Killian
SEVEN
“Oh my god, is that Adam Womack?”
Bridget’s eyes go wide as saucers, her menu forgotten in her hands as she cranes her neck to stare at a table across the restaurant.
Some guy in a tailored suit is sitting there with a busty blonde who’s probably half his age. She’s laughing at something he’s said while a waiter pours them wine.
I don’t have a fucking clue who Adam Womack is, but judging by Bridget’s reaction, he’s somebody important.
“Killian, that’s Adam Womack,” she hisses, as if I didn’t hear her the first time. “He was in the biggest summer blockbuster last year. You know, the one with the car chases and the explosions? He played the spy who—”
“I usually stick to movies before all the CGI graphics,” I interrupt bluntly. “They’re usually not so damn insufferable.”
“Oh.” A flush creeps up her cheeks and she offers an embarrassed smile. “Right. Sorry. I forgot you’re not into Hollywood. I just... it’s still so shocking to see a real celebrity in person. I mean… um, except you, obviously. But you know what I mean.”
“I’m no celebrity, Bridget.”
“You’re on TV. That makes you a celebrity.”
She’s talking about my fights. The bigger ones often aired on Pay Per View and other sports networks.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard it—that pro fighters are considered part of the celebrity class. Most famous athletes are.
I couldn’t disagree more, but it doesn’t matter if I do. People’ll think what they want.
I grunt and turn my attention to the menu, even though I already know what I’m ordering. Gallagher’s is famous for their Wagyu, and I’m not about to waste the opportunity.
The place is packed tonight, every table filled with people who think nothing of dropping a few grand on dinner. Men with Rolex watches on their wrists and women dripping in diamonds.
I almost never come here. The only times I have have been for business or to impress a woman.
Bridget is still practically vibrating with excitement, her eyes darting around the room like she’s trying to memorize every famous person she spots.
“This is the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to,” she gushes. “I’m from Newark originally, so I’m not used to seeing celebrities all the time. Even after living in New York for a couple years, it still feels surreal, you know?”
“Not really…”
“I mean, my friends back home are going to die when I tell them about this. Adam Womack! Can you believe it?”
I can’t, actually. Mostly because I still don’t know who the fuck he is.
I spare a glance at him, and he’s got the kind of waxy skin and frozen forehead that tells me he visits the same plastic surgeon as the large, fake tittied blonde sitting across from him.
The waiter appears at our table, a skinny guy with slicked-back hair and a polite smile. “Good evening. Are we ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
“I’ll have the Wagyu,” I say, handing him my menu. “Medium rare. And whatever beer you’ve got on tap.”
“Excellent choice, sir.” He turns to Bridget. “For the lady?”
Bridget bites her lip, scanning the menu one last time before her eyes light up. “I’ll have the Wagyu too. And the lobster tail. Oh, and can we get a bottle of the...” She squints at the wine list. “The Chateau Margaux?”
I’m no numbers man, but internally I’m doing the math. That bottle of wine alone is eight hundred dollars. Add the Wagyu and the lobster, and we’re looking at a dinner that costs more than what some people have in their savings account.
Not that I give a fuck about the money. I’ve got more than I know what to do with, and if I ever fell in love with a woman, I’d buy her a goddamn golden palace if that’s what she wanted.
But I’m also honest to a fault—and it’s a turn off how casually Bridget rattles off the most expensive items on the menu after she’s spent the last ten minutes fawning over celebrities.
I brought her here to spoil her. Impress her. Show her a good time.
I didn’t bring her here so she could live out her rich and famous celebrity fantasies.
“This is even nicer than where Tyler took me,” she says once the waiter leaves, then immediately catches herself. “I mean, um, another guy I went on a date with. It was a while ago.”
“It’s fine. You’re a single girl. Go out with who you wish.”
Again more blunt honesty.
Bridget’s a beautiful girl with a knockout body. Of course she’d have men lining up to take her out. She’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.
But if we ever became something more—something real—I’d expect her to be mine and mine alone. I’d give her the same in return. That’s how it works. That’s how it should work.
Many men in the New York Underworld don’t think so; they want wives, mistresses, sugar babies, and everything else in between.
I’m a simple man. My wants are just as simple.
If I’m to have a woman in my life, she belongs to me.
…we belong to each other and no one else.
The question is, does Bridget feel that way?
“So,” I say with a clear of my throat, “you mentioned you’re in school, right? What’s your degree in?”
“Oh, um, communications.” She waves a dismissive hand, her attention drifting back to the room at large. Scanning the tables for other familiar faces. “But honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to finish. School is just sooo boring, you know? I’d rather be out living my life than stuck in a classroom.”
“Right. Never was into school myself. Always preferred hitting things with my fists to hitting the books.”
“Oh my god, wait.” She grabs my arm, her nails digging into my flesh. “Is that Axolotl Darling? Over there, by the window?”
“I don’t know who or what the fuck an Axolotl Darling is…”
I follow her gaze to a table where some girl with purple hair and at least six facial piercings is seated, picking at her food like a bird. She’s in some kind of bizarre dress that reminds me of either rolls of toilet paper or a mummy.
But judging by how pretentiously she wears it, that’s probably the point.
“You don’t know Axolotl Darling?” Bridget asks. “She’s the biggest pop star in the world right now. Her song ‘Fever Dreamhouse’ was number one for, like, fourteen weeks.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Killian, you really need to get out more,” she giggles.
I’m about to tell her I get out plenty—I just don’t waste my time listening to generic pop music—when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s a text from Dez. He’s sent me a link to some TikTok reel of my recent fights that’s apparently gone viral.
The caption reads: “Everyone’s hyped for Kill vs. The Tank!! Who you got??”
I text back two words:
Not now.
“Everything okay?” Bridget asks, though she doesn’t sound particularly concerned. Her gaze is elsewhere, hovering on an attractive couple a few tables away as if she’s trying to place where she knows them from.
“Just my manager being a pain in the ass. Nothing new.”
“Oooh, that reminds me!” She leans forward, her distracting cleavage practically spilling out of her sage green dress. “I saw this article about your upcoming fight. Against Darnell Thompson? The one where the winner goes to the championship?”
“In three weeks.”
“That’s so exciting! You must be training so hard right now. I can tell, actually. You’ve always had nice arms but…” She reaches over and squeezes my bicep, holding my gaze. “I keep telling you you’re looking even more ripped than usual. It’s very sexy.”
“Not doing it to be sexy. Doing it to win the match.”
Our food arrives, the waiter sliding our plates in front of us. He pops the cork on the fancy wine Bridget wanted and then sets down the beer I ordered.
We dive into our meal, an instant reminder how tender and succulent the Wagyu is.
Bridget nods approvingly and then becomes distracted by taking photos of the steak and lobster tail with her phone.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “This really is such a treat, Killian! I’ve been wanting to come to Gallaghers for the longest. I bought a new dress and spent two hours getting ready tonight. I wanted to look good for you. Do you like the dress? I thought it showed off my best assets.”
…she’s flirting again.
Her expression is coquettish like when she waits on me at the pub.
A small smirk curls the edges of her lips, and she peers at me with long lashes.
The truth is the truth—Bridget is a beautiful woman. She looks incredible tonight.
What many men would call a dime piece.
The sage-green dress she’s got on brings out the color of her eyes, and her red hair is styled in loose beachy waves designed to look carefree but complicated enough I’d believe it took hours.
She’s put in effort, I’ll give her that.
But two hours? To get ready for dinner?
I don’t understand it. She’s already a naturally beautiful girl.
Why does she need to spend half her evening painting her face and curling her hair to sit across from me at a restaurant?
She could’ve shown up bare faced in an old dress from her closet, and I would’ve been just as pleased.
My phone buzzes again, and I curse under my breath, assuming it’s Dez sending me another viral video. But when I check the screen, it’s a text from Tom.
Your girl never showed up for her shift.
I’ve got no server.
What the hell’s going on?
My stomach drops, and I freeze reading the message.
What the fuck does he mean Jhene didn’t show up for work?
That means one of two things: either she ran... or she was found.
I pull up the security app on my phone, navigating to the live feed from the ring camera I installed a while ago in my studio. The footage loads slowly, buffering for a few agonizing seconds before the image finally appears.
The apartment is empty.
“Killian?” Bridget’s voice sounds far away. “Is everything okay? You look kind of upset about something.”
Her question goes unanswered.
I’m too busy scrolling back through the footage, trying to find the moment Jhene left.
There it is.
About an hour ago, she grabbed her backpack and walked out the door. No one forced her. No one dragged her. She simply left on her own.
She fucking ran.
Bridget’s hand lands on my arm, her voice morphing into a low, seductive purr. “Hey, tough guy. Put the phone away. I’m right here.”