The roar is insane, and I remain in the corner, my hands loose at my sides.
"He is undefeated, ladies and gents. A legend in this here ring." More cheers. "And fighting him tonight is a monster, a rebel, the undisputed bad boy of the professional middle-weight world, Ronnie 'Wreckage' Sanders!"
My opponent climbs through the ropes with his head held so high it makes me smile. The crowd boos him the way they do every outside contestant. The thing about The Pit, they support their own. And given that Larry loves to big up the whole ex-military shit, they're all about supporting Larry's guys. Of course, that means they bet on us, and that's no good, so Larry keeps trying to bring in bigger and badder fighters in an attempt to make some money.
Ronnie Sanders is just such a guy, banned from professional boxing because he half ripped a guy’s ear off with his teeth. The guy clearly has no morals, and truthfully, that’s how I like it.
Larry steps out, and then the bell rings. Ronnie grins as if he's about to slaughter me. When I’m here in this ring, everything outside of it ceases to exist. Something in me shifts, and I morph into nothing but raw aggression and lethal instinct, because, to be a fighter—a good fighter—you have to stop thinking and simply react.
I take the few steps towards him. His smile drops a fraction, eyes narrowing as he studies my approach. I feign left, and he lifts his guard, defending his face. I drive my fist into his gut hard enough that I know he'll be winded, but he takes the opportunity to swing at me. Usually, I'd stand here and take it; hell, I'd even be excited at the prospect of being smacked by a guy with his kind of reputation, but I force myself to think through the simple blood lust and remember Poppy’s request.
I duck and pop up, pulling my fist back and using all the strength I have when I drive my fist into his temple. My knuckles crack under the pressure, and a dull ache explodes over my hand. He staggers back on his feet for a second before he goes to his knees in front of me and then falls like a felled tree.
The shouting and clapping explode around me. I glance to the side of the ring where Larry stands flanked by Finn and Kyan, and Larry looks pissed. Finn has a small smile on his face, and Kyan, well, he's got his arm around some blonde in a tight dress, staring at her cleavage.
When I step out of the ring, people part like I’m Moses and they’re the Red Sea, scampering away as I make my way to the door in the corner. I grip the door handle, pause, and take a deep breath. It doesn't matter how calm I try to be, fighting does something to me, forces something primal and aggressive to the surface. My blood burns through my veins. I close my eyes for a second and try to force the rage back to that place where it sits, waiting to break free at the slightest provocation.
No sooner do I step into the small corridor than Poppy appears in the doorway of the storeroom. Her eyes search my face, and I know she sees the bomb waiting to go off. It’s here, when I'm in this place, that the line between reality and nightmare becomes so very thin. Being in that ring is a dulled down version of war. There are no bullets, and I’m not going to die, but it still brings out that reflexive survival instinct.
Poppy watches me for a moment as though she’s unsure what to do next. "You okay?"
I nod stiffly. "Just...give me a second."
Her brows draw together as concern fills her eyes. She calls to the lost fragments of my soul that are buried in shadows so thick and black, I can barely see out.
I try to resist her, I do, but it's futile. Before I know it, I'm storming across the space that separates us. Her eyes widen, and she takes a trembling step back before my hands land on her waist, and my lips slam over hers. For a moment, her body stiffens, and then almost immediately softens. She’s so trusting. Small hands wind around my neck as she submits to me completely. Everything about her washes over me, calming everything in its wake. She bridles the rage and calms the storm. When I lift her she parts her thighs, wrapping them around my hips as I press her to the wall. I trace my nose down the side of her throat, breathing her in like pure oxygen.
The door to the locker room cracks against the breezeblock wall, as Larry shoves his way inside. Poppy squirms away from me, and I drop her back onto the ground.
"What the hell was that shit out there, huh?" Larry’s face is red, his eyes wild as he rounds the corner into the small room. "Shit like that ain't gonna win me no money, son. You pull stunts like that one, and no jackass is gonna fight you. Jesus."
I move Poppy behind me, blocking Larry's view of her. "I've told you before, old man, I fight the way I fight, and I win."
"And I've told you before that if you can't at least make it entertaining, I ain't got no need for you." His left eye twitches a little. "Shit-fire, I mean, I like you and all, but a business is a business." Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he sighs.
"I'm your best fighter, Larry. You know it. I know it. Half this crowd only came here for me, so take it or leave it."
"You may be my best fighter, only 'cause you're half looney as a fucking schizophrenic wombat, but shit, no one wants to watch you knock the bastard out first go."
"Plenty of illegal fight rings in London, Larry. I can walk into any one of them tomorrow. You just say the word." I don't want to be an arsehole. I like Larry. He gave me a means of making money and, to a degree, a sense of belonging that I hadn't felt in a long time, but I'm not a puppet. I'm not about to go in there and fight to orders. They may be illegal, but they sure as hell don't need to be fixed.
His expression falls blank. "None of those other places are gonna put up with your shit, boy. How many times have I had to drag your drunk ass outta your apartment and sober you up? How many times have I pulled you outta some bullshit bar fight before the cops got called and your AWOL ass really gets into trouble? You think anyone else is gonna put up with that mess?" His gaze falls behind me onto Poppy. "Besides her, huh?"
I take half a step forward and open my mouth to respond when Poppy shoulders past me and practically squares up to Larry. He stares down at her tiny frame, brows raised.
She glares at him. "You are part of his problem. Have you ever paid attention to how angry he is when he leaves? Maybe instead of dragging his drunk ass out of his flat to fight, you should have tried to send him to get help. Don't act like a martyr because you're not."
I stand here, unable to move or interfere.
"A martyr? Who said any—"
"If you cared about him, you would get him help."
"That's what the fighting's for to—"
"Oh, shut it with that bullshit, would you? Look at him." She points at me. "Does he look like you've helped him?”
"Poss, let me handle it," I pull her to my side.
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her foot over the floor. "Oh, yes, by all means, go ahead, Brandon. Handle it."
"Take it or leave it, Larry,” I say. “You want me to take a punch? Get better fighters.” I pick up my bag and place an arm around Poppy's shoulders, basically dragging her from the room.
Damn, she's like a dog with a bone when she's mad. I haven't seen that side of her in so long, I'd almost forgotten it existed.
45
Brandon
It's been months of being with Poppy, months where I've found some semblance of calm within my own personal anarchy, and although I've accepted the fact that life goes on and all you can do is try to slog your way through the shit the best you can, I still feel guilty.
Not a single morning goes by where I don’t wake up next to her, knowing that it should be Connor.
I'm also painfully aware of the circumstances that I live in, and the fact that she's willingly joined me in it. She works during the day, and I fight at night. Every time I fight, that little switch inside me flips. Sometimes I like it. It serves as an outlet for the rage. Other times I loathe it. Poppy hates it. She hates the fighting, and she hates Larry simply because he owns the fight ring. But what she doesn't see is that without it, I really am good for nothing. It's the only thing I e
xcel at anymore, and it pays the bills. It’s not the fight that’s the problem, it's the aftermath, the long moments where my mind dives into the violence and the blood lust. And it's in those times that I can't see Poppy clearly anymore. She slips into the background for a while, a secondary consideration to my desperate primal urges.
I'm sitting on the couch, holding a bag of frozen peas to my jaw when I hear her key in the lock. Shit. I shove the peas behind a sofa cushion just in time for her to walk in, two plastic bags stuffed with food in her hands.
"Hey." I get up and take the sacks from her, dumping them on the kitchen counter.
"Brandon?"
I don't turn around. "Yeah?" I take shit out of bags, shoving it in cupboards. Hell, I have no idea where this crap even goes.
She grabs my shoulder and turns me around, her gaze narrowing on my throbbing cheek. "Why Is your face red?"
"Fight," I say as a way of an explanation. I mean, shit, I do fight for a living.
Rolling her eyes, she opens the cabinet I just closed, takes the milk out, and then puts it in the fridge. "I don't know why you let Larry bully you into getting hit."
"I don't," I say defensively. The truth is, I like getting hit, and although things are so much better with Poppy in my life, I will always seek out that small punishment. I will always like the pain, which makes me a prick since I know it upsets her. "He took my advice, got a better fighter." I shrug.
She glares at me, those grey eyes of hers stormy as hell. "No one is a better fighter than you. Try again."
I take a step toward her, smiling as I wrap my arms around her waist. "Your faith in me is cute, but there is always someone better."
"Okay, so, he hit you? You let some other guy get the upper hand?"
I lift my shirt, showcasing the blossoming purple bruise where I let the fucker nail me in the kidney.
"Doubled me over and went for the face. The kid’s got skills." I trail my fingers over her cheek, and her expression softens slightly. "You're sexy when you're mad." I smirk, leaning in to kiss her.
She covers my mouth with her hand. "You're lying to me, Brandon O’Kieffe."
"I'm not..." I mumble beneath her palm.
“You’re not a skilled liar.” She presses her hand harder over my mouth as she inches her face toward mine. "Your left eye is twitching. It always does that when you lie."
I tug her hand from my mouth. "Oh, I'm skilled at a lot of useful things." I cock a brow and kiss her neck—she lets me for all of two seconds.
"That's up for debate." She turns away, and I pick up the dishcloth, twisting it around in the air and flicking it at her arse. She yelps and backs away before taking off across the living room and down the hall toward the bedroom.
When I catch her, I grab her waist and toss her onto the bed. I brace my weight over her small body, feeling the warm rush of her breath over my jaw. Her face is flushed, a wide smile on her lips as she stares up at me.
"You're an ass," she says slightly winded.
"Don't pretend you don't like a little spanking." I grip her thighs, pulling them apart and settling between them.
I press my mouth to hers the way I’ve wanted to all day. And there it is, the calm, that feeling of something being so right it soothes your very soul. I just need my daily hit of Poppy, and I’ll be okay. I kiss her until she's breathless, and then I sit up, pulling her with me until she's cradled in my lap. Her fingertips absentmindedly draw circles over my back, sweeping along the numb area where my scar starts.
"I have a surprise for you."
A smile inches over her lips. "I can only imagine."
"Sorry to say, it doesn't involve me naked."
I lean over, pushing her back as I reach for the bedside table. "Close your eyes. Open your hand."
She hesitates, arching one brow. "I swear to God, if it is a small animal or insect, I will have a heart attack and die."
"This is not primary school, and I'm not keeping a frog in the bedside table." I smirk. "Close your eyes."
She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and holds out her hand. I place the key in her palm. "Okay. Open your eyes."
She picks up the miniature stuffed-possum keychain, the key dangling. "Aww, a tiny stuffed rat to match your tattoo." She smiles. "What's the key for?”
"First, it's a possum. In both instances." I point at the keyring and then my chest.
Her eyes narrow with a glimmer of excitement hidden behind her lids. “Uh-huh.”
“And the key is for our new flat.”
The smile fades just a touch as her eyes fly back down to her palm. “New flat? “
“Don’t pretend this place isn’t a shithole.” I watch her expression intently.
Honestly, I'm nervous. Poppy living here is, well, a friend helping a friend, I guess. Only we're not just friends anymore. Still, I'm basically making it official without even asking her.
Her eyes haven't moved away from the key in her hand. "Our flat?"
"Yep." I go for casual, attempting to hide my anxiety. "Unless you....you know, if you were planning on getting your own place." I shrug. "I could do with a new place anyway."
"No, it's great. It's really sweet of you."
I hiss a breath through my teeth. "Sweet?”
“My only place is with you, Brandon, and you know it."
"Good.” I press my lips to the side of her neck “We move tomorrow."
She pulls back, eyes locking with mine. "How much deposit did you have to put down?"
"Six months’ rent," I say, warily.
"How much is the rent?"
“Poss, I make more money off one fight than most people make in a month. Don’t worry."
"It's not the money, well, I mean it is, but it’s not that." Closing her eyes, she shakes her head. "You’re not the same person after a fight. And I don't know how much longer you can…” she trails off, dropping her gaze to the worn carpet.
"How much longer I can what?” My heart rate ticks up. “Deal with your fucked-up fella?" I clench my fists as a wave of anger washes over me. Anyone but her. It can come out around anyone, but not Poppy.
She hesitates, and I can tell there's something she is tiptoeing around. "I just don't want anything to happen to you."
“What do you expect me to do, Poppy? I fight, and I make money. How is it any worse than getting paid to shoot people in a war zone?" It's the only thing I'm good for, the only thing I'm good at. I still have enough pride to earn money and pay my way, even if it is the pikey way.
"You’re still in a warzone. And that's what scares me."
"I know. Trust me, I damn well know. But there's not a lot of opportunities for an AWOL soldier now, is there?"
Her head drops forward, sending hair spilling over her face. "I hate that you ever went into the army. Hate it."
"Can't change it. All I can do is survive." I get up and walk out of the room because I need a minute. This was supposed to be a good day. This was supposed to be a moment for us, something that would cement Poppy in my life more permanently. Now, it just feels like she’ll up and leave at any moment. That she doesn’t want to be permanent.
I go to the kitchen, and my hand lingers over the handle of the whiskey cupboard. After a solid thirty seconds of going back and forth in my head, I finally drop my hand and walk away, picking up my fingerless gloves. I take to the bag that's hanging in the corner. The heavy chain creaks against the ceiling hook each time my fist connects with the worn, bloodstained canvas.
"Brandon."
I pause and feel Poppy’s finger graze my sides. Her palms slide over my bare stomach before her cheek presses against my back. I grip the bag and rest my forehead against it, breathing heavily.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "And thank you."
I cover her hand with my own before turning to face her. Her arms fall to her sides. "I just want you to be happy." I sweep her hair behind her ear.
"And that's the sweetest thing you've ever said."
"How
about, I love you?"
She smiles. "That goes without saying, now, doesn't it?"
"Getting cocky." I pull her close before kissing her to show just how much.
46
Poppy
June 2015
Brandon lies sprawled out on the couch in our new apartment, glaring at Hope.
"What?" she says as she nudges an unpacked moving box out of the way with her foot. "It's bad luck not to have a housewarming party."
He cocks a brow at her, and she glances at me.
"I stick by the fact that he's a prick, Poppy." She points her finger at Brandon. "I mean, look at him. All sulking over a party."
He drags both hands down his face, tossing back his head on an exasperated groan. Hope mumbles something under her breath on her way to the kitchen, and Brandon looks up at me.
I shrug. "You know how she is."
"A pain in my arse."
I smile. "It's just some of the guys from The Pit. It'll be fun."
He grumbles and flops back on the couch, covering his face with a throw pillow. Hope pops a bottle of champagne, and Brandon jumps. Seconds later, she’s shoving champagne flutes in our faces.
I take mine, but Brandon stumbles into the kitchen, coming back with his bottle of whiskey.
"Oh, Moet's not good enough for you, eh?" Hope says. "And, you know, I'm offended you drink that shite whiskey. What's wrong with McGrath Whiskey?"
"It's connected to you." He winks as he twists the cap from his bottle and takes a swig.
There's a knock on the door. Brandon mumbles a few swear words as he sets down the bottle and goes to open it.
Kyan and Finn are all huddled on the threshold. Brandon extends his arm, motioning them in. The second Kyann steps inside, he shoves a bottle of whiskey and a pink blob into Brandon's arm.
"From Larry.” Kyan laughs, "Lars said there's no better gift than whiskey and a bald pussy." He snickers again, and Finn just shakes his head.
"A cat?" Brandon turns around, holding a little pink kitten with the tiniest tuft of orange hair in the middle of his head. His big yellow eyes dart around the room. He's the ugliest thing I've ever seen.
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