Page 58 of The Beginning and End of Everything
33
Poppy
February 2015
Brandon fights nearly every night. Then he drinks. And I’m just… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.
The Pit is full tonight—as always. Drunk men line the walls and every inch in between. A few women stand beside the ropes of the rings, their breasts spilling out from too-small tops. I do my best to maintain my position against the wall, not too close to the crowd or the women, but where Brandon remains in plain sight.
Larry appears from the back of the room and slips between the ropes. “Ladies. Fellas. Welcome to The Pit. Tonight, we have three fights lined up, all-new challengers for your favorite boys."
There's a loud round of applause, which prompts a deep grin to set over Larry's weathered face. “Tonight's challenger—undefeated in his last three fights—it's Dale Winters!"
A brawny man with a shaved head steps into the ring, pumping his fist in the air. A few women cheer, but their enthusiasm is drowned out by the string of low boos that follow.
"And, like I need to introduce this bastard, Finn the 'Iron Fist' West."
The entire basement rattles from the applause when one of Larry’s fighters dashes through the ropes and circles the ring. The bell dings, and the two men round each other, knuckles up, gazes locked.
"Punch 'em in the face, Finn," someone behind me jeers.
Brandon stands behind the ring with his arms braced against the doorway of the changing rooms, brooding. He still hates that I come to the fights, and I don’t come because I enjoy them. I come to make sure he gets home safely afterward. God knows I can’t tell Brandon that.
The repetitive slap of skin on skin contact rises above the cheers of the crowd. Larry’s guy gets in a good punch, and then someone’s hands land on my waist. “Ain’t you a purty little bird?” His warm breath sticks to my neck
I shove away from him, but his grip only tightens.
"Ah, come on now, love. Only one type of girl hangs ‘round The Pit.”
I jab my elbow into his gut just before he’s yanked off his feet.
“Don’t you fucking touch her.” Brandon pins the drunk by his throat to the wall while he throws punch after punch at the man’s face.
People attempt to grab Brandon and drag him away, but he won’t relent. When a group of men finally manages to restrain Brandon, the man falls to his hands and knees, and Brandon kicks him in the gut while being hauled back.
I’ve seen him angry before, but I’ve never seen him so possessed by blind rage. "Brandon!” I shout, terrified.
“Blaine!” Larry charges through the crowd, carting a fire extinguisher, the fighter from earlier right behind him.
Brandon breaks free of the men, immediately grabbing the stunned man from the floor and hitting him again.
"Son of a bitch.” Larry pulls the pin to the fire extinguisher, aims, and douses Brandon in foam. Much to my surprise, he freezes. Brandon’s gaze falls to his blood-covered knuckles, and he flinches like he’s been snapped back from an alternate universe.
"Now, get your ass on to the lockers." Larry points to the back of the room, fire extinguisher still aimed. The crowd parts, giving a wide berth as Brandon makes his way toward the exit, while I stand dazed. People swarm around the now unconscious man, and my stomach churns. Brandon’s always had a temper, but that—he lost all control.
I step through the chaos of the basement, slipping unseen into the changing room just as Brandon’s fist smashes into one of the metal lockers. With each hard breath he drags in, his shoulders rise and fall, and my attention strays to the jagged scar that curves around his side.
Kyan is right. I have no idea what he’s been through. I have no idea who Brandon “The Breaker” Blaine is, but I do know that Brandon O’Kieffe is lost somewhere inside.
"Brandon," I whisper, lifting my hand and trailing my fingertip over his scar. The braille-like texture spells pain beneath my finger.
He spins around, grabs my shoulders, and slams me against the lockers with a bang. Fear bubbles to the surface when his eyes, void of all expression, lock on mine.
I need him to leave the warzone in his mind. "Brandon…"
His hold tightens, and his eyebrows pull together in a frown before his gaze drops to my lips.
"Brandon?"
