpet. "Yep."
"Wanna go wander out into the street and see if you can find someone else to beat up?" She shakes her head. "Really, it's amazing. You're an angry, drunk fighter." She turns her cold gaze on me. "Way to go, Brandon. You’re just like your father.”
My chest tightens, but the anger I should feel is blissfully muted beneath the whiskey swimming in my veins.
The thing with Poppy, she's the sweetest person you could wish to meet until you hurt her feelings. And then she’ll try to hurt you in return. I'm invincible now though; she can’t reach me.
"The apple never falls far from the tree, right?”
She snorts, pushing the buttons on the remote so hard, her hand shakes. Minutes pass. She’s gone through every channel at least three times before she turns and glares at me, but the effect is lost when she hiccups. "You're an asshole." Poppy's shit at being mad, but damn she's cute when she's drunk.
"I've always been an arsehole, poss. Nothing new.”
There’s a beat of silence before she finally speaks. "Why did you kiss me?"
And there it is, the question I don't have an answer for. All I know is that Poppy represents something good; happiness, a better time. I both love and hate her for it. I want to push her away and hold her tight at the same time. Everything about her is a double-edged sword. All I know is that for those precious few seconds that she kissed me back, I found peace.
“Why, Brandon?”
"I don't know," I whisper honestly. "It was a mistake. I was—my head was in a bad place." I stumble over my words.
"Your head's always in a bad place."
That little demon in me rears its ugly head. "Yeah, it is. And I ‘ve told you a hundred times to run as far and as fast as you can." But I don't want her to. I'm a selfish prick. "Can't take the hits, then get the hell out of the way."
She stops the channel on some ocean documentary and flops back against the couch cushion. “I can’t do that with you. Not again.”
And honestly, neither can I. As much as I know I broke her heart, I broke my own, too. I wait until a commercial break, then elbow her in the ribs. “I’m sorry.”
There a long pause before she huffs, “Me too.” Then she scoots closer, resting her head on my shoulder with a sigh. “Everything was so much simpler when we were kids."
I kiss her damp hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with rainwater. It was much easier when I thought the worst part of life was limited to my dad—not the entire world. "Remember when we used to climb up that oak in your garden and throw shit at Connor?"
“You mean, you climbed up and threw stuff at him.”
I shrug. "Yeah.”
A soft smile forms on her lips, and she swipes a hand over her cheek. That churning sensation settles in my stomach, and neither of us says another word. We watch the documentary, and eventually, she falls asleep on me. Having her small body pressed against mine is comforting, soothing in a strange way, but as much as I like it, I don't trust myself to fall asleep like this. I slip out from underneath her and carry her to bed. When I pull the duvet over her, she grabs my wrist.
"Connor?" she murmurs in her sleep, and my heart plummets.
I swallow around the lump in my throat and kiss her forehead, wishing, for her sake, that I was the man she wanted.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch h
er sleep. We’re two lost souls trying to save each other from unsalvageable events, and while she may be my hope, I'm surely her destruction.
35
Poppy
March 2015
Weeks have passed, and Brandon and I have settled into a somewhat normal routine. Much to Hope’s dismay, I’ve taken a job at Headley Court, helping out in their Veteran’s clinic. She doesn’t understand it—I don’t expect her to—but I can’t leave him, and going back to Ireland—there are too many memories there.
I glance over the paperwork for my new job, signing my name to the contracts before stacking them into a pile on the table.
"What's that?" Brandon asks on his way to the kitchen.
"Stuff for work."
“Yeah. What hospital did you say again?”
He knows I’ve taken a job as a nurse; I just haven’t told him where yet. “Headley Court.” I pause, and he opens a cabinet. “In the PTSD clinic.”
He rolls his eyes, then swats his hand through the air and takes a mug from the cabinet. "What a bunch of bullshit. The fighting ring is better therapy than any doctor would ever be."
Violence may temporarily grant him some relief, but, in the long run, it’s ineffective. It won’t help him deal with the emotions or the memories that haunt him—the trauma from his past or from war. All that ring is, is a recipe for disaster and destruction. “The ring does nothing to help you, Brandon.”
"Gives me someone to hit." He spreads his arms wide. "They get paid. I get paid. Everyone's happy." Then he douses his coffee with a nip of whiskey and takes a sip.
"But you're not happy." And as much as I wish I hadn’t said it, it’s the truth.
The muscles in his jaw clench, and he grips the edge of the counter. “This is as good as it gets, Poppy. I don't need anything more. I don't want more."
The Beginning and End of Everything Page 15
