Killian
ELEVEN
The punching bag jerks violently on its chain as I slam my fist into it for the hundredth time this morning.
Sweat drips down my face, soaking through my shirt and pooling in the waistband of my shorts. My knuckles ache beneath the tape, a dull throb that only pushes me to go harder.
Most would probably say I need a break. Some time to hydrate and regain some strength.
Instead, I hit the bag again and again.
I’ve disassociated, my mind elsewhere. Replaying the events of last night. Combing over every last detail about what happened between me and Jhene.
Her lips were some of the softest I’ve ever felt. They were like fucking clouds against mine. As we came together and kissed, she made a small gasping sound. Breath caught in her lungs. Yet she didn’t pull back… at least not at first.
She leaned in for more. I cupped her face and let myself indulge for a moment too.
We pressed pause long enough to forget the world.
What was only a few seconds turned into a spine-tingling, mind-bending moment that became indelible. That left us both dazed as Jhene finally pulled back and reality came crashing back in.
I could see myself in the reflection of her glasses. In her dark brown eyes as she tried to blink away her shock.
I was shocked too—and fucking pissed I’d let myself kiss the girl I was supposed to be protecting.
She has panic attacks at random. Strangers, especially men, seem to trigger her. For months she’s been on the run. For years before that she suffered at the hands of Fedorov Raguzin and the Bratva.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
Even worse, I’m still thinking about it hours later. I’m imagining her lips brushing against mine and remembering how delicate her jaw felt as I cupped it in my large, calloused hand.
Frustration boils inside me as my mind refuses to cooperate by forgetting the moment. It drives me to beat the shit out of this bag like it owes me money.
I shouldn’t be thinking about kissing Jhene.
The girl’s cute, with glasses too large for her face and frizzy spiral curls she never bothers to tame. I’ll admit that much.
I’ve got eyes.
She’s a pretty girl—a very pretty girl. Fucking beautiful in a natural way, even as she seems to shy away from acknowledging she is.
With her frizzy curls and large glasses, she doesn’t try to meet anybody’s standard. She presents herself as is, take it or leave it. That in itself is so fucking attractive.
So goddamn… sexy.
But it’s twice the mindfuck that—objectively speaking—the girl is beautiful without the gloss to her lips or the push-up bra or any other frills.
She’s got a heart-shaped face with small, round features and deep eyes that remind me of coffee. She’s got the softest lips, which are usually arranged in a flat line but sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m gifted the chance to see them stretch into a smile.
In her plain T-shirt and jeans with chewed up nails and scuffed sneakers, I can’t get enough. I look at her and see a woman I’ve become increasingly drawn to.
Attracted to despite my best efforts.
Her personality only makes it worse. It’s both off-putting and addictive—prickly and guarded at first meet, then with flashes of dry humor that are brilliant.
I find myself waiting for her quips. Even looking forward to them.
I think about her more than I should. Way more than I should.
What the hell does any of that mean?
I don’t fucking know. I’ve never been good at this shit. Women are complicated, and I’m as simple as it gets.
Give me a target to hit and I’ll hit it. Give me a problem to solve with my fists and consider it done. But this? This is uncharted territory.
“You trying to kill that bag or just maim it?”
I glance over to find Malone watching me from the edge of the ring, one brow raised and his arms hanging off the ropes.
He’s in his fifties now, a former middleweight who’s managed to stay in decent shape despite the years and the large amounts of liquor.
Not the biggest guy in the room, but he’s one of the best trainers in the city.
“Just working out some tension,” I grunt, throwing another combination.
“Uh huh. You’ve been at that bag for forty-five minutes straight. Whatever’s on your mind, you might wanna deal with it before you break something. Preferably not your hands—you’ve got a fight coming up.”
The fight. Right.
The Tank is in two weeks, and I’ve been training like shit as of late. Too distracted by clan business and the rising tensions with the Bratva.
That’s aside from a certain stubborn girl with glasses who’s a constant on my mind.
At least I’ve managed to get some payback for Tom.
Me and a few of the boys tracked down two of the four bastards who firebombed the Banshee. Took them to our warehouse in Red Hook and had ourselves a little fun. By the time we were done pouring acid on them, they were even more deformed than they left Tom.
Can’t throw any more Molotov cocktails with melted stumps for hands.
The other two are still out there, but I’ve got a crew closing in on them. It’s only a matter of time.
I’m about to tell Malone to mind his own fucking business when the gym door swings open and Dez struts in like he owns the place.
In his mind he owns the world; it’s his oyster and everybody else is only a side character.
My manager’s wearing an alligator-skin suit and pair of loafers, decked out in gold chains around his neck and a glittering watch on his wrist.
Truthfully, he resembles a pimp who got lost on his way to a music video shoot.
Malone’s expression sours. “The hell is he doing here?”
Dez ignores him, strolling past the ring and other sweaty men in the middle of their training. He’s headed straight for me, black shades disguising his eyes.
But I know when we make eye contact because he spreads his arms wide and flashes his signature toothy smile.
“There he is! My champion!” He claps his hands together as if about to dine on a feast. “Glad to finally see your head in the game, Kill. Was starting to worry you’d forgotten about our little date with The Tank.”
“How could I? It’s being promoted every-fucking-where.”
“Good, good. Because word on the street is Thompson’s been training like a man possessed. Six hours a day, seven days a week. He wants that championship bout bad, and he’s willing to go through you to get it.”
“Kill’s been on it,” Malone chimes in stubbornly. “The Tank’s all muscle and no technique. Dumb as a box of rocks too.”
“That may be. But his training regimen hasn’t been what it was in the past,” Dez says. “There’s no denying Kill’s got to bring it. You think you’re ready to go toe-to-toe with a force like The Tank?”
A rush of anger hits me as I shoot my manager a glare and then decide to answer him the only way I know how.
I turn back to the punching bag and throw a right hook loaded with the rage and frustration that’s been building inside me for days.
The impact reverberates up my arm, through my shoulder, into my chest.
The chain snaps.
The bag goes flying across the gym, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that makes several men nearby look up in surprise and stare. Malone swears under his breath.
I turn back to Dez, rolling my shoulders.
“Does that answer your stupid fucking question?”
For once, my flashy manager doesn’t have a comeback.
I wrap up training at the gym and head over to our warehouse in Red Hook.
Sean called to let me know the last two shitheads who burned down the Banshee have finally been caught.
He and the rest of the crew I put up to finding them finally tracked them down in Brownsville.
They were in the middle of a shakedown when our buttonmen cornered them and took them by surprise.
I arrive at the warehouse to find them tied to poles, their faces squashed and bruised from the beating they’ve already received.
Unluckily for them, it’s only the beginning.
Like their other deformed comrades, they’re about to wish they never crossed the clan.
Normally, this would be the kind of situation where I brought them to Ronan and let him decide what happened next. But with him still being on his honeymoon, the final word is up to me.
Last night I told Jhene I don’t use my fists outside of work—and I meant that. I’m not some asshole who goes around looking to cause pain.
Not in my off time unless necessary.
But when I’m on duty? When I’m in the ring? When I’m operating as the Callahan’s boneman? I can be the most violent, bloodthirsty SOB in existence.
…to the point at times I surprise myself.
There’s nothing like the crack of bone. The way flesh breaks apart when confronted with a blade. The writhe of agony even strong men do when caught up in so much pain they can’t take it.
I’ve got a table of fun instruments laid out for the Russian pissants. We’re only getting started with the pliers and their fingernails when my phone buzzes.
Normally, I’d ignore it, but the name on the screen is the person I’ve been meaning to talk to. It’s not every day my baby sister calls me.
“Finish them,” I grunt. “The fingers and toes. I’ll be back.”
I step outside as screams erupt, and I plug a finger in my ear.
“What’d I do now?”
“Who says you did anything?” she answers, tone warm with amusement. “Maybe I just wanted to check in on my favorite brother.”
“You mean your only brother.”
“Winning by default is still winning, jerkface.”
“You might be the only sister who calls her brother just to insult him.”
“That’s not the only reason I’m calling,” she laughs lightly. “I haven’t heard from you in over two weeks. Figured maybe I should make sure you’re not in jail or bleeding out in an alley somewhere.”
“Appreciate the concern, little sis.”
“Is that screaming I hear in the background?”
I throw a glance over my shoulder then motion for one of the buttonmen to pull shut the garage door.
“It’s the TV. Some action flick playing.”
“Uh huh, sure. How’s life in the big bad city? You keeping out of trouble?”
I rub my hand across my jaw, watching the buttonman drag shut the door. “Trying to.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“It’s not a no either.”