15. Killian
FIFTEEN
Killian
This is the third time I’ve found myself at Brooklyn General in a matter of weeks, and I’m starting to grow resentful of it.
First it was Tom, burned and smoke damaged from the Banshee fire. Then Teagan, beaten within an inch of his life with a message carved into his chest. Now Seamus, collapsed on the floor of his own home while his family helplessly watched.
At least with Seamus, it seems like natural causes. Small comfort, but I’ll take what I can get.
The waiting room they’ve got us in is empty. Whether intentional or not, it’s hard to tell. Most in polite society know the Irish mob when they come into contact with us, and Seamus Callahan is known everywhere in New York City.
I’m on my feet, pacing every other minute and checking the time.
Sean slouches in one of the plastic chairs and tries to light a cigarette.
“You can’t smoke in a hospital waiting room,” Chantal points out from where she’s seated.
Sean shoots her an irritated look. “Who made you the cigarette police?”
“How about common sense? Oh, and the six different ‘No Smoking’ signs on the walls.”
The redhead mutters under his breath and shoves his pack of cigarettes back into his pocket. “Somebody come find me when there’s news.”
He pushes himself out of the chair and stalks toward the exit, disappearing around the corner without a backward glance.
Oona snivels as if in answer. She’s been a wreck ever since we left Callahan House.
A strange thing to see from a woman who usually runs the Callahan household with an iron fist. She keeps standing up and sitting back down, smoothing her skirt, then checking her wristwatch like she’s tempted to go bother the hospital staff again.
“How about some coffee?” Monique offers gently. “You look like you could use something to keep you preoccupied.”
“Coffee won’t take my mind off Mr. Callahan’s condition,” she snaps, then immediately cringes out of guilt. “I mean… yes, love. Coffee would be fine. Thank you.”
Chantal rises too. “I’ll come with you. Anyone else want anything?”
I shake my head without breaking my stride.
The three women disappear down the corridor.
That leaves just me and Jhene in the waiting room.
She’s sitting in one of the chairs near the window, her gaze fixed on the television mounted on the wall. Some old talk show rerun is playing, the host’s bright smile and canned laughter at odds with the grim atmosphere.
Jhene hasn’t said much since we left Callahan House. She seems uncomfortable, her shoulders hunched and expression guarded. A few frizzy curls have started to come down from the updo she wore her hair in tonight.
Probably feels like she doesn’t belong here. She’s intruding on a family moment that’s got nothing to do with her.
Technically, she’s right.
But she goes where I go, and I wasn’t about to leave her alone tonight.
I avoid any looks in her direction, though it’s not like it matters. She doesn’t try to catch my eye. We exist in the same space without acknowledging each other.
The tension from the party still hangs between us. Conflict that probably won’t be solved anytime soon.
The awkward silence is broken by footsteps in the corridor.
I turn to find Ronan, Lochlan, and Simone emerging from the direction of Seamus’s hospital room. Simone looks exhausted, her honeymoon glow gone.
Ronan’s expression is unreadable, a mask I’ve seen him wear a hundred times when he doesn’t want anybody to know what he’s feeling.
Meanwhile, Lochlan’s apathetic, like he could take or leave the situation. He’s got his hands in his pockets and comes up the rear of the other two.
I step toward them for an update.
Simone excuses herself with a low murmur about finding Chantal and Monique. That leaves the three of us—four, if you count Jhene still sitting quietly a few feet away.
“How is he?” I ask.
Ronan heaves a sigh. “Not good. The doctors are still running tests.”
“This might be it,” Lochlan says. He gives a slow shake of his head. “This might be the end.”
Grim silence follows as the possibility weighs on us.
We’ve grown up together. From the time we were young, we’ve watched Seamus lead the Callahan clan, a true force to be reckoned with.
The idea of him withering away in a hospital bed serves as a reminder that even the most powerful men are mortal at the end of the day. Even they can’t cheat death.
Cancer is the great equalizer, uncaring of how much devastation it causes.
“We’ve known it was gonna happen,” Lochlan adds, voice flat. “His cancer’s terminal. He said it himself—he only had a matter of months if not weeks.”
Ronan works his jaw, his brow furrowed in agitation. “I’m gonna go speak to the doctor.”
He walks off before either of us can respond.
I turn to Lochlan. “How’re things going between you two?”
The older Callahan brother gives a half shrug. “We’re no longer at each other’s throats. But still doesn’t mean we’ll be breaking bread anytime soon.”
“Figured as much.”
He claps me on the shoulder, a brief gesture of solidarity, then follows his brother down the corridor.
I stay put for a moment, processing everything that’s happened tonight. Then I turn and walk back toward where Jhene’s sitting. The same talk show plays, the live audience laughing at some witty quip made by the host.
I lower myself into the chair beside her, leaving one empty seat between us.
“How’s Seamus doing?” she asks.
“Not great.”
She nods. “I guess that’s not surprising. He didn’t look well tonight.”
“He hasn’t looked well in a long time.”
“Now what?” she asks. “What’s going to happen to the future of the clan if Seamus dies?”
I lean back in the chair, staring at the TV screen as the host welcomes some celebrity fucker to the stage.
Really, my mind’s elsewhere. Miles away as it combs through what’s happening.
We’re at war with the Bratva. We’ve made our moves, they’ve made theirs, and there’s no telling who’s going to come out on top.
Losing Seamus would change things, even if he isn’t Clan Chief anymore. It’s what he symbolizes to the family. The many young buttonmen loyal to our clan.
I run a hand through my hair and say, “We’ll have to wait and see.”
With Ronan back in charge, I’m able to focus on the final stretch leading up to my match against Darnell “The Tank” Thompson.
I throw myself into training like never before, spending from sun up to sun down at Malone’s Gym. The fight with The Tank is less than a week away, and I’ve wasted too much time dealing with clan business in recent times.
The war with the Bratva’s still going on, and Seamus is still lying in a hospital bed with doctors who won’t give us a straight answer.
But for now, the upcoming fight takes precedence above all else.
Three days before the fight, I’m headed out for another long day of training when I learn the buttonman I had scheduled to watch Jhene is sick. He’s got fucking food poisoning and there’s nobody else to cover on such short notice.
It means I’m left dragging Jhene with me to Malone’s.
Something neither of us is looking forward to.
What other choice do I have? I can’t leave the girl alone—either she’ll wander off again or the Bratva could come for her. Both are likely scenarios.
“Just for the record, I don’t need a babysitter,” she mutters.
We walk through the gym doors together. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her large glasses are perched on her nose. I’ve got my gym bag slung over my shoulders, loaded with everything I need for the next six hours.
“You’re not getting a babysitter,” I answer. “You’re getting a front-row seat to watch me beat the shit out of a punching bag.”
“Aren’t I the luckiest girl in the world.”
We’ve been like this since the homecoming party. Standoffish and distant. Circling each other like we’re unsure how else to proceed.
The argument on the terrace is the giant fucking elephant in the room. The things we said—and almost said—hang between us.
Deep down, we’re both aware of where that conversation was headed. We both know how we feel…
Malone takes one look at the situation I’m in and doesn’t ask questions. He remembers all too well what happened last time Jhene dropped by the gym. He closes off a section of the gym so I can train in private and Jhene doesn’t have to worry about encountering any of the other boxers.
She settles into a folding chair with a puzzle book I bought her and refuses to watch me train. Her way of protesting how I made her come.
It doesn’t matter to me. I’m here to prepare for my fight against The Tank, not worry about why the girl I’ve taken under my wing doesn’t seem impressed by my right hook.
My attention turns to the punching bag, and I visualize Darnell Thompson’s face on it.
The next two hours are nothing but pushing myself to the max. My fist collides with the leather countless times. I lose myself in the motions, executing a series of combinations like it’s second nature to me.
And it is—I was born to be a fighter.
I’ve realized it over time. Nothing else in life has ever come so naturally to me. I’m not the smartest man. I’m not funny or charming or the kind of guy who’s ever been people’s favorite.
But I’ve always been able to throw a punch. I’ve always been just as good taking them too.
When my father used to come home in a drunken rage, I often hid Maeve in the closet. I created a ruckus to gain his attention as he started on Ma. I wanted him to take his temper out on me because I knew I could handle it.
Every punch of his only made me stronger. It served as motivation that one day I’d make him sorry he ever raised a hand to us.
These thoughts and more are on my mind as my fist slams against the punching bag and it jerks back on the chain.
I move onto focusing on footwork. A crucial element of boxing.
I step forward in a straight line, throwing out a two-punch combo. It’s a test of balance and muscle memory. Then it’s back to the start, ducking and diving in between punch combos as I keep the same straight line.