Declan heard the whoosh of his heartbeat rushing through his veins. Time slowed as he turned around to face McKenna. He wanted nothing more than to wipe the slimy smile of the man’s face. Rearing back, he balled his fist and smashed it into McKenna’s mouth.
One of the blessings of being sober was that Declan’s punches were accurate. His fist connected solidly with McKenna’s chin. McKenna took the punch like a pro, staying on his feet until Declan followed it up with a jab to the temple. When McKenna went down, Declan stood over him with fists raised and ready.
Rage exploded in Declan as he loomed over McKenna. Declan wanted to pound him until he couldn’t get up. McKenna blinked up at him, then got to his elbows and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
The size of the crowd around them had doubled, and the reporters were eating it up. McKenna looked around at the audience, not bothering to hide his smile of satisfaction. Declan dropped his fists when he saw the gleam of McKenna’s smile.
He’d been played.
McKenna loved nothing more than a dramatic scene, and Declan had just served one up on a silver platter.
Declan glared at McKenna. The rage that had exploded in him a moment earlier dimmed to a smolder as he opened and closed his fist, flexing his bruised knuckles. “You’re fired,” he said.