by Cecy Robson
“Oh!” some drunk behind me yells when my uppercut finds Easton’s chin.
He staggers back, swiping the blood oozing from his lip, yet he keeps his grin. He’s trying to make like it was a lucky shot. That it won’t happen again.
Like me, Easton needs to win this match. And if he does, he’ll move up to the top ten, making him a contender for the UFC Lightweight title.
Talent aside, the guy’s a raging asshole, and so are the idiots in his training camp. They’ve been trash-talking since the moment I agreed to this match. I didn’t really care and laughed most of it off until they got personal and took it a step too far.
Again he nails me in the head. It’s not as hard as it was last time which tells me he’s getting tired. Does it hurt? I guess.
But let’s say I’m a guy who’s used to pain.
Easton grins. He thinks I’m afraid of him. He thinks he has me where he wants me. But fear is an emotion I don’t allow myself to entertain. Fear gets you hurt and rips you apart till you think there’s nothing left.
I dodge out of reach. He scowls and takes another swing. This one gets close enough to my jaw to create a breeze that whips across my skin.
“Finn,” my brother Killian barks from the side. “Take him out now.”
He’s worried about me. So is my family. But now’s not the time to think about them. I keep my hands up as I edge away, letting Easton think I’m backing down, that I’m tired and need to catch my breath.
I sidestep when he lunges forward, avoiding his next swing and use the momentum to drop my head and nail him in the temple with a roundhouse kick.
Like I said, Easton’s fast.
Too bad for him I’m a little bit faster.
The kick is my signature move, as natural for me as the next breath. He goes down like I planned. But in the Octagon you don’t stop just because your opponent collapses like timber. You charge forward. You show him what you’re made of. And you prove just how tough you really are.
That muffled screaming, isn’t so muffled anymore. The crowd loses their shit as I pounce, my blows nailing Easton in the face until the ref’s arms hook beneath mine as he hauls me off. I back away, my fists up because I already know I won.
I should do a back flip or some crazy shit to incite the crowd. This is it. My time has come to own it. But the good things aren’t as great as they can be. Not with the memories that haunt me. And not with the anger they stir.
Killian rushes in as the medic wipes down my face. I’m bleeding from the punch Easton caught me with at the beginning of the round. I didn’t think it was that bad, but the way the ringside medic is pressing the towel against my head clues me in the gash isn’t closing like it should.
“I’m going to have to stitch you up, Fury,” he mumbles.
“I figured,” I tell him.
Kill pats my back. “Good job,” he says.
Maybe he believes it, but I don’t miss the concern in his voice. He thinks I took too many unnecessary hits. I can’t really argue, seeing how it’s true.
He doesn’t understand that I don’t feel those strikes the way I should. Hell, I don’t think I’ve felt anything the way I should in a long time. Not like I used to. I try to tell myself that maybe that’ a good thing. That numbness is better than pain. But I’m not so convinced anymore, and neither is my family. I try to shrug it off like I’m fine. Except given the way they’ve been eyeing me, I’m not fooling anyone.
I’m scaring everyone around me. And it sucks. Not only because I don’t want them scared, but mostly because I don’t know how to stop it.
“The referee has called a stop to this match at two-minutes and forty-nine seconds into the second round,” the announcer begins. “The winner by TKO, Finn ‘The Fury’ O’Brien.”
The crowd screams and pumps their fists in the air when my hand is raised. I take the few seconds I need to thank my sponsors, my camp, and my brother, because that’s what I’m supposed to do despite the fog clouding my senses. I wish that disconnect had something to do with all the hits I took, but deep down I know that it doesn’t.
I’m back in the locker room before I know it getting stitched up, too many people talking at once. God, I barely hear their questions or my responses. But they’re there and somehow I make it through.
“I’m worried about you, Finnie,” Kill says when everyone piles out.
“Don’t. I’m not drinking tonight. I’m headed home,” I assure him.
“That’s not what I mean,” he says. He’s sitting in a fold out chair, his arms resting against his muscular legs. “I think you need to talk to someone.”
I stretch out my arms. By now they’re so tight, they pull against the bones. “I am. I’m talking to you.”
I don’t have to see him to know he’s shaking his head, or that he’s looking sad, disappointed, and maybe something else, too. “I’m not who you should be speaking to,” he says. “Not for what’s going on in your head.”
“You’re enough,” I say, even though I know it’s no longer true.
“Finn,” he begins.
I don’t wait for him to finish, leaving the changing area and heading toward the showers. “Go find Sofia and Wren,” I call over my shoulder as I strip out my shirt. “See if they’re up for some dinner.”
I don’t remember peeling the rest of my clothes off. That numbness I’ve been feeling too much lately claiming me like a mist until it fully engulfs me. Fuck. It’s like I’ve stopped living even though for the most part I think I’m still alive.
I lean against the tile with my arms spread, allowing the water to beat against my back. It’s too hot. I should turn it down, but I don’t bother. Eventually, like everything else, the sensation fades.
I’m not sure how long I’m in that position. A few seconds? A few minutes? But then Easton and his trainer Yefim are suddenly there. “You got lucky, O’Brien,” Yefim calls out, taunting me with his thick eastern European accent.
Shit. Like all the trash talk before the fight wasn’t enough.
“Did you hear me, you pussy?” he fires back when I don’t answer. “Did you hear me, you goddamn coward?”
Coward? Fuck you. It’s what I think, but not what I say, focusing instead on the streams of water that gather along my feet before they swirl into the drain.
It doesn’t help. The rage that’s building, the one I only manage to barely keep in? It stirs in my gut like a heavy pot filled with hate, sin, and all the curses my Ma would still beat my ass for saying.
“What’re you doing?” Yefim asks.
His voice is closer, he’s drawing near. It doesn’t matter that I’m standing here naked. He wants to be next to me. I shudder, that feeling I keep buried drilling its way up.
“I know about you,” Yefim says, not bothering to keep his voice low. “But everyone knows, don’t they? Even if you don’t want them to.”
My body shakes a little more, but it’s not from the cooling water. It’s from his words and all that anger they trigger. Don’t do it. Don’t go there.
“You like to keep it a secret. Don’t you, pussy?”
Yefim laughs when I keep my trap shut. He thinks I’m backing down, just like Easton did before his face met the mat. “He’s crying,” he calls out to Easton. “What? Not so tough now?”
That’s where he’s dead wrong. Every muscle I’ve conditioned serves a purpose―to take down those who fuck with me. And right now, Yefim is seriously fucking with me.
“You like to pretend that it’s girls you like, don’t you?” he says. “But that’s not true, is it? Oh, no, that’s not true at all . . .”
I raise my chin, knowing that someone’s not leaving without bleeding, and I’ve bled enough tonight.
Yefim kicks at my calf. “What? Nothing to say? Can’t speak without your boyfriend here?”
“Boyfriend?” Easton asks, laughing. “No fucking way.”
“Yes. Way,” Yefim insists. “Didn’t you know this little pussy takes it up the
ass―”
I punch him so hard, I feel his teeth crack against my knuckles. For someone with decades of boxing experience he never saw me coming. But I see Easton flying at me out of the corner of my eye. I toss him over my shoulder, slamming him hard onto the ceramic tile floor. Like in the octagon, I throw myself on top of him, my fists colliding against his skin.
Voices rush forward, telling me to stop. A woman screams, but I don’t stop fighting off the bodies trying to grab me, breaking through the arms wrenching me back. I need to hit him―I need to feel my fists meeting his face―I need to feel something.
God damn it. I need to feel alive.
I don’t want the pain.
I don’t want the terror.
But once more, it’s all I feel.
READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
Crave Me
An O’Brien Family Novel
by Cecy Robson
CHAPTER 1
Wren
I drop the keys in Mr. Esposito’s hand and smile. He stares at them in his open palm like a precious gift, because to someone like him who’s worked hard all his life, it very much is.
“Thank you, Wren,” he says, meeting my smile. “I never thought I’d own a new car. Let alone be able to give one to my son as a gift.”
“You deserve it, Mr. Esposito,” I tell him, shaking his hand. “And so does your son for getting into Drexel. Tell Antonio, hi for me―Oh, and be sure to have someone take his picture when you hand him the keys.” I motion to my office behind me. “I want to add it to my memory wall.”
“I will.” He presses his lips tight as if considering what to say. “Your father would be proud of you,” he tells me. His soft brown eyes take in the massive dealership, fixing on the sales board displaying my current rank at number one. “Very proud.”
I hold onto my smile as he walks toward the brand new candy apple red F-150 hugging the curb, ignoring the brutal January wind that sweeps in when the doors to the lot zip open. Mr. Esposito pauses when he opens the driver’s side door. I had the boys in the back place a bow on dash like I do for all my customers. I think it’s a nice touch, and a way to thank them for their business. Mr. Esposito tosses me a grin over his shoulder. Maybe it’s the wind slapping against his face, or maybe it’s because he’s just that touched, but I catch his eyes glistening with tears.
Slowly he slips inside and grips the wheel, his widening smile lifting his deeply worn features.
The moment he pulls away, my smile vanishes. “Your father would be proud of you,” he’d said. He meant it as a compliment. Mr. Esposito has always been nice like that. But instead of giving me the warm fuzzies, that familiar pang tugs at my insides.
My heels click against the bleached white tile as I cross the showroom. The phones ringing off the hook have me turning toward the finance department. It’s been a nasty winter with all the snow we’ve been hit with, but I can’t say it’s been bad for business. One of the secretaries waves to me as she hurries to answer the phone. I wave back, not that she seems to notice. She starts writing as she takes the first call. Yeah, it’s going to be a busy week. But busy means work, and that’s something I’ve always been good at.
My eyes narrow when they fix on Oscar looming over Penny. Penny is smart, and an overall good person. She’s young, and hasn’t been here long, but she’s trying, and I know she has it in her to succeed. Too bad Oscar is stomping on her success, luring customers away from her every chance he gets.
“You snooze, you lose,” he tells her, pegging her with one of his more sleazy grins.
Penny was making headway with the guy who walked in, until Oscar shoved his way between them and baited him away, making Penny look like she didn’t know what she was talking about. If I hadn’t been busy with Mr. Esposito, I would have stepped in. Nothing gets me more than men who target those they think are weak.
“Wren!” Suze calls from behind the counter. “You have a call.”
“Okay. Send it through to my office,” I yell. I rush across the last few feet of the showroom, but not before I make sure Oscar steps far away from Penny.
The phone rings one, twice, before I slam the door behind me with my foot and reach across my desk and put the call on speaker. “Erin O’Brien,” I say.
There’s a brief pause before I hear, “Hi, Wren.”
Shit. My stomach twists the way it always does when I hear his voice. “What do you want, Bryant?” I ask, digging out my cell phone from my desk drawer.
“I miss you,” he says.
“Do you miss hitting me, too?” I fire back.
I’m talking tough. It’s what I do. Too bad I don’t feel so tough right now. Not when it comes to Bryant. A familiar sense of dread sends a chill down my spine, reminding me what happened the last time I pissed him off. I hit the record icon on my cell phone, hoping to catch him saying something I can use against him. But the damn thing beeps, and for all Bryant is an asshole, he’s not stupid.
“Are you recording me, pretty girl?” He laughs when I don’t answer. “Now, why would you do a thing like that?”
“Because I don’t trust you, because you hit me―oh, and because you’re an asshole.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, keeping his voice easy. “I’m just returning your call. You keep calling me so―”
“That’s a lie,” I say, my face heating with anger. He knows I’m recording him and trying to switch things around. “Don’t call me again. I want nothing to do with you.”
I hang up the phone. It’s been months since I last saw him, months since he last put his hands on me. But just when I think I’m rid of him, he reminds me he’s still there.
I could call the police. The problem is, he is the police. .
Evan
My Jaguar skids, again, again, and again, fighting to keep pace with the other drivers insane enough to travel the Blue Route in this weather. Chunks of wet snow smack against my windshield. My wipers squeak against the glass as they race to keep my line of sight clear when another vehicle cuts me off, pelting my windshield with more ice. My current struggle with life and death does not evidently discourage Ashleigh from barking messages over my Blue Tooth.
“Yodel called again, Evan. They want you to reconsider.”
“No,” I reply, cutting my steering wheel toward the left when my car veers right. “We’re representing Mellon, their biggest competitor. It’s a conflict of interest to supply both companies with the same technology.”
I mutter a curse when the minivan in front of me slams on their brakes and I narrowly miss ramming the bumper. And I suppose, because we’re in Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly love, the woman rolls down the window, permitting snow into her vehicle just to wave an irate middle finger at me.
“Rich Bitch loser,” she cries out.
I rub my face. Bloody hell, why am I here again? Before I can finish the thought, Ashleigh reminds me.
“Evan, we’re at risk for financial collapse. The company needs the revenue.”
“Not at the expense of our ethics,” I counter.
True, my company is at risk. But it’s due to poor business practices, such as the ones Ashleigh suggests I entertain. I understand she learned these tactics from my predecessor, but he was a conniving snake―which is why he’s currently serving time for embezzlement and I had to leave London to rebuild my father’s dying empire.
“What about your eleven a.m. with the V.P. of County General?”
“Have Anne and Clifton start straight away. I emailed them the presentation last night―”
“Do you really think they’re qualified?” she interrupts.
I open my mouth to insist that they are and to remind her I’m her superior, not the other way around. But I’m not oblivious to what she tells me. Anne and Clifton are fairly new and not at the level I’d prefer them to be. Nevertheless, they’re learning fast under my tutelage and the only ones from the original staff I trust.
“Evan,” she pr
esses.
“Ashleigh, Anne and Clifton will handle it. That’s my final word.” I disconnect, swearing as I take the ramp and practically slide down sideways.
Another proud Pennsylvanian sticks his head out the window. “Get a real car, fucker,” he hollers.
I rub my face again, tired and frustrated. I didn’t arrive home until three this morning. It wouldn’t have taken as long had I been driving a vehicle capable of enduring this ungodly weather.
I glance up, releasing a tense breath when the sign for the Ford dealership I researched comes into view. Saving iCronos will take me time. Time I can’t spare driving a Jaguar on roads better maneuvered via dogsled.
My car slows to a stop in front of the massive dealership. The combination of the vehicle I’m driving, along with the expensive suit and coat I’m wearing, command attention. The moment I step inside, a young woman with dark spiky hair hurries over. “Good morning, sir. I’m Penny,” she says. “Welcome to Ford Nation. Are you interested in acquiring a new vehicle?”
She seems young, but eager, a respectable attribute. Yet no sooner does she finish speaking than a man about my age steps in front of her, adjusting the jacket of his gray suit. “I got this, P,” he tells her. “Get us some coffee, will you?” He holds out his hand. “Hello. I’m Oscar Nelson. Welcome to Ford Nation.”
My frown bounces from his hand to the young woman whose face is now bright red with humiliation and possibly more. “Are you his assistant?” I ask her.
“No,” she answers. “I’m a car sales representative―”
Oscar speaks over her, but it’s the sound of quickly approaching footsteps that causes me to turn. A woman with a pinstripe jacket and matching skirt hurries forward, the quick motions of her long legs causing the edge of her skirt to brush above her knees and swing her hips seductively. Long hair flutters like streams of ebony smoke, revealing a staggeringly beautiful face better suited for my wildest fantasies.
I spent the first five years following the completion of my doctorate in either a lab or boardroom packed with men in alternating stages of balding, and these last nine months trapped in a building working a minimum of eighteen hour days. I haven’t had the opportunity or time to meet women. But if I’d known she was out here, I’d have spared a moment.
