Page 10 of Broken Blood Ties

I put up some posters, but after a couple of weeks with no one reaching out as his owner, I gave him a home. Deuce was the name I landed on—a nod to my past life. Maybe someday I’ll play tennis again, but for now Deuce is enough.

I relate to him; being lost in Boston. We’re kindred spirits in that way.

He meows again, and I move to the kitchenette. It’s all white, starting with the half-sized single-door fridge. A sink with a few inches of counter space on either side of it sits between the refrigerator and the also white stove. The only cabinet space I have is below the sink, and two half-sized cabinets above that run up to the ceiling. Standing tall on my tiptoes—gosh, I hate being short—I reach up to snatch a can of cat food. Salmon is his favorite.

With a quick crack of the can, I pour the food into his dish as he slinks around the wooden chair. I grin. I’ve never been a cat person, always thought I’d have a dog, but he’s stolen my heart and run away with it.

While he eats, I turn to the opposite side of the studio where my queen bed juts out from the wall. My dresser is pushed up against the footboard and serves as the one place I can keep a small stack of books, doubling as a side table in my “living room.”

I don’t have a couch. The apartment came fully furnished when I moved in, and I didn’t have the extra money to go buy one. But honestly, with the TV mounted to the wall across from the dining table, I usually watch from there—or my bed, if I don’t mind the glare.

And that’s it. The studio has a tiny bathroom with a standard shower and pedestal sink that you can reach from the toilet. I’ve found clever ways to hide my belongings out of the way. Lightweight plastic organizers, and wicker baskets on the floor beside the sink. I don’t need much.

I ruffle through my dresser to pull out my flannel pajama pants and the matching top. Tossing them onto the hook near the shower in the bathroom, I rummage through the shoe closet by my front door for a towel. I bring it to my nose relishing the soft cotton scent.

It’s the one thing I splurge on. Laundry service. It’s excessive, I know, but my unit doesn’t have a washer and dryer. The closest one is blocks away and carting my laundry around on foot in the dead of winter—no thank you.

I go without cable or streaming services to make up the difference.

After I hop through the shower, I change into the only outfit I’ll wear at home and dump my cheetah-print skirt into the laundry hamper, making a note to schedule a pickup soon.

Steam paints over the oval mirror, and I swipe it away, staring at my bland face. It’s so different from the face that was once continuously plastered in makeup. Always having nail appointments, getting my eyebrows done, having custom clothing fittings, and taking private tennis lessons.

Now, instead, I wear BB cream, simple mascara, and nude lipstick in an attempt to blend in. Avoid detection.

During my first two years in Boston, I ordered colored contacts online—blue ones to hide my copper-colored eyes. But eventually, I grew tired of the hassle and irritation of wearing them every day. So when I switched jobs, I stopped bothering with them altogether.

I brush out my hair, struggling to pull it back into a ponytail with how short it is. I’ve gotten used to it, and as long as I keep my once-a-month hair appointment to get it trimmed, it grazes just above my shoulders.

Grimacing at my reflection, I move from the bathroom to the kitchen to make myself some pasta from a can. When I finally pull out the chair to sit down at the table, night has settled in. I watch the dancing streetlights flicker from green to yellow to red while shoving microwaved tiny Os into my mouth.

Swiping open my phone, I look at the calendar. An orange dot sits as the only task for my Friday evening. My finger hovers over it before I click.

SEND TEXT.

It’s all it says. It’s all it says every last Friday of the month. Opening my messages, I have one from Shelly asking me to come out tonight. I ignore it. Then, starting a blank one, I type in the memorized number before sending a simple message.

The message shows as read almost immediately, and I smile knowing she was probably waiting for it.

There are no response bubbles or reactions to the message. There never is. It’s better this way.

I clean the single bowl in my sink and scoop up Deuce to place him in his spot on the bed. He rarely stays there long, opting for his own bed under the table instead. But it’s as if he knows I need him until I fall asleep and he concedes.

I tuck myself in, going over my weekend plans of lesson planning and grocery shopping before nuzzling into my pillow and shutting out the world.

Chapter3

Kieran

Igroan into the training room floor, swiping my tongue over my upper lip. The coppery tang of blood plus the sting of my freshly split lip causes me to let out a hiss.

“Bleeding hell!” Cormac says from outside the ring. “Ye can’t stay out of it, can ye. Oye! What the hell is wrong with you fightin’ the Boss in the ring …” His voice trails off as he yells at Oscar, who’s one of the main event fighters here. He’s the best and the fighter everyone puts their money on in the boxing ring. He’s the only one who refuses to go easy on me as the owner.

I smirk as Cormac rips Oscar a new one, and I reach up unfastening my gloves with my teeth. Blood smears over the white hook and loop closure and I smile. Landing a successful punch, dodging my opponent’s attacks, or winning one of the nights in the ring all causes the same heart-pounding euphoria coursing through my veins.

For many boxers, it’s the boost from the crowd—the roaring cheers and chants fueling their adrenaline. But not for me. My rush comes from the exertion, the pain, and—every once in a while—the shadowy figure of a woman I can’t quite see.

I’ve probably taken too many knocks to the head. But the surge of anticipation when I see her behind my closed eyelids trumps any impactful punch or burn of fatigue eating away at my muscles. Her petite figure and short hair are all I can make out in her shadow form, but I chase it anyway.

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