What would push him to the breaking point?
I shrug.
His eyebrows arch.
“That was . . . nice.”
“Nice?” He scowls.
“Sweet. Less abrasive than our last kiss.”
“Nice,” he mutters.
“Yes.”
“You don’t say?” Casual, no-hurries, no-worries Finn is gone. Replaced by a man three steps shy of tackling me to the ground and proving me wrong. Yes, that kiss was something. Full of promise. Surprising. Finn has been holding out on me.
He studies me for several seconds. “Yer taking the piss.”
“Just testing you, Double-O-Seven” I toss his words back in his face. I brace myself for his reaction. Will he kiss me and prove my point, that he knows a thing or two about kissing? Or will he change the subject and maneuver our conversation over to one more to his liking?
My lips part in surprise as Finn bursts into laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“Deserved that, didn’t I?”
“A few times over.”
“Remind me never to get on yer bad side.”
“Finn, you can’t help but piss people off.” I sigh. “And I should be angry at you. You kiss . . . fine enough.”
“Fine enough?”
I shake my head. “With more skill than you led me to believe. Or maybe it was that beard . . .”
“Bloody nuisance, it was.”
“But the question of the hour is why? Why did you kiss me? Was it another test of yours?”
“Practice,” he tells me. “You’re my beour now. Get used to kissing, cuddling, and me whispering sweet nothings in yer ear. We need to be convincing so no one will feck with what’s mine.”
I turn away from him, disappointed. I shouldn’t be. We work together, that’s all. Pretending to be a couple is part of it. So why do I wish that kiss meant more? I feel him watching me and want nothing more than to put some distance between us.
“See you in another ten kilometers,” I tell him, prepared to take off running.
“Clarissa, wait.” He says my name softly, like a caress, and I can’t help but turn his way.
“That kiss . . .,” he smiles softly at me, “it wasn’t a test.”
“What was it then?” I gasp, shocked.
“That, Clarissa, was a taste,” is his smug reply. “See if you can catch up to me this time.” And, with that, he’s off.
I give chase, my body responding to the challenge.
But it’s my thoughts and feelings for this confusing man that has some catching up to do.
14
Finn
The underground is thick with cigarette smoke, loud conversations, and big-headed lads looking for a fight. Little mind is paid to us as I lead Clarissa through the crowd. Something I’ll remedy sooner rather than later.
“This place is mobbed,” she hollers over the noise. She’s looking hot. Casual yet sexy, in a tight red T-shirt and jeans. I’ve half a mind to find out the color of her knickers while having another go at those sweet lips of hers. Drive all thoughts about “nice” and “fine” from her vocabulary.
But if I don’t get my head in the game, there’ll be no kissing, fucking, or explaining to Hayden why I failed to do as he asked.
This club hosts the sketchiest sons of bitches around. Cork has always attracted bloodthirsty dirtballs. Men who’d slit yer throat for a few euros or gamble on someone else for the same bloody outcome. Port cities like Cork have been this way since I was a lad.
I understand this.
I hail from one myself. Growing up in Derry, you become a man the day you walk. You learn to take a tight rap to the head on the way to Sunday mass, then take a few more before sitting down to supper. The Troubles, a bad economy, the drink brewed with whatever chemicals are in the water—whatever the reason, fighting is akin to breathing in Derry. Navigation skills. Negotiation skills. Survival of the fittest skills, that’s the schooling I had.
Along with a few fighting skills.
Street-smart is what Hayden likes his men to be. Whatever else I was lacking, he sure as feck addressed.
I’m the best of the worst lot. No one, aside from maybe Hayden, can beat me. No denying Cork’s a scary scene. But the company I keep will give you nightmares.
These muppets are in for a treat, as is O’Brien.
The mobster’s still in town; Hayden would have called me off if the GPS showed the uranium in transit. If he’s i as big a gambler as Hayden believes him to be, chances are he’ll bite if I can cause a big enough ruckus. A quick side-hustle and a wee bit of fun, that’s what his lot enjoys. Just need the word to get around that there’s a new fighter in town, an underdog with winning potential.
Clarissa is right, though. Time is an issue. Word about me needs to spread quicker than thick slices of whiskey cake.
I push through the crowded room, the minx in tow. An ugly lad with a gold grill notices us first. He gives me the once-over then, bold as brass, settles his attention on Clarissa. “A fine ride you are,” he compliments her, insulting me, the fella with his hand on her arm.
“I’ll walk,” she’s quick with a sharp reply.
I fight off a smile and step in front of her.
“Problem, boyo?” Golden-grin sizes me up and finds me lacking. Granted, he’s a big shite. Intimidating, for most. Thick in the head, for sure. And a real beauty. “Brilliant smile you got,” I say then address the crowd. “If he had another bitta wit, he’d be a half-wit.”
The bloodthirsty lads surrounding us practically lick their bleedin’ lips in anticipation.
I duck down so I’m eye-level with his mouth. Then with over-exaggerated movements, I slick back my hair, using his grill as my mirror.
Golden-grin looks confused.
The lads try to explain it to him. “He’s taking the piss.”
“Bleedin’ eejit doesn’t know who he’s antagonizing.”
Clarissa tugs on my arm.
I pay no mind to her.
“I’d love a drink right now,” she insists, refusing to be ignored.
“Listen to the hussy and take yer shite elsewhere.”
“I’m not a hussy,” Clarissa snaps.
“Yank, hussy, same difference,” Golden-grin insists.
Out of the side of my eye, I catch her giving him the death-stare. Warms my heart, this one. She leans into me. “I’ll take that drink, honey.”
I ever so slightly shake my head.
“Finn, don’t. He’s a giant.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Have you so little faith?”
Her lips part in horror, quick on the uptake. I roll my shoulders then my neck while shifting back and forth on my feet, loosening up my muscles. The best place to give the lads a taste of Finn McDuff is in the back room, inside the fight club. Out here, things can head south quickly with the glass pints and all. But as they say, when feckin’ opportunity knocks . . .
“I can’t watch this.”
“Then close yer eyes and count to ten.” I ever so slowly turn his way, mulling over which choice words are best suited for the occasion. I settle on a simple insult. “He’s a right bollocks, isn’t he?”
I shove Clarissa behind me as Golden-grin erupts. Catching his punch in my hand, I squeeze my fingers around his fist and force him a few steps backward and away from my beour. When I position him where I want him, I do the unexpected and slap his face. His cheek turns Union Jack red.
Surprised rage fills his ugly mug.
“That slap was in case you were missing yer mam’s loving touch.”
“I’m going to destroy you,” he snarls.
I can’t help but grin. But before we get off to the races, a bell rings out and interrupts us.
Bloody hell. I missed getting my name on the lists.Suddenly annoyed for wasting time with this tool and feeling pressured to correct my mistake, I jab and throw a well-aimed punch to his chin, knocking him clear off his feet and onto his arse. He f
alls backward like a man three sheets to the wind. I don’t waste any more time on the gobshite.
I grab Clarissa’s hand and tuck her into my side. “Time to hustle.”
“Hustle?” she gasps. “Finn, you knocked him out.”
With the mot in tow, I barrel through the masses and toward the back room. But not before feeding her the simplest of lies she can add to her list, once she figures out the extent of the bullshite I’ve been feeding her. She’s a smart one. Eventually, she’ll do just that. If all goes according to plan, I’ll be out of her life by then.
“Lucky punch.”
Clarissa
I expected the underground to be a combination of a dance club and a bar. The ninety-to-ten male-to-female ratio changes that assumption. Dance club? Definitely not. Bar? Perhaps, though it feels more like a Muscle-Mania convention than a night at the pub. Underground fight club? Yes. That’s definitely what this place is.
And I suppose that makes Finn a sexier, smooth-talking knockoff of Brad Pitt?
Luck my ass. You don’t knock a man off his feet with a single punch without skilled precision.
Finn can fight.
He refuses to look at me as he hustles me into the back room. We pass a huge, octagon-shaped ring that takes up the center of the space and over to a line of men in front of a wooden table by the wall. Finn scowls, his attention on the two seated men checking names to what must be paid admission. I glance around, curious about my surroundings.
The ring is exactly as I would have imagined. Eight walls made of fencing and covered in thick padding. Wrestling-style mats on the floor. Five steel steps leading into the one entrance/exit. It’s a set up you’d find at a professional MMA fight.
Almost legitimate.
I turn back to Finn and catch him mid-shoulder roll. Going through the same movements he had back by the bar, before hitting that man.
“You aren’t planning on fighting?” I hiss.
He swings his body my way but keeps warming up. “I am.”
“Tonight?”
“No time like the present. You have any cash on you?”
“What?”
“Cash.”
“God, you’re infuriating.” I place my hand on his arm in an attempt to stop him from moving. He glances down at it with amusement. “Will you answer my question?”
“If I can get on this feckin’ list, I’ll be fighting. How much do you have?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Think of it as an investment.”
“I don’t gamble,” I tell him.
He snorts. “You can’t bullshite a bullshiter. You tagging along with me is a gamble.”
I jump as a white-haired man behind the table pounds his fist on it. “Get on with it. We haven’t all bleedin’ day.” His antics makes me think of an article I read about Prince Philip of England and his suffering from irritable male syndrome.
“We’re up,” Finn says.
I sigh, then do what I’ve done since meeting this unpredictable man and take a gamble on the unknown, digging in my purse for my wallet.
“You won’t regret it.”
He’s confident or insane, or a combination of both. With an arm around my shoulder, he pulls me into him. Reminding me of his strength and reassuring me that I’m part of this mad plan.
Finn slaps the money down on the table. “Five hundred on Finn McDuff.”
My eyes go wide at the sum.
“Who?” the man asks, eyeing the money.
“The last name’s McDuff. With a lowercase c.
“I can spell McDuff, you cheeky bastard. Name’s not on the list.”
Finn offers him an unabashed grin. “Hoping you could put me on there, sir.”
“Jaysus. He’s calling me sir now.”
I hide my smile, thinking how Finn can charm hundred-year-old rust off an old iron wagon.
The man consults his paper. “Yer in luck,” he informs us. “We’ve a new cancellation.”
“He didn’t have a mouth full of metal, did he?”
The older man chuckles. “That would be him.”
“My lucky day.”
“Five hundred greenbacks?” He scoops up the money and puts it in a jar. “Better hope so.”
I struggle between laughter and a healthy dose of concern. What has Finn gotten himself into? Us into?
“Don’t give me that look,” he comments as we sink into the crowd and move toward the fighters warming up by a wall.
“What look?”
“The kind a stunner like yourself gives a fella when she’s expectin’ to be disappointed.”
“Sounds like you’re familiar with that look.”
The laugh that follows is cut short as Finn removes his shirt. Is it my imagination or does he look better and better every time he takes off his clothes?
“Eyes up here.” He drags a finger up his body to his twinkling baby blues. Completely aware of my very appreciative reaction to his body. He kicks off his shoes, his socks follow, enjoying tormenting me and loving the challenge of the fight to follow.
“You’ve done this before?”
“A time or two.” He makes a production of rolling his shoulders, making a pained expression. I’m suddenly filled with doubts. In Finn-talk, a time or two could mean anything.
“What’s wrong?”
“You were a wee bit rough on me last night.”
He’s says it loudly, earning the attention from the men around us.
I flush pink from my chest to my face. Nothing happened last night so I don’t know why I’m reacting this way. There must be something in the Guinness. Finn might be a hot Brad Pitt knockoff but our sexual history tells me his definition of rough differs from my own interpretation.
“Can you rub my shoulders, colleen?”
The men snicker.
With a mental curse at him for teasing me, I shift closer, my heart racing at his invitation to touch him. With a deep breath, I knead my fingers into his muscles.
“See the women over there,” he softly murmurs for my ears only and nods toward the lone cluster of women. “Go on over there and lay on the magic.”
Excitement takes hold of me.
“Be my eyes and ears while I’m occupied.”
“Our eyes and ears,” I correct. A rush of adrenaline rolls through me. Finally, I’m back on track and moving forward with my story. My turn to do what I do well, expose the truth along with the ugly little details that accompany it.
“Don’t be shy,” Finn voice booms. “Despite being a Yank, they’ll take to you once they discover you’re a Kennedy.”
I grimace. What a liar.
“Go on. Let a fella warm up.”
He goes through a series of awkward Jackie Chan moves followed by wild air-punches and kicks with no height. Amateur MMA, even I know that. A pre-school kid has more skill. The fighters warming up next to us turn away. They sized him up, took notes—pages—of his many weaknesses, then wrote him off.
He makes it so easy for them, doesn’t he?
I speak up, feeling the sudden need to defend him. “I’ve got two hundred dollars on you, baby. So, get in that cage and kick some Irish ass.”
“That I will. That’s a promise.”
The men snicker.
Finn winks.
And I suck in an excited breath, hoping he proves them wrong without getting hurt, while I focus on discovering everything I can about O’Brien.
15
Clarissa
Blood. Is. Everywhere.
Fight after fight a parade of unconscious men have been carried out of the ring. Inside it, anything goes—punches, knees to groins, head butting, biting fingers, arms, ears, weapons.
One fighter brought a six-inch blade to the match. His opponent didn’t appreciate it. Sweeping the legs out from beneath the man, he claimed the knife then cut him behind both knees. Advancing along in the fights but ending the other man’s ability to walk.
It’s barbaric.
&nb
sp; And the crowd loves it.
Each participant fights three times. Every night, the two older men whom we met earlier declare the night’s big winner. These winners advance to something called Complete Domination. The best of the best, who, at the end of the month, fight for the championship. Finn is thirty-three percent of the way to winning tonight’s fights.
He won his first bout by forfeit. In a freak accident, his opponent fell victim to a punching bag. They loaded the semi-conscious man into the back of a truck with the others to be taken to the hospital.
That’s not to say I’m not worried. Finn could be injured, and seriously. This is insane yet he’s all-in, with not a care in the world. It’s a gamble. With his person and with finding out more about the reason we’re here—O’Brien.
I struggle to ignore the chaos and focus on the women around me.
“You can drink for a Yank,” Lucy, a girlfriend of one of the fighters, teases.
“Of course she can. She’s a Kennedy,” Shelley reminds them. Shelley reminds me of the floral-fond innkeeper. In between stories about their other friend, Fiona, and Fiona’s miserable, two-timing arse of a boyfriend, Johnny, I learned of his shady dealings with the mob. Fiona and boyfriend will be here for the next night’s fights, news I can’t wait to share with Finn.
Lucy nudges me in the side. “Yer wan is fine.”
“But we got to ask,” Shelley says, “Did yer fella watch a fight on the tele and run down here thinking he’d give it a go?”
I shrug, then offer a very Finn-like answer. “Something like that.” Call it pride, call it a sudden sense of loyalty to Finn, but their underestimating my fake-boyfriend’s ability rubs me the wrong way. And I feel the sudden need to defend him. I raise my Guinness. “A round of drinks on me if my wan wins.”
“Sounds like we better finish these drinks,” someone comments.
“Why don’t we find a place closer to the cage?” I wave them forward and push in closer just as Finn’s opponent is entering the cage.
He’s shorter than Finn but ten times stockier, with massive muscles and a hard jawline like a pit bull.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 10