The Beginning and End of Everything

by Stevie J. Cole

  I stand up and head to the bathroom, pulling my shirt over my head as I go.

  Poppy can judge me all she likes. I don't care. We both know this is exactly where I would have been all along without Connor.

  It's almost fitting that, in his absence, I should become everything he tried so hard to save me from.

  31

  Poppy

  The bar is more crowded with men than last time—if that’s even possible. A few keep smiling and shooting glances at me, but I ignore them.

  "Ah, treacle." Someone brushes my hair from my shoulder, before resting their hand on me. "Was it the lure of the ball bag cat, or just my dashing good looks?"

  I turn just as Kyan steps up beside me. He's cleaned up from earlier. His blond hair is twisted into a messy bun, the scruff on his face shaved into clean lines.

  "It was most definitely the cat." I’ve dealt with enough guys like Kyan to know I can't give him an inch.

  "Right.” He hops over the counter and squats in front of a cooler, shoving his hand between it and the wall. "Come on now, you little scroate."

  There's a hiss, and a tiny, flesh-colored paw swats at him from the crevice. He yanks his arm back and bites down on his lip. "You little shithead.” He reaches in again, this time dragging the ugliest cat I have ever seen out by the nape of its neck. It’s hairless, with pink, wrinkled skin, and bulging blue eyes, and to top it off, someone had put a pink rhinestone collar around its neck.

  He cradles it in his arms and leans over the counter, so I can pet it. Kyan may seem rough around the edges, but there's something endearing about him.

  Larry struts out from the back, hitching his pants underneath his bulging gut, and his gaze pings between Kyan and me. "Word of advice,” he says, thumbing toward Kyan. “He ain't worth a pile of shit. You're more likely to get a three-legged midget to win ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ than get that boy to fall in love with you."

  "Oh, bug off, old man."

  Larry swats his hand through the air. "You bug off. Now, you gonna be a proper gentleman and introduce me to this lovely girl or not?"

  "This is Poppy. She's Brandon's…" His brow scrunches. "Something."

  Larry smiles and scratches a hand over his stubble like he’s thinking.

  “Here’s your pussy.” Kyan dumps the cat—who I assume is Madam Wrinkles—into Larry’s arms, grabs a beer from the cooler, and opens the door leading to the basement. “We’ve got a fight to watch.”

  I follow him down, right to the front of the ring, and the crowd behind us grows thicker by the second. Brandon appears in the exit, his eyes glued on me. He starts across the room, shoving people out of the way, and the closer he gets, I realize his gaze is locked on Kyan, not me.

  He grabs the front of Kyan’s shirt and yanks him up, bringing their faces inches apart. “You brought her into the middle of The Pit?” Anger swirls in Brandon’s eyes, but Kyan looks unfazed by any of it.

  "She wanted to come."

  "If she gets hurt, I'm going to personally tear you a new arsehole."

  Kyan rolls his eyes and lightly shoves against Brandon's chest, breaking from his hold. "Fine. Now go fight. I'm putting money on you, you psychotic bastard." He laughs.

  Brandon spares me the briefest of glances before he turns back to the ring. The second he steps between the ropes, the crowd goes crazy.

  An announcer steps into the ring, then the bell dings.

  Brandon’s gaze hones in on his opponent, and they circle one another, fists up. The other guy throws the first punch, and Brandon drops his fists. The woman beside me gasps, and the guy punches Brandon square in the jaw. Brandon never lets the other guy get one hit in. Never. The guy hits him again, and Brandon smiles. His eyes lock on me just before he spits blood from his mouth.

  Another jab lands on his face, and he stumbles back a few steps, dazed.

  "What the hell is he doing?" I shout at Kyan.

  He shrugs. "Ah, he likes the way it feels to get slammed in the face a few times. That's all, treacle."

  But I think he’s doing it to get to me—because I came when he told me not to. I watch Brandon take a few more hits until I can’t stomach it any longer.

  When I turn to leave, Kyan grabs my hand. "Where are you going?" he shouts over the rumble of the crowd.

  "I don't want to watch any more of this."

  "Brandon will have my arse if I let you leave."

  "Just give me a minute."

  He gives a reluctant nod, then I force my way through the sweaty men toward the exit.

  There are only a few people left upstairs, playing cards at a table by the door. I take a seat at the end of the bar and bury my face in my hands. The image of Brandon taking hit after hit plays on a loop. He’s always had a dark cloud looming over his head, but now it seems more like a violent storm, swirling and churning, waiting to implode. I’m afraid I don’t even know who he is anymore. But then again, I’m not even sure that I know who I am anymore, either.

  War and loss. Those things will destroy a person from the inside out.

  "Looks like you might need this." A martini glass slides in front of me, and I glance up at the young blond standing on the other side of the counter. She drums her nails over the wood top and narrows her gaze on me. "You don't look like the kind of girl who'd be hanging ‘round here."

  I run a finger along the rim of the glass, not at all interested in having a sip. My stomach is already enough of a mess. A loud boom of applause comes from the floor.

  "Bet Brandon just knocked the lad square on his arse,” she says before walking off to serve another patron.

  Minutes go by, and a few men trickle up from downstairs, counting money on their way to the front.

  “Haven, get me a beer, would you?”

  The legs of the barstool beside me scrape the floor before Kyan sits, folding his thick forearms over the bar. “Too much, eh?” he asks, and I give a curt nod.

  Haven places a pint of beer in front of him, and he swipes the foam with his thumb. “You staying with him?”

  I shrug a shoulder and finally take a sip of my drink.

  "I really don't think you should go back to his flat tonight.”

  Annoyance tenses my muscles, and my gaze lifts, expecting a cocky smirk to be plastered to his face, but all that’s there is a look of worry.

  “Look, I know I come across like a ripe prick, but I know how he can get.”

  My defenses go up. "And I know how Brandon can get."

  "Look, Poppy. I know you knew Brandon, but that's just it. You knew him before war ate him up and spat him out."

  Lowering my gaze to my drink, I swallow. Knew him. Maybe Kyan is right. Maybe I've lost all grasp of who Brandon is.

  "Treacle." Kyan gently takes my chin in his hand and turns my face toward his. "You've not a clue what we've seen—him and me. It ain't something you watch in a film. There’s not a speck of that tragic glamour the media gives it. Honestly, there ain't a word that can touch what war is. Feckin' hell is the closest you can come to it." He releases a sigh. "And right now, I promise, you don't want to go dancing with the devil."

  Even though something in my gut tells me I should listen to Kyan, I don’t want to admit that I’ve lost Brandon, too. "It's fine,” I say, pulling my face from his hold. “But I appreciate your concern.” And with that, I leave my drink and make my way to the exit.

  I drive around London for the better part of an hour, listening to the radio and thinking. I’ve been so hung up on finding Brandon, I never once thought about what I would do if he didn’t want to be found. Which makes me feel stupid. People only disappear when they want to be lost

  I may need Brandon, but I don’t think he needs me.

  And I have to be okay with that.

  Eventually, I pull in front of Brandon’s flat and cut the engine, convincing myself on the way up the walkway that I should go in and tell him goodbye. Connor may have asked us to look after one another, but he had no way of knowing the people
we would become once he was gone.

  The front door is cracked open, and the repetitive thwack of Brandon taking swings at the punching bag drifts through the opening. He glances over his shoulder when the hinges creak, and I step inside. Shooting a cold stare at me, he throws one last punch to the bag, his busted knuckles leaving a bloody mark on the side. Without one word of acknowledgment, he snatches the bottle of whiskey from the coffee table, then disappears down the hall, slamming the door seconds later. I listen to the sounds of silence until the water cuts on in the shower, and suddenly, I’m not so sure I can leave.

  He's lost. We’re both lost without Connor.

  I drop to the couch and close my eyes. We should be able to understand one another. We always have…

  I wait for over half an hour before I start to worry that he’s drunk himself into a stupor, and maybe passed out, face down in the tub.

  I make my way down the hall, stopping in front of the bathroom door, and knock. "Brandon?"

  He doesn’t answer.

  "Hey!” I grab the doorknob when he still hasn’t made a noise and twist. “You okay?"

  Brandon’s in his boxing short, on the floor of the tub with his back against the wall, water pouring over him. He lifts the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and takes a gulp without looking at me.

  "Brandon?"

  When I sit on the edge of the tub, he takes another swig from the half-empty bottle before I reach for it, but he yanks it away.

  "I’m not gonna smash it this time.” I hold out my hand. “Just give me the damn bottle, would you?”

  His murky-green eyes slowly lift to meet my gaze before he passes me the drink. I take it, place the rim to my lips, and tilt back my head. The warm liquor heats my throat as I swallow mouthful after mouthful, only dropping the bottle long enough to catch my breath before I turn it up again.

  We pass the whiskey back and forth until it’s empty, then I stagger into the hallway, throwing the bottle down beside the couch because I can’t be bothered to walk into the kitchen. Sighing, I fall onto the sofa, toss my head back, and try to focus my swimming vision.

  Brandon stumbles down the hall in his soaked shorts and slumps against the living room wall with his eyelids half-drooped and water puddling around his feet.

  His jaw is purple and swollen from the fight, and I go to the kitchen and dig through the frozen TV dinners until I find an ice pack. But when I come back to the living room and offer it to him, he simply shakes his head.

  "Your face looks awful, Brandon.”

  "I like it,” he slurs, stumbling farther into the room. "I like the pain."

  Dropping onto the sofa, I throw the ice pack onto the coffee table. Most people avoid pain at all costs, yet, here he is craving it. It's his own form of punishment. But you've been punished enough in life. We both have…

  Brandon trips over the coffee table, then falls onto the couch beside me. He lays his head on my lap with a groan. "I'm sorry, possum," he mumbles, placing my hand on his damp hair, and a tiny fissure rips through my heart. After all these years, here we are again. Him wanting comfort, and me wanting to make him feel loved, to make the pain stop.

  "It's okay." I choke on my words as I brush my fingers through his thick hair.

  He grips my knee. "You know it's not."

  "Okay.” I exhale. “It's not. But what do we do, huh?"

  "We drink, and we try to fucking forget. Until we can't forget anymore." He rolls onto his back, his gaze touching mine before he focuses on the ceiling. "And then the demons will be right there. Waiting for us."

  "Are they ever gone, Brandon?” I sweep a dark curl from his forehead, and his brows pinch into a frown. His jaw clenches.

  "Every time I close my eyes, all I see are their faces," he says through gritted teeth. "Nothing but death and destruction.” Tears creep from the corners of his eyes, rolling down to his temples.

  And I can’t help but think this is the part of war that’s left unseen. He and I—we are the reality of what it does to people, and there is nothing romantic about it. In our cases, I don't believe there is anything salvageable from it. And I find myself questioning God again with the whys, the hows, trying to grasp the cruelty of it all. "None of this is fair,” I whisper.

  His eyes close, and a few more tears break free. "You should leave, poss. I destroy everything I touch. My dad always said the devil wouldn't even want me. That I was a worthless shit." He huffs a laugh. "Con found that out the hard way."

  "Brandon, don’t—”

  “This thing inside me, I can't control it." There’s a desperate sadness clinging to his voice. One that breaks me. "I'm gonna hurt you, poss.”

  "You already did, and I’m still here." The alcohol swims in my veins, bringing honesty bubbling to the surface. As much as I wish I hadn’t said it, it’s the truth—one I’ve tried to deny for years, but all those years ago, Brandon hurt me.

  He drags a hand over his face, and I wonder if he’s thinking about what he did. "I barely even know myself anymore."

  I comb my fingers through his hair, fighting my urge to cry. "Neither of us are the same people. So, Brandon Blaine,” I swallow when I use Connor’s last name—my last name. “Who are you now?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, when you figure it out, you just let me know." I lean over and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, and he trails his fingertips along my jaw in a feather-light touch. "I'm just glad I have whoever you are."

  "Always, possum." He taps the tattoo on his chest. "Right here."

  I cover the sob with my hand and keep sweeping my fingers through Brandon’s hair until he passes out. The broken taking care of the broken. What a pitiful mess we are.

  32

  Brandon

  I blink open my eyes, groaning as the bright morning light scorches my retinas. My head is pounding, and my stomach clenches uncomfortably when I roll over, nearly falling off the sofa. When I glance up, Poppy is leaning against the kitchen side, a cup of coffee in her hand. Wet hair hangs in her face, and dark, makeup stains linger beneath her eyes. She looks worse than I feel, and that's saying something. I get to my feet and unsteadily rock back and forth.

  "I have a headache," she mumbles.

  Blurred memories surface of her drinking whiskey straight from the bottle last night.

  "Whiskey will do that to you." I place my hand on the wall and make my way to the bathroom. Stumbling inside, I squint against the sunlight as I piss. Today is not going to be a good day. By the time I stagger back to the kitchen, Poppy is bent over the counter with her face resting on her outstretched arms.

  I open the cupboard and grab a new bottle of whiskey. Poppy doesn’t even lift her head as I pour a splash into her coffee and take a sip. This will fix my head. Poppy, on the other hand, I’m not sure there’s any fixing that.

  “Possum, what are you doing?”

  She slowly lifts her face and stares at me, eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “Dying.”

  “This isn’t you, Poppy. You don’t do this shit.”

  She was the good girl. Well, unless I was involved. She was always on this pedestal, the girl that was far too good to be anything to me, but miraculously, she was my best friend.

  She mumbles something before snagging my coffee and taking a swig. Her eyes water and her lips purse together, and then she turns to the sink and spits it out. "What the hell, Brandon? Whiskey? In your coffee?" Placing her palm on her forehead, she shakes her head.

  I snort. "Seriously, what are you doing? You just gonna hole up in this shitty apartment, dragging my drunk arse off the couch every night and watching me fight? This isn't your world, poss, and he'd want better for you." I want better for her, but we both know Connor's opinion was always worth a damn sight more than mine. "Sort out your shit. Get the house back."

  "I don't want it back. I don't want any of it. Surely you, of all people, can understand that..."

  I drag my hand down my face. "Well, then you sell it, you…you pl
an. Me. This—this is not a plan, babe." I can see her spiraling right on down with me, and the truth is, in just a few days, I’ve come to like her being here.

  Poppy was always like this shiny light, something I had to consciously stay away from. Even at the tender age of ten, I knew I'd extinguish her if I weren't careful. By the time I was eighteen, she felt like a damn addiction. Just being around her made the world a bit brighter and the shit a little easier to bear.

  My world is darker and shittier than it ever was before, and here she is, her light dulled but never completely gone. Only now, Connor isn't here, and I will destroy her. The worst part is that I think I already selfishly need her too much to do the right thing.

  "It's too late," she says. "I had an eviction notice on the door the day I left."

  "How? The army must have paid out a war pension for Con."

  Her gaze falls to the floor, and she takes a deep breath. "I spent it. Most of it, anyway, you know…"

  "Don't tell me you did rent-a-crowd for his funeral." I smirk. "Got him a horse-drawn carriage and unicorns?"

  She almost laughs. "No." Her eyes lift to mine, so fractured.

  That familiar ache surfaces, and I find myself shuffling back to the cabinet and reaching for the bottle of whiskey to top off my coffee. "The suspense is killing me here, poss." The liquor glugs into the hot black liquid.

  "Finding you. I spent it finding you."

  I pause before placing the bottle down and moving closer to her. She's broke and homeless because of me. Her eyes close, and slow tears trail over her porcelain skin. I wipe them with my thumb and cup her cheek.

  On a sharp breath, she leans into my touch. "You are all I have left in this world, Brandon."

  And that's the saddest thing I've ever heard.

  She wraps her arms around my waist, and I inhale the scent that is all Poppy as my lips press to her forehead. She needs me, and I need her. It's a twisted form of co-dependency, but it's all we have.