Page 1 of Hot Irish Halloween

PROLOGUE

JACK

They called him Lucky Jack. “Lucky Jack” Valentine, to be precise. But right now, bloodied and panting as he circled his opponent in the octagon for yet another title fight, Lucky Jack wasn’t so sure anymore if the nickname still applied.

He was the so-called Irish heartthrob of MMA, the man everybody wanted to befriend or fuck. Big. Handsome. Even had all his own teeth. That’s what they said, anyway.

The only label that mattered to him was undefeated heavyweight champion for the past three years in the biggest mixed martial arts fight league in the world. All he had to do was take down this latest contender, Timmy “The Tank” McCready, and shut up the critics who were not-so-quietly suggesting that at thirty-eight, it might be time for Jack Valentine to take a bow.

The so-called luck was anything but. His wins had come from years of hard training and hard fighting, from constant social media posting and playing sexy on late-night TV to win over the fans. It came from partying with posh types who’d probablycross the street when they saw him if he was still some random arsehole on the streets of Dublin.

But here he was, hoping the magic would happen again. For the very first time, he wasn’t so sure it would. Two years ago, he would’ve blasted this boy in a KO within the first minute of round one. This was round three.

He was going for a leg sweep when the lad surprised him with a spinning back kick Jack should have seen coming. Knocked him in the head so hard he saw actual bleedin’ stars. He stumbled, hard, and landed against the side of the cage, but by some miracle and fancy footwork, he didn’t fall.

And then…the stars were too bright, and the lad…what was his name? The big fucker staring at him? Who were these people, all this noise?

What the fuck was going on?

A beam of clarity broke through the sudden thick fog that roiled in his head. And not a moment too soon because that ginger had divided into two, then three. Three redheads in the — what was this called? An octagon, yeah. Three of them were in the cage, pummeling his head nonstop.

From all around, there was chanting and singing. “Jack-ie! Jack-ie!” Were they chanting for him? Jack...that was his name?

He still managed to grab the lad by the back of the neck and piston his knee into his sweaty red face, buying himself a moment. Jack’s vision doubled and tripled again. The gingers were coming back with their arms out. So Jack instinctively did what someone had taught him to do in times like these; punch the one in the middle.

Dodging the next incoming hit, Jack side-stepped and twisted at the waist with his right arm cocked upward and connected to the underside of the lad’s chin, who went airborne and crash-landed flat on his back. No ground and pound necessary as thereferee stood over the redhead and began slapping his cheeks and calling his name.

Jack’s pulse beat in his ears the whole time, a rush of blood and adrenaline and anxiety for the younger man whistling along every nerve ending and crackling in every muscle. He barely registered the pain in his side that throbbed right along with it. Broken rib, most likely, from an earlier kick.

Relief zipped through him when his opponent’s eyes fluttered open. He seemed dazed but okay. They hoisted Jack up and into the center of the cage. His arm was yanked into the air by an older man, maybe his coach? Another man ran in, holding Jack’s other arm with a wide grin. Both their faces and those of the crowd were drawn wrong, with wavy lines stretching and shortening, as if Jack was watching a cartoon while drunk. He stood there like a blowup doll while they threw a shawl over his shoulders and wrapped the heavy belt around his waist.

“…. the winner by KO, and still the Heavyweight Champion of the world, the one, the only, the undefeated ‘Llllllucky Jack’ Valentine!”

Flashing lights danced throughout the arena like fireflies. A woman with long blonde hair in a skin-tight crimson dress jumped up and down in the front row with glee. He had a vague idea, from the way she was staring at him and biting her lip, that he’d probably had his hand up that dress or would soon. Wincing at the headache now raging behind his eyes, he’d most likely be spending the evening in hospital getting an x-ray rather than in a bed with her.

He wouldn’t remember what he said in the interview later when they’d shoved the mic in his face and asked rapid-fire questions. Probably gibberish. The paps were snapping pictures as he climbed down from the octagon, the spectators shouting at him, making his head throb harder. The woman’s grip on his sweaty arm steadied him, but her help came at a cost; her heavyperfume coated the back of his throat along with the taste of copper.

“You did it again, ya big, beautiful lump,” the old man exclaimed with pride.

Jack smiled, but there was a short circuit between his brain and his mouth. He was silent as they did their walk of triumph through the screaming throng and got back to a blessedly quieter room where more people waited with champagne and a medical kit.

He limped over to a bench and slumped onto it while the others chattered like a flock of birds. Someone came over and shone a tiny penlight in his eyes.

“Oi, Jackie. Look at the light. Can you follow it?” The light blinked on and off. “He don’t look too good. Charlie…”

Jack tried to speak, but his tongue was too thick, and wouldn’t let words pass. Black clouds swirled at the edges of his vision, threatening to take over.

And then they did.

A sweet sound pierced through the twilight. It was a voice singing so beautifully, so clearly, that it parted the shadows he’d been immersed in for who knew how long.

Slowly, Jack opened his eyes. There were plastic tubes and humming machines, and everything was white. He was in hospital, in a bed, and thirsty as fuck.

He blinked and squinted at a TV mounted on the wall. A woman and a man were sitting on a dimly lit stage. She was lovely, with deep brown skin and a cloud of dark hair around her head, lit up from behind like a halo. She was playing a banjo while the blond, wiry man strummed a guitar and gazed at herlovingly. Together, they harmonized, and the tune was lively yet comforting, like something out of an old memory.

The words typed along the bottom of the screen read: “American Roots: Brendan Shaughnessy and Penny Mayfield.”

“Penny,” Jack managed to croak.

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