The lad Donovan enters the cage. Straight faced and with a professional air about him.
I jeer at him, mouth open and fist high.
His look says it all—I’m a bleedin’ eegit.
We meet in the middle of the mat as is customary then shake hands gentlemen-like. His hands are large, his grip firm.
This is going to hurt.
The opening bell rings and we’re off.
I test his skills, opening with a jab and uppercut combo that fall flat. Next, I land a low blow just below his right kidney. He winces but keeps moving. A fine fighter, indeed.
He doesn’t retaliate right away as expected. No Dreary Lane street fighter here. I’ve got to say my respect for him rises. Right then and there, I decide on three rounds.
Round one we feck about, playing with each other and showing off our technical skills.
I meet Clarissa by the stairs. “You look like a professional,” she shouts.
“Only because I’m fighting one.”
“You can win this.” She pauses to bite her lower lip. I love it when she does that. The things I could do to that lip. The things I’d rather be doing instead of taking a beating. Because round two is going to hurt.
“Now would be a good time to hit the jacks.”
“The what?” she hollers back.
“The toilet.”
The bell rings.
I inhale sharply, drawing on the whiskey in me system to carry me through.
Halfway through round two, I catch Clarissa’s horrified expression in the crowd. Bloody hell. Her concern stirs up something far worse than the beating I’m taking. It brings out something in me foreign, unexpected.
I hate disappointing her.
Bollocks. I’m fecked. Tonight, I might be making her proud. But when she discovers what I’ve done to her files, the lies I’ve told, the hurt I’ll be causing her, disappointment is going to be right up there with hate.
Donovan’s fist nails me in the jaw. My teeth rattle and, for a heartbeat, my eyes glaze over. He charges and slams me down onto the mat. We grapple, he nearly gets me in a choke hold, but I slam a surprise elbow into his side and I’m released.
He comes at me again once we’re back on our feet. I brace myself as his fine skills take over. Fifteen minutes of fame. Isn’t that what everyone deserves? A pup like him, honest and hungry, should be fighting Seamus or that punk Eddie. In a fair fight. With someone not trained to kill.
The bell rings.
I hear the crowd chanting Donovan’s name.
Blood drips from my nose. My chin is the size, and likely the color, of an overripe eggplant. My arms, chest, and legs feel like someone took a two-by-four to them. I stagger over to my corner.
“Oh my God, Finn.”
She hands me a water bottle. I take it from her and pour it over my head.
“I’m going to stop the fight.”
“Don’t,” I grunt.
I wipe my face with a towel. It comes away red.
“Edward is going to stop the fight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been spreading the rumor that if his next opponent doesn’t show up, he’ll be going up against Donovan next.”
“Hope he likes hospital food.”
She laughs.
I’d chuckle but my fat lip is tender.
Her laughter falters. “You still think you can win?”
Something in the incredulousness of her tone has me standing a wee bit straighter. “I’ve a job to see through. But there’s one thing you can do for me.”
She shakes her head. “No more whiskey.”
“Something sweeter. A kiss.”
Her eyes widen. Feck, my skills in the cage may not be lost but my way with my lady is falling short of expectation.
The bell rings.
I rise from my small bench only to feel her tug on my hand. She plants one on me, feather-light so as not to cause me pain. But it does, and in a way far deeper and far more troublesome than any wound from my lip. Because it’s a kiss that says she cares. It’s a kiss that confirms that her feelings are reciprocated.
Bugger me blind.
The referee ushers me forward.
I string Donovan along for exactly one and a half minutes. Waiting for his kill shot, that lethal uppercut the kid’s going to one day be notorious for. Positioning him where I need him to be over a section of mat slick with beer.
I dodge left, then right, drawing him in closer.
When his eyes darken, I know it’s coming.
He strikes with a beautifully executed upward thrust. This time, I turn my shoulder into it, pushing forward and forcing him back.
“Sorry, lad,” I shout into his ear before hitting him with a McDuff special, my own infamous uppercut, refined and perfected in Hayden’s Hell Camps. I read the surprise in his expression before his eyes roll back. That, combined with his feet slipping out from beneath him, sends him down to the mat with a thud.
He’s out cold.
The club erupts with shouts and the place goes mad. Sure, I did what I set out to do. But I don’t feel the same rush of excitement for ruining this kid’s dreams. The lad should learn a lesson from this. Getting your arse handed to you is the fastest way to learn a lesson about reading your opponent. Though no one, aside from Hayden, has ever come close.
No place in my world for regrets. Not within TORC or this underground scene.
Clarissa rushes over to me, eyes aglow with amazement, and I remind myself there’s also no room in this world for a hitman with a heart.
23
Clarissa
“The kiss is what did it,” is what he offers as a way of an explanation.
He won. A win by knockout.
I can’t believe it.
Men slap him on the back and congratulate him for a bleedin’ brilliant comeback. Eager to show their newfound respect. Everyone underestimated him.
And now his name will be the talk of the town.
Bleedin’ brilliant is right.
I soak him in. Thick biceps covered with bruises. Broad shoulders emphasized by his proud stance. Muscled chest gleaming with sweat. The way his hair falls across his forehead, the auburn-blond locks darkened from exertion. A handsome, rugged specimen of a man.
Dangerous. I frown, wondering where that random thought came from.
As for clever, “You knew exactly what you were doing,” I murmur, handing him the towel wrapped around ice I talked a bartender into fetching for me.
Finn shrugs and places the ice on his cheek.
“I took pictures.”
He stiffens.
“Only of the last round.”
“Delete them.”
My eyebrows arch high. “What?”
“My boss will kill me if my face gets out there. Delete them.” His tone is flat. Somber. He’s serious. Yet, I can understand his position.
I take out my phone, and as he watches me intently, delete them all. I hold up my phone to show him. “Done.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.”
I catch his wince and the slight limp as we cross the floor. Subtle things that show he’s in more pain than he lets on. He’s good at hiding his emotions. Excellent at making people believe less of him.
Still, I want to take care of him. Assess his injuries and smother him with affection. Be a proper girlfriend to him.
Right. A proper fake girlfriend, remember?
Finn stops us short halfway to the exit and looks toward the doorway. I follow his gaze.
A small group of men have entered. They stand out like sheep marked pink in a mob of blue. They’re dressed to the nines, wearing collared shirts, thin neckties, finely tailored black slacks, and black leather belts around their waists. All except the enormous, six-foot-seven man with them, wearing a wife-beater, gray sweatpants and black sneakers. His milky white chest is a wall of muscle.
A fighter then?
“The South African showed up,”
someone nearby grinds out.
“Just in time for his fight.”
I glance around. No one looks happy, Edward the least of all.
Oh.
“Eddie-boyo is going to be eating Jell-o for supper,” Finn states. He’s quiet for a few seconds then surprises me by adding, “Time to do you that favor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on.”
I follow him toward the wall where Eddie’s group is assembled. Oblivious to their glares, Finn pushes us inside their circle.
No one is happy to see him.
“What the feck do you want?” Eddie snarls.
Finn tosses an arm around my shoulder and tucks me into his side. “A job.”
I look at Finn. Now he’s interested in plan B?
“My chailín tells me your brother is hiring. I’d like you to put in a word on my behalf.”
Men snicker, unpleasantly.
“You taking the piss?”
“Dead serious.”
Eddie laughs. “What makes you think I’d put in a word for a wanker like you?”
“I’m about to do you a favor.”
“A favor?” Eddie looks around. “I need favors from the likes of you like I need a hole in me noggin.”
Finn cocks his head. “Very well.” He turns to leave the group with me in tow. Slowly, ever so slowly. Waiting.
“What was the bloody favor, anyway?”
I catch Finn’s quick smirk. “Advice on how to beat the big, ugly beast in the cage.”
Complete silence falls over them.
I grin with certainty. Because, once again, Finn has gotten his way. “Put in a word with yer brother or better yet, his boss, and I’ll help you out. And just think, you take down a man his size and you’ll be the talk of the underground. Fifteen seconds and it’ll be over.”
Eddie bites. “Fifteen?”
“Fine. Maybe twenty.” I pinch Finn’s side, but Eddie ignores the slight barb.
“How?” It’s the question we’re all asking.
“About that job . . .”
“I’ll speak to him on yer behalf if what you’re offering is true.”
“Deal.” Finn leans in toward Eddie like he’s about to share a secret. “Go for the South African’s legs.”
Eddie stands up a bit taller. “His legs.”
“He’s a big fella. Big chest, big arms, big gut. And no doubt, big head. He won’t expect yer attack.”
“No shite.”
“Take a gander at his legs. Scrawny, scarecrow legs. “Steer him toward the back of the mat where there’s spilled beer. Aim for the back of his legs just behind his knees. Kick them out from under him and he’ll go down harder than Goliath.”
“Bloody brilliant, that is.”
“Little, rooster legs,” another man adds. “Eddie will have him cock-a-doodle-dooing within twenty seconds.”
“Johnny will be impressed. So will yer boss. Maybe he’ll get work at the new facility north of town?”
“Shut yer trap, Joe,” Eddie mutters.
“What? It’s no secret.”
Not anymore, I think. O’Brien’s new warehouses. Built to store what? I don’t dare look at Finn, though I’ve no doubt he heard and is drawing the same conclusions.
“Genius, mate.” Another slap on his back. “Pure genius.”
Finn steers us away from the crowd. “I’ll be ready to work,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Until next time.”
I wave a quick farewell to my friends while my mind races over tonight’s events. Finn’s fight. His surprise win. Eddie’s friendship. His slip up about O’Brien’s warehouse.
Finn turning out to be a hell of a lot smarter and tougher than he makes himself out to be. A masterful strategist. A man who can manipulate you to his will with a smile.
I should never have underestimated him, but he makes it so easy to do so.
Maybe I simply need to stop seeing him with eyes wide shut.
24
Clarissa
I wake up to Finn standing at the foot of my bed, with one blackened eye and one a yellowish hue, a swollen cheek and matching lower lip, bruises all over his arms and chest, and a smirk on his face.
He redefines the term hot mess.
“Get up. We’re going for a run.”
“What?” I sit up but he’s already striding toward the door. A run? He can hardly walk. I quickly change into workout clothing and brush my teeth. I snatch my phone from where it’s charging on the table by the window and head off to meet him.
By the time we’re racing up our third hill, I’m beginning to wonder if CIA training is as rigorous as the Marines.
“Where are we headed?” I gasp.
“Thought we’d hit Kinsale Port.”
I stumble but quickly right myself.
“Thought maybe O’Brien might have docked there instead of Cork Port, being that there’s less traffic and fewer prying eyes.”
He knows.
“They say Kinsale is very picturesque.” If he hadn’t ghosted me . . .
“Especially by the water, wouldn’t you say?”
Words from last night flicker through my mind. Smarter. Tougher. Masterfully manipulative.
“You weren’t straightforward with me. So, I did what I had to do to continue my investigation.”
He slows to a stop, and I halt beside him.
He doesn’t say anything. No excuses. No apology. And I feel guilty. But I shouldn’t. No, he acted independently without consulting me and I followed suite.
“Who told you?” I ask.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters. I suppose this is the perfect time to clear the air. Because we have a problem, you and I.”
His head turns and our eyes meet.
“Trust issues.”
Something flashes across his expression. Surprise? Regret? Hard to say, but it’s gone quicker than it came.
“Can I trust you, Finn?”
He looks away and off into the green pastures surrounding us. “Trust is a big word.”
My eyes widen. He didn’t answer me. “Trust ranks right up there with love. And I value both.”
He’s quiet. My growing outrage, not so much. So, when he does answer me, I almost miss it.
“You trust me to do what’s right by you?”
Half statement, half question. Should I trust him?
“Is that a yes?” he prompts, his gaze shifting back onto me. He seems honest, genuine. Like my answer matters.
If trust had a color, it’d be yellow because it’s neutral. Mix it with red and it’s orange. Mix it with blue and it turns a pretty shade of green.
Just don’t mix it with black.
“Yes.”
He nods. “How about we find that warehouse Eddie told us about?”
I gasp. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“Together.”
“Finn.” My saying his name causes him to pause. “Aren’t you going to ask me if you can trust me?”
“I already do.” I stare at him, mouth agape, as he takes off.
We set off on a brisk run and I allow my thoughts to wander. Rolling green hills dotted with white sheep surround the northern neighborhood. Small, winding one-lane dirt roads break up the vista. It’s your quintessential Irish countryside. Beautiful in its remoteness. Also, an odd place for a warehouse.
Maybe we’re wrong.
Maybe this isn’t where the uranium will be housed.
We sprint into an intersection with a sign that has five arrows: Cork City is behind us; Dublin ahead to the right; Limerick straight ahead; Tralee to the left; and everything in between.
Finn nods toward it. “Been down that road a time or two.”
I laugh.
But I’m not laughing when he races to the top of the steepest hill yet then chuckles at me as I struggle to keep a steady jog. I’m not only going to have an amazing story about uranium trafficking but a tight, toned physique. “Don’t say anythi
ng,” I manage when I finally reach him.
“The view is worth it,” he says, ignoring me. He hands me a bottle of water from the backpack he’s carrying. “Rehydrate.”
I close my eyes and drink deeply.
When I open them, I almost drop the water bottle.
There. It. Is. The warehouse.
Two buildings sit within a pasture. A long, modern, one-story warehouse running the length of a football field and a small, whitewashed farmhouse a few yards to the right. An unlikely combination of old and modern, of peaceful countryside and the future home of life-threatening materials.
“Thanks to you, I might have a job unloading the uranium once it’s transported from Kinsale.”
“If this is the place Eddie mentioned. If our assumptions aren’t completely wrong.” Despite my doubts, I take my cell phone out of my knapsack.
Finn glances at it then looks away.
I position myself where there’s a perfect view of the warehouse then hit record. “This is Clarissa Steele reporting from the rolling green hills of Cork . . .”
25
Finn
We’re at a pub having breakfast and in a heated debate over the edibility of blood pudding when four large men and a middle-aged woman wearing a large, sun hat and a vibrant, tropical printed maxi dress, are seated nearby. A hush falls over the dining area, followed by whispered words. Two words in particular seem to be on everyone’s lips.
South Africans.
Within minutes, a shadow falls across our table. Clarissa looks toward the source, but I don’t need to. I felt their attention the second they spotted us across the dining room.
“You Finn McDuff?” He’s a big fella with a loud, booming voice, but I could snap him like a twig across my bended knee and make him sing like a choir boy if I so desired.
The South Africans’ presence in Cork is no coincidence. And I’m intrigued by their connection to O’Brien. But it’s as clear as the sneer on the big fella’s face, they want something from me.
Player: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (A Deadliest Lies Novel Book 4) Page 15