Page 79 of The Beginning and End of Everything
Her brows draw together as concern fills her eyes. She calls to the lost fragments of my soul that are buried in shadows so thick and black, I can barely see out.
I try to resist her, I do, but it's futile. Before I know it, I'm storming across the space that separates us. Her eyes widen, and she takes a trembling step back before my hands land on her waist, and my lips slam over hers. For a moment, her body stiffens, and then almost immediately softens. She’s so trusting. Small hands wind around my neck as she submits to me completely. Everything about her washes over me, calming everything in its wake. She bridles the rage and calms the storm. When I lift her she parts her thighs, wrapping them around my hips as I press her to the wall. I trace my nose down the side of her throat, breathing her in like pure oxygen.
The door to the locker room cracks against the breezeblock wall, as Larry shoves his way inside. Poppy squirms away from me, and I drop her back onto the ground.
"What the hell was that shit out there, huh?" Larry’s face is red, his eyes wild as he rounds the corner into the small room. "Shit like that ain't gonna win me no money, son. You pull stunts like that one, and no jackass is gonna fight you. Jesus."
I move Poppy behind me, blocking Larry's view of her. "I've told you before, old man, I fight the way I fight, and I win."
"And I've told you before that if you can't at least make it entertaining, I ain't got no need for you." His left eye twitches a little. "Shit-fire, I mean, I like you and all, but a business is a business." Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, he sighs.
"I'm your best fighter, Larry. You know it. I know it. Half this crowd only came here for me, so take it or leave it."
"You may be my best fighter, only 'cause you're half looney as a fucking schizophrenic wombat, but shit, no one wants to watch you knock the bastard out first go."
"Plenty of illegal fight rings in London, Larry. I can walk into any one of them tomorrow. You just say the word." I don't want to be an arsehole. I like Larry. He gave me a means of making money and, to a degree, a sense of belonging that I hadn't felt in a long time, but I'm not a puppet. I'm not about to go in there and fight to orders. They may be illegal, but they sure as hell don't need to be fixed.
His expression falls blank. "None of those other places are gonna put up with your shit, boy. How many times have I had to drag your drunk ass outta your apartment and sober you up? How many times have I pulled you outta some bullshit bar fight before the cops got called and your AWOL ass really gets into trouble? You think anyone else is gonna put up with that mess?" His gaze falls behind me onto Poppy. "Besides her, huh?"
I take half a step forward and open my mouth to respond when Poppy shoulders past me and practically squares up to Larry. He stares down at her tiny frame, brows raised.
She glares at him. "Youare part of his problem. Have you ever paid attention to how angry he is when he leaves? Maybe instead of dragging his drunk ass out of his flat to fight, you should have tried to send him to get help. Don't act like a martyr because you're not."
I stand here, unable to move or interfere.
"A martyr? Who said any—"
"If you cared about him, you would get him help."
"That's what the fighting's for to—"
"Oh, shut it with that bullshit, would you? Look at him." She points at me. "Does he look like you've helped him?”
"Poss, let me handle it," I pull her to my side.
She crosses her arms in front of her chest and taps her foot over the floor. "Oh, yes, by all means, go ahead,Brandon. Handle it."
"Take it or leave it, Larry,” I say. “You want me to take a punch? Get better fighters.” I pick up my bag and place an arm around Poppy's shoulders, basically dragging her from the room.
Damn, she's like a dog with a bone when she's mad. I haven't seen that side of her in so long, I'd almost forgotten it existed.
45
Brandon
It's been months of being with Poppy, months where I've found some semblance of calm within my own personal anarchy, and although I've accepted the fact that life goes on and all you can do is try to slog your way through the shit the best you can, I still feel guilty.
Not a single morning goes by where I don’t wake up next to her, knowing that it should be Connor.
I'm also painfully aware of the circumstances that I live in, and the fact that she'swillinglyjoined me in it. She works during the day, and I fight at night. Every time I fight, that little switch inside me flips. Sometimes I like it. It serves as an outlet for the rage. Other times I loathe it. Poppy hates it. She hates the fighting, and she hates Larry simply because he owns the fight ring. But what she doesn't see is that without it, I really am good for nothing. It's the only thing I excel at anymore, and it pays the bills. It’s not the fight that’s the problem, it's the aftermath, the long moments where my mind dives into the violence and the blood lust. And it's in those times that I can't see Poppy clearly anymore. She slips into the background for a while, a secondary consideration to my desperate primal urges.
I'm sitting on the couch, holding a bag of frozen peas to my jaw when I hear her key in the lock.Shit.I shove the peas behind a sofa cushion just in time for her to walk in, two plastic bags stuffed with food in her hands.
"Hey." I get up and take the sacks from her, dumping them on the kitchen counter.
"Brandon?"
I don't turn around. "Yeah?" I take shit out of bags, shoving it in cupboards. Hell, I have no idea where this crap even goes.
