Page 12 of Hot Irish Halloween

Finally, she sighed. “Well, this wasn’t what I was expecting to hear.” She paused, and his heart continued to sink. They’d been heading back toward Mollie Malone. They reached her, still in silence. Penny looked at the statue and the small crowd, her hips shifting back and forth in an unconscious movement. “Can I think about it?”

A mixture of relief and doubt swirled in Jack’s stomach. That wasn’t a “no,” but it wasn’t a solid “yes” either. And if it should turn into a “no,” he’d have to find another opportunity to convince Penelope Mayfield that she was his woman. Even if she didn’t know it yet, she was his. Fate had clearly spoken and confirmed it.

And who was he to fight Fate?

Jack cleared his throat, looking into her big, beautiful dark eyes. “Of course. Take your time.”

They were standing awkwardly in front of Mollie and her crowd. “Thanks for the coffee and the muffin.” Penny held out her hand, and slowly, he took it, shaking it carefully. Her fingers were long. The tips were roughened, no doubt from years of playing stringed instruments, but her palm was soft. The heat of it singed him, shocked him with a zap of electricity. He wanted to hold on forever, even if it risked frying him, but she abruptly let go. “I’ll let you know about your orgy.”

“It’s not an orgy,” Jack mumbled.

She teased him with that grin, appraising him. Jack’s body throbbed at that smile and the look in her eyes. Even if she said no to the party, he was certain this wasn’t going to be the end for them. He was going to touch her, kiss her. Erase that sadness he’d seen in her eyes when she’d talked about her late husband. He’d fill her with himself and make her fucking fall in love with him.

But, like all his feelings, he’d keep that to himself for a while. “Nice meeting you, Penny.”

“Nice meeting you, too, Jack.”

Jack stayed where he was, watching her walk away. A breeze ruffled her hair. A fantasy reel began to play in his head of sinking his hands in its thickness while he ravaged her lips and sank inside her. He flushed when she turned to wave at him before rounding a corner as if his greedy thoughts had been intercepted even at this distance. She waved at him once and then disappeared.

Back at home, Jack was fucking wired. He tried calming himself by taking Trixie out for a walk and playing catch with her in the backyard. It only marginally worked to distract him from the thought that Penny was somewhere in his city and was contemplating spending the night away with him in less than a week. It was still hard to believe.

He replayed every word she’d said to him over coffee, how she moved, the teasing in that melodic, honey-dipped voice. The way her hair and her skin smelled like a ripe, juicy peach buried in a basket of flowers when he’d stood close. How merely touching her back through layers of clothing had sent a live wire humming through his entire body.

A succulent peach. He bet that’s exactly how she’d taste all over.

The distraction he needed came when he was finishing up his sensible dinner of roasted garlic chicken with stir-fried vegetables and brown rice. It was Ian Quinn, his old manager.

He fucking hated Ian Quinn.

“The fuck do you want?”

“My new boy’s fighting tonight on streaming. Maybe instead of watchingJustice Leagueagain while you’re on your couch eating crisps, you should watch it. You might find it inspiring.”

“Fuck you.”

With a laugh, Quinn hung up. Quinn had gotten Jack from the amateur leagues to the pros, but not without taking an oversized cut of his earnings, among other shady doings. Fortunately, Jack had had Charlie and Bran to convince him to pry Quinn’s hooks out of his back before they’d gone in too deep.

Now Quinn managed La Roque, the one everybody was hot for him to fight. That scum Quinn had finally found his perfect counterpart scum. They’d make a great team, if Quinn didn’t stab his new cash cow in the back.

Jack gave Trixie the last of his chicken, which she accepted eagerly. He got the dishwasher going and went to the couch with his crisps — baked, low-fat, low-sodium crisps, fuck you very much, Quinn — and turned on the streaming service that played league matches. He’d been resisting watching La Roque’s fights after the phone calls, but it had been hard. This time, he gave in to the curiosity.

The fight was about to begin. Trixie jumped up onto the couch and snuggled next to him, pawing at the brown leather with her little nails. “Don’t you even think about ripping it. And if you think you’re getting any of my snack, you can forget it,” he told her. After the big eyes, he relented. “Just one. Your mother’s gonna kill me.” She snapped up the crisp and settled down, wagging her stubby tail.

The Vegas venue was huge, lit up with strobe lights and bright neon displays. At the bottom of the screen was written “La Roque v. Traynor” with their stats. Traynor had some KOs, one submission win and some technical wins. La Roque’s were all straight-up KOs.

Figured. Rumor was he’d moved from Queens, New York to Ireland when he was twenty-five, specifically to enter The Meatgrinder, the illegal fight league where Jack had gotten his start. Meatgrinder fights took place in different secret locations every weekend to avoid being detected and shut down by the Gardaí. Boys and men pummeled other boys and men into the mud under overpasses, in fields, or in rusty old warehouses.

Jack had been running “errands” for a local small-time gangster starting at the age of twelve. That would be his Uncle Redmond, in fact, giving him the job behind his mother’s back. It was Redmond who’d introduced him to The Meatgrinder when he was thirteen to toughen him up and train him to someday become an enforcer. He’d been tall for his age but not yet filled out or at his full power. More full of piss and steam than technique and smarts.

That first time, he’d charged his opponent like a bull, started pounding, and didn’t stop until the other lad was down. The rush he’d felt had surged through him like a thousand volts of electricity. Pure lightning. The crowd of mostly men had shaken their fists and screamed and he’d screamed with them. It was savage. Pure. He’d never felt anything like that before, andnothing but total victory in the cage had made him feel the same since.

How he missed that feeling.

La Roque appeared from the staging area. Alberto Bautista, the emcee, announced him while bass-heavy rap started to play. He jogged lightly down the aisle to the octagon, climbed up the metal stairs, and into the cage. Under the bright lights, he shook out his legs and rolled his head on his neck. He was broad but on the lean side for a heavyweight. Surprisingly good-looking, but his grin was cruel. His skin was pale, as though he spent all his time training in a cave that never saw sunlight. La Roque’s hair was longer than most other fighters’, the dark gold strands plaited in rows and secured with a tie. He was covered in colorful tattoos; some were roses, some were lines of text, and there were fanged snakes dripping blood.

Going against custom, La Roque didn’t acknowledge the crowd. And there was a look in his eyes as he stared into space that Jack used to see in a mirror before he fought. They flared with hunger, like a shark’s eyes in the moment before a bite.

The cameras focused next on his opponent, Darius Traynor, who was representing Jamaica. Traynor had a thick build like the standard heavyweight, the dark skin of his forehead already glistening with a few beads of sweat. He came down his own aisle to more hip-hop, and the crowd chanted his name while he waved, flashing them a grin. The crowd’s favorite, obviously. Once he got in the cage, the smile faded, and he was all business. He put his fingertips together and made a slight bow to all sides of the ring. The audience whistled and cheered.

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