Page 47 of The Beginning and End of Everything
It took months and a PI that cost me most of Connor’s life insurance—and my house—to find Brandon. The military assumed he’d died in the explosion or been captured by the enemy, but with no proof of either, Brandon had essentially just vanished. And that wasn’t good enough for me.
When the investigator informed me that he’d found Brandon in London, I’d waxed and waned from wanting to hop the ferry from Dublin and come straight over to wanting nothing to do with him. The last person I expected to abandon Connor—the last person I expected to leave when our entire world crashed and burned—was Brandon.
But he did both of those things.
My hand comes to rest on the old, brass door handle, and I hesitate, still unsure how I’ll react when I see Brandon.
The tinker of glasses and the low buzz of conversation filter onto the sidewalk when I open the door and step inside. The pub is crowded with men chugging pints and shouting at the football game broadcast on the flat-screen at the back of the room.
I skim the faces while I approach the bar, my stomach knotting.
"Larry, my money’s on Breaker.” A burly man slaps a wad of cash on the bar top.
"Ah, of course, it is." The gray-headed man’s American accent rises above the hustle and bustle of the bar. One of his tattoo-covered arms comes across the counter, and he swipes the money, then shoves it into the pocket of his jeans. "Boy ain't lost a fight yet."
Larry lets the man through a door to the side of the bar, and that kink in my stomach tightens.
I sidle closer to Larry and clear my throat before sliding a crisp twenty-pound note across the wood bar. "My money’s on Breaker.”
The old man grabs a bar towel and wipes the counter. "Don't know what you're on about, darlin'."
He must take me for an idiot, anyone in the bar can hear the shouting bellow up the stairwell. He pushes the money back toward me.
"I said"—I shove it right back with a firm glare—"I'm here for the fight."
With a grin, he pockets the cash. "A little thing like you don't need to be down there with all them sweaty men. It’s awful bloody." He feigns a grimace and shakes his head.
"I don't care."
“All right.” Shrugging, he flings the bar towel over his shoulder, opens the door, and then motions me through. "But don't complain if you get blood on your pretty dress there."
The scent of stale cigarettes and beer wafts up the stairwell. Larry closes the door behind me, plunging me into darkness. I use the cold, concrete wall as a guide on my way into the dingy underbelly of the pub.
The stairs open into a room with bare concrete walls and a thin haze of cigarette smoke. Rough and tumble-looking men are packed in like a can of sardines. Shouts and cheers mix with the dull smack of punches being exchanged.
"Knock 'is teeth down, 'is throat, champ!"
"Kick 'em in the nuts."
I slip between the men where I can find space, dodging pints of ale and beer guts, until I reach the tattered ropes that mark the boundaries of the ring. My heart misses a few critical beats before going into a full-on sprint when Brandon dodges a punch.
A quick smile flinches over Brandon’s lips before he throws a punch that leaves his opponent dazed. One more jab and the guy falls flat on his face. The men in the room go crazy, shouting and exchanging high fives.
Brandon’s effect is completely flat while his gaze drifts over the crowd, but then his attention freezes on me. His brows pinch together. His stare turns cold.
A man steps in front of me, blocking my view, and by the time he moves away, Brandon is gone.
It’s like I don't even exist.
26
Brandon
Aheavy fist collides with my jaw, and I relish in the pain. Spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor, I slowly lift my gaze to my opponent to see sweat trickle down his brow, still bouncing on the balls of his feet. He grins at the cheering crowd before he comes at me again—mistake. My temper rises with each clumsy step he takes. By the time he lunges, I'm all out of patience. I duck, then drive my fist into the side of his head. Once. Twice. And he goes down hard, his skull cracking against the bloodstained concrete. The crowd roars.
I close my eyes, chest heaving as I attempt to chain the rage pulsing through my every muscle. When I snap open my eyes, and turn toward the ropes, I pause. There, in the middle of all the drunk punters, stands a woman—the only woman who has ever mattered. She’s out of place like an angel walking among the cursed—her aura making her stand apart. My gaze glides over the dress that covers everything, yet shows me all the curves I need to see. Long, chocolate waves of hair spill over her shoulders, and when I finally meet her face, my heart seizes in my chest.
Poppy.
