by Nicole Lynne
Any minute now Poppy is going to come out and think I'm completely incompetent. I mean, shit, I am, but I can do this. How bad can it be?
Oh god, so bad. So, so bad. I'm standing in front of the changing table with Patrick naked from the waist down. I have one of Poppy's scarves tied around my face because I swear to god, it's like something crawled up his arsehole and died. He's already pissed on me and himself. A second wave of the smell hits me and I wretch. He's screaming blue murder, probably because he's lying on a table with his tadger out.
"Look, Patrick, this is not how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning either!" I roll up the offending nappy, fighting the urge to vomit as I shove it in one of those flowery scented bags that Poppy keeps.
"What are you doing?" Poppy asks from behind me. I turn to face her and her lips twitch as she fights a smile.
"Do not laugh. What the fuck have you been feeding him? Jesus, Mary and Joseph."
"Is that?" She points at my top.
"Yes, your son not only shat his pants, he pissed on me." She laughs hard, swiping tears from beneath her eyes. "Glad you find it funny," I say acerbically. I step away from Patrick and she moves in, wiping and talcum powdering expertly.
I go to her room and throw the scarf back in her closet before digging through her wardrobe and trying to find something that doesn't scream 'I've given the fuck up'. I settle on a plain tank top, because there's no helping this. I go back into the living room and fold my arms over my chest, glaring at the shitting machine. "Your wardrobe is shameful. We're going shopping."
Poppy drags a hand through her hair and sighs just as Patrick rolls onto his back on the floor and inserts his entire fist into his mouth. "Hope, if you're going to drag me into a thousand designer shops..."
"Hush, put the baby in the pram and let’s go." She knows better than to argue so she does as I say.
Four hours of shopping and there is an assortment of bags hooked over the handles of Patrick’s pram, making it hard for Poppy to push. She looks completely fed up, but honestly, it's nice to see her out and about like a normal person. Being a single mother is hard—or so I'm told. I try to help, but I'm not cut out for babies. Patrick and I have a good relationship as long as he doesn't shit near me.
We walk back to my car and she puts Patrick in his car seat while I fold up the pram and place it in the boot—just call me Mary Poppins.
I pull up outside the apartment and help her get the stuff out of the car.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours," I say, on my way back to the driver’s side door.
"Where are you going now?" Poppy asks, gripping the handle of the pram.
"To check on Finn," I say. Her eyes drop to the ground and she nods her head once. She hasn't spoken to Finn since we told her about Brandon. He didn't choose to find Brandon. It's not his fault. I know she knows it as well but the mind isn't always rational. "I'll see you later." I slide behind the wheel and pull away, watching Poppy disappear in the rear-view mirror.
4
Finn
The warm afternoon sun beats at my back, the heat soaking through my leather jacket until I'm sweating. I brace my forearms against the tank of my bike, propping one boot up on the foot rest.
Birds tweet in the nearby trees and the distant chatter of women drifts over from the school gates across the field. A bell rings, shrill and loud, and then there's the excited screaming of children as they pour through the front doors of the school and onto the playground. I watch the children rushing to meet their parents and then, I spot Lydia. My chest grows tight and a smile works its way over my lips. Lydia’s blonde pigtails bounce as she skips across the schoolyard, the pink ribbons tied at the ends catching in the breeze. The pink and purple backpack she has on looks too big for her tiny frame. She smiles before stepping up to Kiera’s Audi A3 that's always waiting for her.
She takes her backpack off and tosses it inside and then Kiera’s walking around the side of the car to help her as she awkwardly climbs into the back seat. Kiera’s all smiles, laughing as she walks back around to the driver’s side and climbs inside. I inhale, swallowing back that familiar ache in my chest as I remember the last time I actually held Lydia.
The aroma of coffee wraps around me when I step into the house. Cartoons are on the TV and Lydia is in her rocker, a wide toothless smile aimed my way. My heart warms the same way it always does when I see her. Little tufts of wispy blonde hair stick up on her head, catching in the sunlight that’s drifting through the bay window.
“Hey, baby girl.” I unbuckle the straps and pick her up, holding her to my chest. I place a kiss to her head, the sweet smell of baby lotion drifting up. “I missed you today,” I say, turning around with her in my arms. It’s then that I notice the two suitcases sitting in the corner of the living room. The floorboard in the hallway creeks and I turn. Kiera’s leaning against the doorframe, her arms folded over her chest, her gaze aimed at the floor.
“What’s going on?” I ask. Without a word, she steps into the living room and reaches for Lydia. I take a step back and frown. “Kiera?”
She looks up and all I see is a world of pain on her beautiful features. Her hazel eyes are swimming with unshed tears, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip the way it always does when she’s anxious. “Please, give her to me,” she whispers.
Inhaling, I glance down at Lydia and my heart slams against my ribs in a fit of panic. I kiss her head once before I reluctantly hand her to Kiera. “Kiera, don’t do this.”
She closes her eyes on a breath. “I love you Finn,” she looks up at me, “but you’re too unpredictable. I want to help you, I do, but I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice breaks right along with anything good that was left in me. “I have tried,” she says through tears.
I clench my fist as I fight back the wave of pain that suddenly transforms into rage. I breathe in and out to try and keep it under control. She presses her palm against Lydia’s back and my gaze locks on the bruise covering her forearm. I close my eyes and exhale. I did that to her. I love her. I would never hurt her, and yet— I did. “I need you, Kiera,” I say. “Please give me a chance.”
“I packed your clothes. I’ll send you the rest of your things when you’re settled.” Tears sting my eyes and I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“I’m going to get help, Kiera.” I grit my teeth. “I promise. Please just…just give me that chance.”
She nuzzles her face against Lydia’s neck. I step toward her and place my hand on Lydia’s head, stroking her downy hair as tears trail down my cheeks.
I cup Kiera’s cheek and I hate myself when she flinches, her eyes fluttering shut on a hitched breath. “I love you,” I whisper as I lean in and gently kiss her. “Look after my baby girl.” I brush my lips over Lydia’s cheek, fighting back the urge to completely break down. “Be good.”
And then I turn and pick up the two suitcases before I walk out of the house we bought together on the street near the school that Lydia will one day attend.
The taillights to Kiera’s car flash on, snapping me from my thoughts. Five years ago, I walked out on my whole life. On all the dreams and hopes, all the bright visions of a future with my family shattered. What war couldn’t completely desecrate, Kiera did, and I can’t even blame her. I was half a man, unfit to be a husband or a father. Now though, things are different. I’m different. I got help. I sorted my head out. I want to see her, but Kiera has done everything in her power to stop me. So, for now this is what I'm resigned to: watching my daughter from a distance, wishing I could see her smile, feel her small arms wrap around my neck. I hate the idea that one day Lydia’s going to ask Kiera about me, that she'll think I abandoned her when I never did. I'm always here. Every school day, just trying to catch a glimpse of her. I’m trying to do what I can to be able to see her.
I dig my phone from my pocket and call David Winton, my solicitor.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Finn West. I was just wondering where we sta
nd with getting my custody rights revisited?”
“Still working on it, Finn. Tons of paperwork to file, people to sweet talk. Give me another few weeks, alright? I’ll call you.”
“I’ll call you back in two weeks.”
“Sounds great.” And he hangs up.
Sighing, I roll my bike off the kick stand and start the engine. The roar of the exhausts draws the attention of everyone nearby. I pull my helmet over my head and rev the throttle, sending the tires screeching over the tarmac.
By the time I get home, that same cold reality is setting in: the life I was supposed to live is so near, yet so very far. I leave my bike at the curb and head up to my flat, lost in my thoughts. As soon as I reach the top of the stairs, I groan. Hope's sitting next to the door, scrolling through her phone.
"What are you doing here?" Fucking hell, please go home.
Glancing up from her phone, she huffs and gracelessly clamours to her feet. "I came to see you, you ungrateful cunt," she says in that lilting Irish accent.
I glare at her before I shove the key in the lock, open the door, and step inside. I go to close the door, but she grabs it just before it shuts.
"Do not make me cut you, Finnley!" She shoves the door open with her hip and folds her arms over her chest as she glares back at me.
Groaning, I clench my jaw. I don't want her here. I don't want anyone fucking here. "Don’t you have somewhere to be?"
She smirks, her bright red lips curling at one corner. "Nope. I'm all yours." She walks into the apartment and goes straight into my kitchen. I scowl and follow her. She's opening the fridge and going through the cupboards.
I stand in the doorway, staring at her. She's been nagging me ever since Brandon died. I guess she thinks I need someone. I don't. Especially not her annoying arse. I walk to the couch and flop back, adjusting one of the pillows under my head and closing my eyes. "I'm going to sleep."
I can feel her watching me. "You look like shit,” she says. “You know, you used to be hot. You need to eat...and sleep. Then maybe you wouldn't get your arse beat in a fight." I frown, refusing to open my eyes and acknowledge her. It may be childish but I don't care. "And I'll just talk to myself because you're all mysterious and strong and silent." I crack an eyelid and she's glaring at me with her hands propped on her hips.
"Go away." I smile and close my eye again.
"Don't make me go all ginger on you, Finn," she says, her voice trailing off as she walks away from me.
God, I want to tell her to fuck off. I feel heat threatening my cheeks and I take a deep breath, focusing on the little shred of hope I have that she'll fucking leave.
There's a series of bangs before the taps cut on and the microwave whirs to life. I groan. What the hell is she doing? I've been blatantly ignoring her for a while when the clink of a dish being placed on the coffee table alerts me to her presence.
"Here. Food. Eat it, you ungrateful fuck."
I want to laugh, but I don't. I just keep my eyes closed and fake a snore. Hope groans, mumbling the word fuck and ungrateful over and over as I hear her head toward the door. The hinges creak before the door slams shut and then I open my eyes. There's a jacket potato, cut open and steaming with grated cheese melted over the top. I sit up, take the plate in my hand, and settle back on the couch before grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. Hope's nice. She means well. I just don't like people. I have my routine and she's not part of it. She’s too chaotic.
****Break****
The low mumble of conversation fills the air. Larry’s twangy American accent echoes through the speakers: “You ladies and gents are in for a good time tonight, I tell ya.” The crowd cheers and he grins. “You’re gonna see one hell of a fight tonight…” He likes to rile them up and I like it when the crowd is riled up. It gives this static electricity to the place, the kind you can feel buzzing through the air, crackling. Fighting. It makes me feel grounded. It gives me an outlet for the rage, the hate that constantly cycles through me. Sometimes I wonder if I was always like this, but I can't really remember. All I remember is my training. The war. Sniping out target after target. Kill. Kill. Kill. I can still smell the gunfire, the scent of fuel that hung heavy in the air. Hears the screams of the other men—
"Finn the Iron Fist West," Larry introduces me and I snap back to the moment, my blood boiling with thoughts of war and carnage. I slip between the ropes. The crowd goes crazy the second I step into the ring. I glance out over the sea of drunk men and women packed from wall to wall. The Pit is full and I smile at that thought. I love that people come here to watch me beat the fuck out of some other guy. They cheer for the blood, the violence, and I give it to them. It's fucked up if you think about it. They shout for me to punch my opponent harder, nail him in the gut. They want pain...and so do I. I want to hurt this fucker standing across from me, fist in front of his face as he bounces on his feet. I want to hurt him for the simple fact that I can, that I like how it feels when my fist collides with his hard jaw. Here, in this ring, I can be a monster, a beast—and it makes me a hero. It is my outlet. In some ways, it's the only thing that keeps all those other thoughts from eating me alive.
The bell dings and my mouth salivates at that blessed sound. I pull my fists up, my eyes glued to the bastard across from me as we dance a circle around one another. People shout. Women whistle. The guy's blue eyes swim with aggression, and he throws his first punch, hitting me square in the jaw. It stings and I hiss at the pain, my nostrils flaring before I swing at him. Adrenaline fires through me. I pound my fists against his face again and again, stunning him. He staggers back a few steps and his hands fall to his sides. He attempts to swing again and I duck, popping right back up and nailing him in the gut. He doubles over on a grunt. The crowd goes wild. Smiling, I throw one last punch and undercut his jaw. He falls like a tree. His body lands on the concrete, blood and spit flying from his mouth.
Larry claps as he shuffles between the ropes and walks to the centre of the ring, grabbing my arm and lifting it up. "The winner: Finn the Iron Fist West." I nod, glancing out over the crowd before I turn and slip back through the ropes, already unwinding the tape from my wrists.
This is my life, instead of putting my daughter to bed right now, I'm wiping blood off my knuckles and walking out of a crowded basement full of gamblers and drunks. All I can wonder is why I had to fucking fail. Her. Brandon. Every-fucking-one.
5
Hope
The basement of the pub is full of filthy men. The ring is nothing more than a roped off square of concrete, and the entire place reeks of beer and body odour with an undertone of piss. Dirty old men roar and heckle at the two sweat covered men in the ring. I spot Larry, Haven's dad, off to the side of the ring. He's shouting at Finn who is now his prized fighter—it used to be Brandon. That boy was chased by demons, but damn did they make him fight well. Me and Haven are at the back of the room, standing on some rickety chairs, watching as Finn and his opponent circle each other.
Haven whistles. “Get him, Finn,” she shouts.
One of the men in front of us turns around and drags his eyes over me then her, a sick smile creeping over his face. I'm tempted to kick him in the nuts for staring at her because, Jesus, what is she? Eighteen? I glance at her. Streaks of purple dye are scattered throughout her blonde hair. She’s wearing an old Nirvana t-shirt that’s so thin you can see her bra through.
Finn throws a punch and nails the other guy in the cheek. Each of Finn’s movements are calculated and calm. His muscles bunch and flex under the lights. Dark and quiet, it’s hard not to find Finn sexy. Ever since I moved here, he’s been my favourite of the guys to watch fight. They’re all attractive in their own way, but something about Finn has always left me a little hot under the collar. Maybe it’s his dark hair that’s just a little too long and messy, or his brown eyes that never miss a trick.
The other guy throws a punch and misses which garnishes a smile from Finn just before he slams his fist over the guy’s fa
ce. He's always been the one I thought fought just to fight, but right now I see something else in him. I see that rage that used to overtake Brandon when he fought and something tells me there's a storm brewing.
Haven screams Finn's name and I turn to smile at her for a second, and in that second, it’s all over. Finn knocks the guy out and the crowd roars. This is when it gets hairy, when the room becomes divided between those who have lost and those who have won. Men like to gloat and that's when tempers run high, but I love it. I love all the testosterone, the element of danger, the thrill of the fight. You can practically smell the bloodlust in the air. A pair of hands grab at my hips. I'm about to knee someone in the face when I glance down to see Kyan. He's a dog and has also become one of my best friends. He lifts me from the chair, placing me on my feet before he grabs Haven. A couple of the nearby spectators pat Kyan on the shoulder and he smiles at them before turning back to me.
"What's up, ginge?" he asks, grinning. His blond hair is piled in a messy bun and he's wearing a sleeveless shirt that shows off his defined arms. His eyes twinkle as they sweep over my body and I smile, running my finger down his arm teasingly. He steps closer, pressing his chest against mine. I glance over his shoulder and see Haven walking away towards the stairs.
