Killian #2
She makes a sound that’s low and growly. “You’re a headache, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told many times. Often by you.”
We spend the next couple minutes catching up. Mostly on Maeve’s end as she tells me about her practice in California. She’s a psychologist specializing in childhood trauma. An interesting career choice considering our family history.
“And Allen?” I ask. “Is he being a good boy? Treating you right?”
She groans. “Killian, I swear to god—”
“Yes or no answer, stinky butt.”
“Almost thirty years and you refuse to let that pet name die, huh?” she counters, sighing heavily. “To answer your question: Yes, my husband is treating me right. As a matter of fact, he still remembers the threat you made at our wedding, and that was two years ago.”
“Good. Hope he never forgets it.”
“You have him thinking you’d actually break his kneecaps if he ever messes up.”
“Don’t doubt that I would, Maeve.”
“This would be why I moved to California,” she says dryly. “In hopes it’d keep my psychotic older brother at bay.”
“I prefer protective older brother.”
“You know, the older I get the more I realize our entire family really is screwed up. That includes our mother, by the way. She’s been texting me those glittery GIFs with Bible verses about forgiveness again.”
I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose, hardly surprised. “That… sounds about right.”
“I’ve been ignoring them, but she sent another one this morning. I’m one more sparkly proverb away from blocking her number.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“Don’t bother. It won’t change anything,” she says bluntly. Almost as blunt as I am. “You know it’s not going to change anything. Not on her end or mine. I’m never going to forgive him, Killian.”
“You know I agree with you.” Tension pulses through my jaw as my mind wanders to the image of our old man slumped in his recliner, vacant eyes set on the TV. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s dead to me.”
“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
A second or two of heavy silence passes, both of us well aware of our shared trauma. The things we endured growing up that only made us closer.
Then Maeve clears her throat and says, “Anyway, enough about our fucked-up family. How’s your life? Found a girlfriend yet?”
I scowl to myself as if she can see me. “Why do you always ask that?”
“Because I think you deserve a nice girl. Someone real, not one of those groupies who’s always hanging around after your fights trying to get you to fuck them.”
“Language!”
“Ha!” she answers. “That’s rich coming from you. Every other word is an F bomb.”
“But you’re…”
…my baby sister.
I heave a deep breath, reminding myself Maeve’s a woman. She’s married and has her own life. She’s no longer the small innocent girl who’d come to me when she skinned her knee.
Which is also probably why I should be honest with her.
“There… might be a girl,” I say slowly. “Someone new in my life anyway.”
“WHAT?” Maeve shrieks. “Tell me everything immediately!”
“Calm down—”
“I will not calm down! My emotionally constipated brother admitted he has feelings for someone!”
“I never said anything about feelings.”
“Who is she? What’s her name? How did you meet?” she rattles off from her end of the phone. “Is she pretty? Is she nice? Does she know you’re a grumpy asshole who punches people for a living?”
“Maeve, hold up a fucking second—”
“Tell me or I’m calling Sean. You know he can’t keep a secret to save his life. He’ll spill everything.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “If Sean knows what’s best for him, he’ll keep his fucking mouth shut.”
“Come on, Kill. Spill. I’m dying here.”
I scrub a hand over my face again, already regretting this conversation. “I can’t go into details. It’s complicated. But there’s a girl I’ve let stay with me. She’s... troubled. We’ve been spending time together.”
“Wait, staying with you? As in living with you? In that tiny studio apartment? In the same bed?!”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I growl back. “We’re not sleeping in the same bed. Jesus, Maeve.”
“Tell me more about this troubled girl. What’s she like?”
“Just because you’re grown doesn’t mean I can’t give you a noogie next time I see you.”
“Deflection noted. Now answer the question.”
I grind my teeth, but some part of me wants to talk about this. Needs to make sense of the mess in my head.
Who better than my baby sister who, aside from Ronan, has always been my best friend?
“We kissed last night,” I admit. “This morning we went back to acting like it never happened. I don’t know what the fuck any of it means.”
Maeve’s quiet at first, as if best deciding how to approach the topic. “Who kissed who?”
“I don’t know,” I say moodily. “We kissed each other. We both went for it.”
“Okay, but do you like her? I don’t mean as a friend or pal, by the way. ”
“I don’t know,” I answer a third time. “I just told you I don’t know what any of it fucking means.”
She releases a sound of exasperation. I can practically see her rolling her eyes all the way from California.
“Typical. Feelings are like a foreign language to you. Okay, let me ask you this—did you like kissing her?”
“Yes,” I answer quicker than expected. “But I’ve been cold turkey on women for weeks—”
“So what?” she interrupts. “Does that mean you’d enjoy kissing any woman off the street?”
My mind goes to the groupies who practically throw themselves at me. The women I’ve got no interest in even shaking the hands of, let alone kissing.
Then it lands on Bridget and how the last time she touched me, I felt nothing. Her tits are nice in the low-cut tops and dresses she wears, but it feels hollow now.
Any interest I had is simply… gone.
It doesn’t make me want more like I do around Jhene. More of her dry quips. More of how her brown eyes sometimes light up behind her too big glasses.
“No,” I admit seconds later.
“Okay then. What else do you like about her?”
“She’s witty. Smart. Modest.” I’m listing things before I can stop myself.
Each one comes out so instinctually I don’t even have to think about it.
“Hardworking. She’s tougher than she looks.
Way tougher. And fucking stubborn—enough to drive me insane.
But I respect it. I like that she’s got a backbone. ”
“It sounds like there’s a lot you like about this girl,” Maeve says calmly, using the same tone I suspect she does with her clients.
I realize it’s how she works her magic; how she’s able to get them to open up without even realizing it.
Funny it works even on her brother.
“Have you considered asking her out?” she asks. “You know, like a normal person?”
“Never gonna happen.”
“Killian, you have a tendency to avoid things that bring you—”
“I’ve got more important shit going on,” I interrupt grumpily. “The clan needs me. There’s a war brewing. I don’t have time for silliness.”
“You mean happiness,” Maeve says. “Look, all I’m saying is you’ve dedicated your life to fighting. Twenty-four-seven, nothing but blood and violence and putting everyone else’s needs before your own. Maybe seeking joy elsewhere isn’t such a bad idea. She could be good for you.”
If there’s one thing my baby sister’s gifted at, it’s managing to get the last word in a debate. This time’s no different as she renders me momentarily speechless, analyzing me and dropping some astute assessments I can’t even argue with.
“I should probably go. My lunch hour is ending. Good luck with your fight,” she says softly. “Think about what I said. Love you, big brother.”
“Love you too, stinky butt.”
The line goes dead, and I’m left standing in front of the warehouse loading dock, phone in hand, listening to distant screams of torture and wondering if my baby sister might actually be right.
Maybe it is time I seek happiness from places outside the ring.
I decide to take Jhene out for pizza.
It’s not a date. I keep telling myself that as we walk the few blocks to Tony’s, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the Brooklyn sidewalks.
It’s only dinner. Two people who need to eat, grabbing a slice at the local spot. Nothing more.
The fact that we haven’t really talked since the kiss has nothing to do with it.
I’ve spent the day training and then torturing the last two Russian fucks. By the time we were done with them, they were delirious from pain, basically shells of themselves.
Jhene seems skeptical of my motives, which is fair. She’s been eyeing me sideways since I suggested we get food, her expression consisting of knitted brows and a slightly downturned mouth.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks as we approach the pizzeria.
“Doing what?”
“Taking me out for dinner. We could’ve just eaten whatever was in the pantry. I don’t have a problem with ramen noodles.”
“We both liked the pizza last time. Figured it made sense since we’re both free.” I shrug, holding the door open for her. “You always this suspicious when someone offers to feed you?”
“Actually… yes.”
At least she’s honest.
We grab a booth near the window and order our usual—pepperoni for me, plain cheese with jalapenos and black olives for her.
The pizza arrives hot and slathered in melted cheese, with the grease practically dripping from the paper plate. Exactly the way it should be.
If Dez or Malone knew this was part of my diet leading up to my fight against The Tank, they’d revolt. But what they don’t know doesn’t hurt them.
We don’t get a chance to dig in.
The pizzeria door chimes as it opens and in walks Sal Montagna of the Ferrera family. The air in the small, humid pizza shop changes as the underboss comes in, backed by three soldiers.
He naturally carries that sort of menacing vibe. The same as Seamus Callahan.
In his fifties, with leathery skin and slicked-back hair, he’s got a cigarette between his lips despite the “No Smoking” sign posted clear as day in the pizzeria window.
He surveys the scene, eyes finding mine.
I snatch a napkin from the dispenser, wipe my hands off, and grunt, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”