38. Finn
Finn
No More Prince Charming
That was wicked harsh, but it needed to be done.
It’s not enough for me to have Saoirse’s sex and love. I want her to care about my outcomes.
Only then can I control her. She has to start seeing the world through my eyes, not the precious fucking air she breathes over in Sunnyside.
I white-knuckle it through the night. This is no time to be chugging painkillers or drinking the agony away with whiskey. I’m Irish American, but I’m not a fucking cliché.
It’s that early in the morning, but I shuffle to the jacks to check if I’m pissing blood.
So far, so good. That fucker got some hardcore kidney shots in.
I practice smiling in the mirror. Crinkle the corners of the eyes. Brighten the look.
Encouraging, but without being soft. Don’t make it too wide. Or too friendly.
There. Perfect.
Creeping under the sheets, I bite back the groan as I move to spoon her. I got used to solid beatings being raised in the old country. This is nothing compared to being whipped with a riding crop.
She shifts, gives a husky moan.
I won’t kiss her. No way can I give sex today.
Lying with Saoirse in my arms heals me. The girl’s a benediction. She always was, right from the start.
Being with her pulls me back from the brink. My life has me staring into the darkness of the abyss. She’s the light inside it.
Her voice wakes me out of a doze. “Finn?”
“Mmph… yeah?” God, I feel shite.
When I open my eyes, she’s holding out a bowl of oats. “I made breakfast.”
A man could get used to this. She helps me sit up and puts lots of pillows behind me. Leaving me with my oats, she makes tea and cuts up an apple for me.
It’s too late to tell her I can’t eat it. Too many concentrated sugars.
But when she dips the slices in honey and cinnamon and feeds them to me, I don’t say no.
We spend the rest of the day in bed. Saoirse watches me heal, her expression worried as she sees me biting back the pain.
Sometimes she leans over and presses my hand, or uses her finger to turn my chin so she can look at my face.
She makes cute noises, like “tsk” and “ugh,” puffing under her breath with disapproval.
She’s doing stuff for me. Cleaning the kitchen, scrubbing the shower. Like any other Irish housewife.
Should I dare hope that she’s accepted her fate? Ah, I’m too shattered to give a damn.
***
Mickey comes to visit three days later.
All my captains have magnetic strips that allow them to deactivate the door lock.
“Everyone decent down there?” He calls through the open door.
Saoirse answers. “Yes. Finn is too sore to…” she stops and looks at me.
She’s learned that I don’t like a woman with a foul mouth.
Saoirse gives me a naughty look, and continues. “Too sore to do anything indecent.”
“It’s a grand riling up you do to me, mo chroí.” I say it with a smile to show I’m pleased with her self-restraint.
She offers to make Mickey a cup of Barry’s while he checks me over.
“The Ghost triumphed again, son. But why’d you let him—”
I lift one eyebrow and move my head in Saoirse’s direction. I don’t want Mickey saying I let the fight go on too long, not in front of Saoirse anyways.
Mickey pipes down and winks to let me know he understands. “Why’d you let him land that low blow?”
I wink back. “Which one? They all felt like low blows to me.”
We do a quick autopsy on the fight and then lay it to rest.
“Lay up until Friday, son. I need you sound. One of the local lads has issued you a challenge.”
I pause. If I take out an up and coming boy, it might turn the neighborhood against me. We both know this.
“Any special reason?”
“He’s from Boston, with folks based here. Laid out three of their best fighters up north. He’s got potential. No bets will be laid, so no noses can be put out of joint.”
Saoirse snarks from the kitchen. “Huh. There are literally two noses that could be put out of joint, you realize.”
I have to give a genuine smile. “Aye, hopefully it’s his and not mine.”
She moves to stop Mickey on his way out.
“I’m struggling with boredom, Mickey. Please can you bring us a chess set? Maybe some more books?”
Mickey shames me without thinking. “Ha! Good one. Finn wouldn’t know a chess set if it bit him on the face. And the lad can’t read. Or write.”
Saoirse steps back, frowning. She must be scarlet for me.
“Fuck off out of here, Mickey, why don’t you!” I’m blasting him, drenched with shame.
I go stand in the shower room until I get a grip. The old man didn’t do it out of spite. I forgive him.
Still Saoirse, with her convent education and book learning, what must she think?
A tap on the door. Her voice is a balm for my tortured soul.
“Finn? Can I come in?”
Smile in place, I go out. “That Mickey. Jaysus. He’s a joker.”
She stands back, peeks up at me from under her thick lashes. “Is it true?”
Without thinking, I smash my fist against the shower room door. It splinters as my fist goes through it.
“Damn it, Saoirse, leave it out!”
She nods and goes back to the kitchen. I follow her, picking splinters out of my hand.
“I was out of line.” But my tone tells her to drop it. “I’ll get the door fixed.”
No, I won’t. I’ll leave the hole as a reminder for her not to ask questions.
Saoirse seems preoccupied. “Don’t apologize, Finn. Just tell me the truth.”
She’s not going to let it go.
“I can read… But the concentration needed for me to do it is like, what’s the point, you know?”
She nods, full of understanding. “And… and writing?”
That gets a shrug. “I can read print. I send messages.”
“Yes, but that’s got autospell.” She presses for more. “What about chess?”
Falling on the bed, I cover my face with my arm. “Fucking leave it out, Saoirse! There… in the octagon… that’s fucking way more power than chess.”
When she comes to sit next to me, I relax. She’s curious, but not scornful.
“I can show you how to play. Maybe you need to balance your physical side with a more strategic mindset.”
My reply is vicious. “Quit spouting shite. I know you picked up that touchy-feely fuckery from watching daytime TV.”
The corners of her mouth tilt into a smile. “I work, same as you. I must’ve picked up that touchy-feely stuff from reading books.”
She’s crossed a boundary, but I’ll punish her for it later. I’m going to let her think she got a pass. Fuck mindset. I’ll give her mindfuck.
She kisses me. “Can we do it?”
My violence triggers her sexually, but I’m not ready to forgive her yet. Nor will I bend my rules for her. “I’m in training.”
She pulls off my tee-shirt, climbs onto my back. Gets a tube of lotion and starts massaging it on me. “Sure, you are fighting. But I’m not.”
Saoirse lowers my joggers to expose my butt. Her hands knead my flanks, glutes, and lower back. As mad as I am, I have to admit it feels good.
I feel her shift down. She’s… grinding on me.
The first time we did it, she told me this was how she liked to pleasure herself. Humping the pillow.
What she’s doing is fully exciting me, but I won’t succumb to her temptation.
She doesn’t take long. Doesn’t even remove her panties. I enjoy the breathless silence when she stops panting and lets the orgasm ride over her.
“Thank you,” she purrs the words.
“You’re welcome.” I mean, what the fuck else am I to say?
***
I’m not happy when I see the boy. He’s one of those whippy, scrawny kids, body like thin branches of tied cordwood, fists like the knob end of a poker stick.
He seems cheery enough when we bump fists in the octagon. “The Ghost! What an honor! You’re the image of massive, I swear.”
“Stow it.” I’m not in the mood. I got the living shit kicked out of me less than a week ago. “Save it for after the fight, yeah?”
I already know what his strategy is going to be. Duck and dance around to avoid my sledgehammer punches in the hope that he’ll wear me out with his fucking agonizing sharp jabs.
Got to take him to the ground and pound him. But not too much—not with all the Brooklyn men in his family watching.
The audience isn’t large. No money will change hands on this, officially that is. The overhead fluorescent lights have been left on, so I can see everyone’s faces out there.
I’ve asked Mickey to stand next to the lad’s family so I can judge their emotions. Like I said, I’ve no desire to make enemies from this.
My mind’s not in the fight yet.
Can’t stop thinking about Saoirse grinding on me.
I risk darting a look at where she should be standing with Feargal.
Mr. Whippy sees an opening and drills a straight right into my solar plexus. The crowd gasps as I stagger back and almost take a knee.
If the kid hadn’t stepped back to front for the cheering crowd he would’ve been able to end me with a follow-up left hook.
Wrenching my concentration back into the octagon, I struggle to focus. I want the fight finished. I’m not on form.
Whippy ducks and weaves like I knew he would, but I manage to land a solid jab on his shoulder that sends him spinning. I follow it with a left-footed jump-kick.
He goes down. Where he belongs. I’m about to take the fight to the mat when I see two lads leave the crowd and head over to where Saoirse is standing.
I can’t be having that.
My distraction gives Whippy a chance to stand. Mickey roars at me. “What’s gotten into you? Fucking end this!”
My opponent tackles me around the knees, takes me down, manages to get his arm around my neck. If I don’t shake him off soon, he’ll put me to sleep.
Saoirse’s laughing at something one of the boys is saying to her.
Red lights explode in my eyes as Whippy tightens his chokehold. I’m running out of time.
“Gaargh!” Staggering to my feet, I flip him over my head. He goes down hard. “Fucking stay down!”
I rattle the cage. Mickey lets me out. The crowd cleaves as I sprint to the back of the warehouse.
I liberty the first guy, punching his head from behind. The second boy spins around, sees me, and starts backing away.
“Jaysus! God. Please…”
I slap his cheek, pointing to Saoirse. “That’s my woman, lad. Did you fecking miss the memo?”
He blethers another apology, but I’m too riled up, so I backhand his other cheek.
The crowd murmurs. Most men sidle away to where Kentigern’s started slinging drinks. I didn’t hug it out with Whippy. Didn’t shake the boy’s hand and wish him well.
That’s fucking rude of me, but I have priorities.
And when I look around to see where Saoirse went, she’s disappeared. Feargal comes back after opening the apartment door for her. He shakes his head.
She’s gone.
It’s probably for the best. I’m raging.
Time for me to shake Whippy’s hand and give him a hug. “Well done. It’s a killer you are, lad.”
My soldiers hang back. Mickey’s face is red with anger.
Fuck it. “Kenty, good lad. Sling a whiskey my way. Make it a double.”