Chapter 1 - Killian
Some men find peace in prayer. I find it in the crack of bone against bone.
T-Bone Jackson staggers back, blood spraying from his split lip as my right hook connects dead on.
The crowd roars, a hundred voices screaming for more violence. For more of the primal shit they can’t get anywhere else on a Tuesday night in Brooklyn.
The underground venue reeks of sweat and cigarette smoke combined with the slick metallic stench of fresh blood.
Bare bulbs swing from the ceiling, casting shadows that dance across the makeshift ring. There’re no referees here. No regulations.
Just two men, a rope square, and a crowd that paid good money to watch us tear each other apart.
T-Bone’s a veteran. Forty-two years old, he’s been fighting since the days promoters advertised on Myspace. The man’s got hands like cinder blocks and a reputation for putting younger fighters in the hospital. Ten years ago, he would’ve been a real problem for me.
But ten years ago was ten years ago.
Tonight he can’t keep up with a savage fighter in his prime.
He throws a wild haymaker that I see coming from a mile away. I duck, letting it sail over my head, then drive my fist into his ribs.
Once. Then again a second time.
I feel the exact second his rib gives. Feel the crack of his bone as he grunts and doubles over.
Hit or be hit. Simple rules.
Maybe the only part of life where the rules are that black and white.
That’s the thing about fists—they don’t lie. Words do. People do. But a punch? A punch always tells the fucking truth.
“Stay down,” I growl, heaving ragged breaths into my lungs.
The stubborn bastard doesn’t listen. They almost never do.
He straightens up and comes at me again. Slower than before, he’s sloppy on his feet, guarding his damaged side with his left arm.
It’s pathetic to see. To watch fighters far past their prime refuse to accept reality.
T-Bone was a legend once. Now he’s just another man with a thinning hairline and diminished stamina that can’t accept his time is up.
He’s just another body standing between me and a drink at the Banshee.
I take mercy on him and end it quick. A jab to throw off his guard, then a right cross that snaps his head sideways. His eyes roll back before he even hits the canvas.
The crowd loses its fucking mind.
I don’t celebrate, refraining from raising my fists in victory. Some fighters eat up the attention; they play to the audience by feeding into the hysteria.
That’s never been my style. Fighting has never been about the attention.
It’s about therapy. About pushing myself to the limit physically, and then still pushing it a mile farther than that.
Endless hands reach out to touch me as I return to my corner, dripping sweat and heaving ragged breaths.
My so-called team.
The posse my manager Dez has insisted I have in my corner at every fight. Most of them are fair weather hanger ons that cheer when you’re victorious and go ghost when you’re deemed a loser.
“Killian! My man!” Dez cries out above the rest. He grins wide, revealing the gold cap replacing one of his incisors. “What did I tell you? What did I fucking tell you? As easy as one, two, three! Like stealing candy from a motherfucking baby.”
Desmond Carmichael follows me from the ring, pushing through the crowd as if he’s the one who won the fight.
In his mind, as my manager, he basically has. It’s all his genius. His doing.
I’m simply the violent brute he’s chosen to champion.
I don’t like Dez, and I’m certain he doesn’t care for me either—aside from when I win fights—but he’s still the best manager I’ve had. He books the fights and handles the business side of things so I don’t have to waste time thinking about it.
“Championship’s gonna be yours, baby!” Dez claps me on the shoulder, ignoring the fact that I’m dripping sweat and probably smell like a locker room fucked a slaughterhouse. “That knockout? Beautiful. Poetry in motion. The promoters are gonna eat this shit up.”
“Great,” I mutter, marching down the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.
Our posse obediently follows, trailing behind us like fans with hearts in their eyes.
“We gotta celebrate! Drinks on me. I know a spot in Manhattan—real exclusive joint, bottle service, women who will do anything, and I do mean anything—”
“No.”
Dez chuckles as if I’ve told a joke, jogging to get in front of me. “No? Killer, baby, you just knocked T-Bone Jackson the fuck out in under four rounds. You can’t just—”
“The answer is no.”
Even Dez knows better than to push his luck with me.
I shoulder past him, ignoring the fans shouting my name, the women trying to catch my eye with kissy-fuck-me faces, and the hanger-on posse who trail behind like leeches wanting to attach themselves to me.
The uproar fades into nothing as I push through the back exit and step into the warm Brooklyn night.
The alley smells like piss and garbage. It’s a massive improvement.
I light a cigarette and take a long drag. The nicotine mixes with the adrenaline still buzzing through my system.
My hands are twitchy—they always are after a fight. Not from fear but from the comedown. From my body realizing the violence is over and it can stop flooding me with chemicals designed to keep me alive.
There’s only one place I want to be right now, and it sure as shit isn’t some Manhattan club with Dez and a bunch of groupies looking to fuck a famous boxer.
I want a whiskey. Dry, no chaser.
I want the familiar booth where the clan always sits.
And most of all right now, I want to see Bridget’s pretty smile and flaming ginger hair as she walks up to the table to take my order.
Simple and uncomplicated after the chaos of the ring.
The Banshee it is.
The Banshee’s waiting for me, the pub wedged between a shoe repair shop and an out-of-business bookmaker. The windows glow from the outside and the sounds of ESPN pierce the brick walls.
As soon as I step inside, I’m greeted by the bite of cigarette smoke and sourness from liquor.
Home sweet home.
It’s quieter than usual for a Tuesday night. A few regulars are slouched over pints at the bar while a trio of old-timers are huddled at a table arguing about hurling scores. Tom’s behind the counter, wiping down glasses with a rag that’s probably older than I am.
I head straight for the back corner booth where the clan always sits. Sean’s already there, sipping his way through a Guinness, and scrolling through his phone with a bored expression.
“Heard you knocked T-Bone out cold,” he says. “Dez has been blowing up the group chat.”
“Dez needs to learn how to shut the fuck up.”
Sean snorts. “Good luck with that.”
I slide into the booth across from him, my body starting to ache now that the adrenaline’s fully worn off.
Gonna feel like shit tomorrow. Worth it.
My eyes scan the bar, searching for a flash of ginger hair and a bright, pretty smile. Bridget usually works Tuesdays. She knows my order before I even sit down—dry whiskey, no chaser, keep them coming ’til I say stop.
But I don’t see her anywhere.
Instead, a girl I don’t recognize emerges from the back. She’s got a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other, her expression about as welcoming as a root canal.
She’s a small thing.
Average height, maybe five-five, with a slim build that makes her look like a stiff breeze could knock her over. Brown skin, the color of caramel, and a mess of natural curls piled on top of her head like she couldn’t be bothered to tame them.
She’s wearing glasses that are slightly too big for her face, and there’s a birthmark on her cheekbone that draws attention to features that might be pretty if she ever bothered to do herself up.
Heart-shaped face. High cheekbones. Full lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line.
Plain Jane through and through. Jeans and a t-shirt under her apron. Tennis shoes. No makeup. No effort whatsoever.
From the vibe she gives off, she seems to prefer it that way.
But I’m more preoccupied by one thing—who the fuck is she and what’s she doing waiting tables when Bridget should be here?
She walks up to our table as if she’s doing us a favor. “What’s it going to be?”
No peppy greeting or bright smile.
The exact opposite of Bridget in every way.
Sean glances up from his phone, a grin spreading across his face. “Bridget, you’re looking tanner this evening.”
The joke lands with a thud. The girl doesn’t even blink.
“I’m not Bridget.”
“No shit.” I lean back in the booth, studying her. “Where is she?”
“Not here.”
“I can see that. I’m asking where.”
The girl’s dark eyes flick to me, and for a second I catch how they sharpen behind her glasses.
Assessing. Judging. Instant dislike as she takes a single look at me.
Then it’s gone, replaced by the same flat indifference.
“She left early. Said she wasn’t feeling well,” she answers stiffly. She taps her pen against the notepad impatiently. “What’ll it be? Your order.”
Neither of us answer her. I’m staring at her with a grizzled expression that usually scares off grown men. Yet she merely stares back as if it doesn’t matter to her how large, brutish and intimidating I am.
…or how I’m covered in bruises with dried blood on my knuckles.
Rude little thing, isn’t she?
“Usually the servers here are friendlier,” I say slowly, voice low and husky. “They know to have manners.”
“Good for them,” she answers without missing a beat. “I just want to take your order.”
Sean coughs to cover a laugh. I shoot him a glare before turning back to the girl.
“Two whiskeys. Dry.”
She doesn’t bother with the notepad, simply giving a curt nod, then turning to walk off before I can say anything else.
I watch her go, irritation prickling under my skin.
“The hell was that?” Sean mutters, his grin broader than ever. You’d think this was the funniest shit he’s seen all week.
“New server,” I grunt. “Apparently.”
“Charming personality.”
“Isn’t it.”
“Bet she’s a lovely girl.”
“Regular Mary fucking Sunshine,” I answer, drumming my fingers against the table. My gaze tracks her through the pub as she steps behind the counter and pours our whiskeys.
“Wonder what would make Tom hire her? Didn’t even know he was looking for somebody new.”
I grunt again, the primitive noise serving as my input. I’m still watching the girl.
There’s something nagging at me about her.
She looks familiar from somewhere. A face I’ve seen before but can’t place where. Has she been in the crowd of one of my fights? Does she live in the neighborhood, and I’ve passed her up in the street before?
She returns with our drinks, setting them down harder than necessary. A few drops of whiskey slosh over the rim of my glass and onto the table. She doesn’t apologize or acknowledge the spill.
“Tab or cash?” she asks flatly.
I scowl.
Bridget would already know the answer to that basic ass question.
“Tab. Under Rourke.”
She scribbles it down on her notepad and walks away again. I find myself glaring after her, even harder and more critically than before.
This girl is off; this girl isn’t some simple new waitress hired on by Tom.
The feeling in my gut says there’s more to her, and whatever it is, it likely spells trouble…