4. WE DONT TRUST YOU
4
WE DON'T TRUST YOU
JACK
S omewhere between her discovery that he’d been a pro fighter and his mentioning that they’d have to sleep in the same bed for the night, Jack could sense that he’d fucked up. At the café she’d seemed interested – very interested. But right now, she wasn’t looking very pleased. Her face had changed when he’d mentioned Brendan, a bit of the sparkle in her eyes dimming. It had grown more serious when he started talking about the party. And his last words had stopped her in her tracks.
Fuck. So much for Lucky Jack. More like Clueless Jack. Shitshow Jack.
“Waimint. An overnight ball? I’ve read my share of English classics, but who has overnight parties in country estates anymore?”
“Simon FitzGerald does. I’m going to assume you don’t follow the high society pages.”
“Musical society is more my jam.” She went quiet for a minute and then blurted out, “Are you inviting me to an orgy?”
Stunned, Jack stared at her. “An orgy? No! The FitzGerald’s are old money. Lands, titles, butlers and peasants. They’re totally stiff cunts that wouldn’t do anything like that. And if they were into that, I’d have heard about it.”
Now was the time to mention that the real reason he’d most likely been invited was at the whim of Simon’s wife Clarissa, who did have a reputation for having flings right under her husband’s nose. They’d met a year ago at a Christmas fundraiser. She’d flirted shamelessly with him all night, and since then, she more or less wouldn’t leave him alone. She’d made it clear she expected Jack to fall into bed with her. He’d kept saying no. He was pretty sure that was the only reason he’d been invited to their soiree. Thugs typically weren’t welcome, even a gold-plated one like him.
But he had a feeling telling Penny about that now would make things worse. And he had to see her again, one way or the other. Nothing could be allowed to fuck this up.
“If you’re concerned I’ll try anything, I promise I’ll be a gentleman the entire time.” Yeah, that was a lie. “I’m after the donations only. As my ‘girlfriend,’ all you have to do is chat up the dryshites like they’re actually interesting, have a good meal, and drink their wine. We leave in the morning with a little hangover, hopefully, a bag of coins for the foundation, and the gym stays open another year.”
Penny’s mouth fell open with a short laugh. She shook her head at him. “Why do you need to do any of this? According to your bio, you’ve got more than enough money to keep the lights on.”
“That’s not how it works,” Jack said patiently. “The gym is a legal charitable entity providing a service to underprivileged youth. I had to establish a foundation in order to accept and administer the donations. The initial investment was all my own money but after that, mingling personal assets with the charity is a bad idea, legally and financially. We get some funding from the Arts Council and a UK sports federation, but it’s not enough.”
It didn’t bother him that she probably presumed he was a meathead and maybe hadn’t expected him to know anything about how businesses were run. People had a habit of thinking there was wool between his ears because of his size and his former occupation. And they underestimated him every time.
“I don’t know…an overnight party with strangers in the country…it’s always that one chick who goes to hang out with a group of strangers and then turns up missing.”
He gave her a minute to say something else, but she only shook her head and gave another sarcastic huff. It was fucking deflating. Another failure. This time, from the one woman he actually needed to say “yes” for reasons that had nothing to do with the ball. Penny walked beside him in silent thought, probably contemplating how to be polite and end their meeting.
“Judging from your response, I guess this means you don’t want to go,” he said tersely.
Finally, she sighed. “Well, this wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.” She paused, and his heart continued to sink. They’d been heading back toward Mollie Malone. They reached her, still in silence. Penny looked at the statue and the small crowd, her hips shifting back and forth in an unconscious movement. “Can I think about it?”
A mixture of relief and doubt swirled in Jack’s stomach. That wasn’t a “no,” but it wasn’t a solid “yes” either. And if it should turn into a “no,” he’d have to find another opportunity to convince Penelope Mayfield that she was his woman. Even if she didn’t know it yet, she was his. Fate had clearly spoken and confirmed it.
And who was he to fight Fate?
Jack cleared his throat, looking into her big, beautiful dark eyes. “Of course. Take your time.”
They were standing awkwardly in front of Mollie and her crowd. “Thanks for the coffee and the muffin.” Penny held out her hand, and slowly, he took it, shaking it carefully. Her fingers were long. The tips were roughened, no doubt from years of playing stringed instruments, but her palm was soft. The heat of it singed him, shocked him with a zap of electricity. He wanted to hold on forever, even if it risked frying him, but she abruptly let go. “I’ll let you know about your orgy.”
“It’s not an orgy,” Jack mumbled.
She teased him with that grin, appraising him. Jack’s body throbbed at that smile and the look in her eyes. Even if she said no to the party, he was certain this wasn’t going to be the end for them. He was going to touch her, kiss her. Erase that sadness he’d seen in her eyes when she’d talked about her late husband. He’d fill her with himself and make her fucking fall in love with him.
But, like all his feelings, he’d keep that to himself for a while. “Nice meeting you, Penny.”
“Nice meeting you, too, Jack.”
Jack stayed where he was, watching her walk away. A breeze ruffled her hair. A fantasy reel began to play in his head of sinking his hands in its thickness while he ravaged her lips and sank inside her. He flushed when she turned to wave at him before rounding a corner as if his greedy thoughts had been intercepted even at this distance. She waved at him once and then disappeared.
Back at home, Jack was fucking wired. He tried calming himself by taking Trixie out for a walk and playing catch with her in the backyard. It only marginally worked to distract him from the thought that Penny was somewhere in his city and was contemplating spending the night away with him in less than a week. It was still hard to believe.
He replayed every word she’d said to him over coffee, how she moved, the teasing in that melodic, honey-dipped voice. The way her hair and her skin smelled like a ripe, juicy peach buried in a basket of flowers when he’d stood close. How merely touching her back through layers of clothing had sent a live wire humming through his entire body.
A succulent peach. He bet that’s exactly how she’d taste all over.
The distraction he needed came when he was finishing up his sensible dinner of roasted garlic chicken with stir-fried vegetables and brown rice. It was Ian Quinn, his old manager.
He fucking hated Ian Quinn.
“The fuck do you want?”
“My new boy’s fighting tonight on streaming. Maybe instead of watching Justice League again while you’re on your couch eating crisps, you should watch it. You might find it inspiring.”
“Fuck you.”
With a laugh, Quinn hung up. Quinn had gotten Jack from the amateur leagues to the pros, but not without taking an oversized cut of his earnings, among other shady doings. Fortunately, Jack had had Charlie and Bran to convince him to pry Quinn’s hooks out of his back before they’d gone in too deep.
Now Quinn managed La Roque, the one everybody was hot for him to fight. That scum Quinn had finally found his perfect counterpart scum. They’d make a great team, if Quinn didn’t stab his new cash cow in the back.
Jack gave Trixie the last of his chicken, which she accepted eagerly. He got the dishwasher going and went to the couch with his crisps — baked, low-fat, low-sodium crisps, fuck you very much, Quinn — and turned on the streaming service that played league matches. He’d been resisting watching La Roque’s fights after the phone calls, but it had been hard. This time, he gave in to the curiosity.
The fight was about to begin. Trixie jumped up onto the couch and snuggled next to him, pawing at the brown leather with her little nails. “Don’t you even think about ripping it. And if you think you’re getting any of my snack, you can forget it,” he told her. After the big eyes, he relented. “Just one. Your mother’s gonna kill me.” She snapped up the crisp and settled down, wagging her stubby tail.
The Vegas venue was huge, lit up with strobe lights and bright neon displays. At the bottom of the screen was written “La Roque v. Traynor” with their stats. Traynor had some KOs, one submission win and some technical wins. La Roque’s were all straight-up KOs.
Figured. Rumor was he’d moved from Queens, New York to Ireland when he was twenty-five, specifically to enter The Meatgrinder, the illegal fight league where Jack had gotten his start. Meatgrinder fights took place in different secret locations every weekend to avoid being detected and shut down by the Gardaí. Boys and men pummeled other boys and men into the mud under overpasses, in fields, or in rusty old warehouses.
Jack had been running “errands” for a local small-time gangster starting at the age of twelve. That would be his Uncle Redmond, in fact, giving him the job behind his mother’s back. It was Redmond who’d introduced him to The Meatgrinder when he was thirteen to toughen him up and train him to someday become an enforcer. He’d been tall for his age but not yet filled out or at his full power. More full of piss and steam than technique and smarts.
That first time, he’d charged his opponent like a bull, started pounding, and didn’t stop until the other lad was down. The rush he’d felt had surged through him like a thousand volts of electricity. Pure lightning. The crowd of mostly men had shaken their fists and screamed and he’d screamed with them. It was savage. Pure. He’d never felt anything like that before, and nothing but total victory in the cage had made him feel the same since.
How he missed that feeling.
La Roque appeared from the staging area. Alberto Bautista, the emcee, announced him while bass-heavy rap started to play. He jogged lightly down the aisle to the octagon, climbed up the metal stairs, and into the cage. Under the bright lights, he shook out his legs and rolled his head on his neck. He was broad but on the lean side for a heavyweight. Surprisingly good-looking, but his grin was cruel. His skin was pale, as though he spent all his time training in a cave that never saw sunlight. La Roque’s hair was longer than most other fighters’, the dark gold strands plaited in rows and secured with a tie. He was covered in colorful tattoos; some were roses, some were lines of text, and there were fanged snakes dripping blood.
Going against custom, La Roque didn’t acknowledge the crowd. And there was a look in his eyes as he stared into space that Jack used to see in a mirror before he fought. They flared with hunger, like a shark’s eyes in the moment before a bite.
The cameras focused next on his opponent, Darius Traynor, who was representing Jamaica. Traynor had a thick build like the standard heavyweight, the dark skin of his forehead already glistening with a few beads of sweat. He came down his own aisle to more hip-hop, and the crowd chanted his name while he waved, flashing them a grin. The crowd’s favorite, obviously. Once he got in the cage, the smile faded, and he was all business. He put his fingertips together and made a slight bow to all sides of the ring. The audience whistled and cheered.
Jack leaned forward and propped his elbows on his thighs, examining the two fighters. Even without being in the arena, the hum of energy was palpable, making the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his arms. It was that same energy that always precipitated a fight, the blood under the skin stirring and beginning to rush whether you were a spectator or in the ring.
Bautista introduced the two men, drawing out their names, then introduced the referee for the match, who put his hands together and bowed to the crowd. After the emcee’s exit, La Roque and Traynor circled each other for a moment, assessing each other, hands raised. It was Traynor who threw the first low kick, connecting with La Roque’s shin. Another kick, higher, to the waist. A punch landed on La Roque’s jaw.
The dark blonde took more hits, to the face, the torso, and another low kick. He grinned, showing a mouthpiece decorated to look like fangs. Then he threw a straight punch that blasted through an opening in Traynor’s defense, snapping his head back and laying him out cold. Traynor was down, unconscious. That didn’t stop La Roque from kicking his head repeatedly, while shouts of outrage erupted from the crowd.
“Fight’s over, fight’s over!” the ref shouted, scrambling over.
The ref pushed La Roque away and knelt beside the fallen fighter. It was hard to see his face under all the blood. His mouthpiece had been dislodged by the sheer force of the blow and lay near the edge of the mat, dripping crimson. The crowd roared as the medic rushed in along with Traynor’s corner team.
After a few slaps to his face, Traynor sat up. Jack released the breath he’d been holding as Traynor’s team helped him to his feet.
There was a brief consultation between the judges down on the floor behind their table. It looked like an argument as the commentator made rapid-fire remarks about the brutality of the short fight. He wondered if La Roque would be disqualified and if his win would be withheld because of the illegal kicks. But there was another surprise; the emcee bounded back into the ring to announce La Roque had won by KO.
“But it was dirty,” Jack gritted through his teeth. “Why are they allowing this?”
Now Jack knew why they’d called him. Like Traynor, Jack had been the crowd favorite of his time. He’d play the hero character while La Roque was the villain. They’d make a lot of money putting him in the octagon against that savage and not give a fuck which one of them got carried out on a stretcher.
Regardless of why they wanted him, he had to admit it to himself: Jack did miss being in the octagon. Missed the energy of the crowd, but more than that, the wild moments of triumph at a win. It was a high, the sweetest kind.
But the best part had been having something to look forward to, a goal to work toward every day. He hadn’t felt that in five long years. The most exciting thing he had to look forward to now was cracking open the latest high-octane thriller for an all-night read. Or the next action movie coming out on streaming and the bag of crisps he’d eat while watching it. That was it.
Fighting was off the table for him. No one, least of all some shifty-eyed opportunist like Quinn, was going to change his mind.
But despite his even better reasons for staying out of the cage, the urge to crush La Roque unfurled in his chest. He was a disgrace to the sport. A man or woman wearing a title belt should represent honor and good sportsmanship, not fighting prowess alone. La Roque was not an honorable man.
Jack was on a slippery path to contemplating what he’d have to do if he gave into his urge to teach La Roque what the sport was really about. He’d have to ramp up his training to eight hours a day, six days a week, to get his conditioning back. It meant an even stricter meal plan. Maybe….
He snapped out of it when a notification pinged on his phone. Jack picked it up from the coffee table and couldn’t help the huge grin that pulled at his lips. It was Penny who’d sent a message through the app.
“Hi Jack. Wu-Tang is for the children. I will accompany you to your costume ball orgy as a favor. ”
Grinning like the idiot Charlie said he was, Jack wrote back, “ No orgy. I like Wu-Tang. If u free tmr, costume shopping at 4, then dinner after. Nice place. I pick u up if u okay with that. Give me address. And here’s my #. ”
When Penny sent her phone number and address, he had to shake his head. He wrote back, “ Hi neighbor. I’m down around the corner at 15 Wellington Street.”
She’d been living around the corner from him, and he hadn’t run into her before? All this wasted time…
“ No way!” There was a brief pause. Then: “ You wouldn’t happen to have a puppy, would you?”
“My mam’s dog. Babysitting. Seen us around?”
“The dog was hard to miss. So cute! I want him. Her. Anyway, see you tomorrow. Good night, Jack. ”
Hm, she wanted the dog, but not him? He’d see about that.
“ Night Penny. ”
The conversation ended. He leaned back on the couch and contemplated her picture. The bloodthirsty fantasy of destroying La Roque receded while he lost himself in the gorgeousness of that smile and the excitement pooling in his belly to see her again.
But hours later, he couldn’t sleep. Not knowing she was so close. Jack put his thicker coat and his runners on and took a stroll around the block. The night was dark and cold. Rounding the corner, he took the path he’d been running with Trixie and stopped at the address Penny had given him. Pink rowhouse, middle of the block.
His future was in that house, behind one of those darkened windows.
So close.
“Good night, Penny. See you tomorrow.”