Page 24 of Only for You
Chapter Eight
Killian picked up the bottle of top-shelf vodka and poured another tumbler full, ignoring the questioning look of the bartender behind the glass bar. The club didn’t open for another hour, and since it was a Saturday night, the place was guaranteed to be packed. But between then and now, he planned to take full advantage of the relative quiet and peace. Take advantage by getting enough of a buzz that when he went into the ring tonight, he wouldn’t feel any pain. He wouldn’t feel shit. Yeah, that was the plan. Feel. Nothing.
“You are being an asshole. A dumb-as-fuck asshole,” Rion muttered next to him.
Killian spared Rion a quick glance before swallowing the rest of the alcohol in his glass, savoring the burn as it rolled down his throat. Only friends—the best of friends—could get away with talking to each other like that. But the knowledge didn’t curb the rising irritation.
“Eloquent as always,” Killian bit out.
“The truth isn’t always nice or pretty,” Sasha shot back, lowering to the stool on the other side of Killian. “And you’re lucky. I made Rion hold off a few hours, hoping you’d come to your senses by yourself. But that was this morning, and you’re still here. So fuck that patience bullshit. When we see you screwing up, it’s our right to yank a rope in your ass.”
“You two are really preoccupied with my ass,” Killian sniped, but without much heat. Hell, how could he be mad with them? Not too long ago, he’d done the same thing with Rion. Shaking his head, he lifted his tumbler to his mouth. “Say it.”
“Why haven’t you gone after her yet?” Rion demanded. “Five years wasn’t enough time?”
The previous night after he’d escorted Gabriella out of the club, Killian had given them the rundown of Gabriella’s explanation. And though surprised, they had seemed to accept her reasons and forgiven her as Killian had.
“Go after her and say what?” Killian asked, fingers curling around the thick glass. The same powerlessness and sense of free falling that had gripped him in its vicious claws the night before tore into him again. “Lie? Tell her I trust her when I don’t? Just because you two have found some goddamn happily ever afters doesn’t mean everything else is going to be tied up in a neat little bow,” he growled.
“I notice you didn’t claim not to love her,” Rion pointed out.
“Love isn’t the damn problem.” Clenching his jaw, he glanced away from the men who knew him better than anyone except the woman he’d rejected the night before. “That’s the easy part,” he murmured.
“Yeah, it’s the deciding to not be a dickless wonder and letting fear rule you—that’s the tough part.” Sasha leaned forward, bracing his arms on the bar top. “And you, Killian, are being a dickless wonder, in case you missed my point.” He loosed a hard crack of laughter. “We were there, man. We saw how she wrecked you. We witnessed it all. But we also remember how you were with her. Whole. Content.Happy.Between the three of us, we could count our happy moments on one hand. And you had two years of it. Yeah, she messed up. But hell, which one of us hasn’t? Which one of us hasn’t done shit we regret, shit we wish we could erase and start over? You and Gabriella might not be able to wipe away the past, but damn it, you have a future if you have the balls to grab it.”
Killian didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Fear was a noose around his throat, choking him. He shut his eyes, as if he could block out Sasha’s words. He’d told Gabriella he couldn’t allow himself to love her again. Which was a load of shit. Because he already did…and he was afraid. The last time he’d trusted her with his heart, she’d almost destroyed him. Yes, the previous night, he’d found out the reasons she’d left Boston, left him. But the revelation hadn’t alleviated the fear of the pain—the pain that had shredded him, weakened him. And the thought of enduring that bleakness again… He shook his head. No. Already the echoes of the suffering resonated within him, and they were enough to have him shying back.
“I have to go.” He slammed the tumbler on the bar and practically leaped off the stool.
“What?” Rion asked, frowning at him, and Killian swore he glimpsed disappointment in his friend’s gaze. “Another fight? That isn’t going to solve your problems, Killian. Make the pain go away.”
“Drop it,” he barked. “Just…” He squeezed the bridge of his nose, swallowing the groan that rose in his chest like a ghost’s wail. “Just, drop it. Please.” Dropping his arms, he met his friends’ concerned stares. “She’s gone. And I’m fine. I’m.Fine.”
Pivoting on his heel, he strode across the club and out into the cold night.
A fist drilled into Killian’s abdomen, driving the breath from his lungs like a pile driver. Shit, that’s what the blow felt like. A steel drill to his flesh.
Ben Trainor’s reputation hadn’t been an exaggeration. He was a beast.
Though Killian had a couple of inches on the fighter, solid muscle bulked Trainor’s big body like the fucking Incredible Hulk. He hit like the gamma-rayed green rage-a-holic, too.
Blood poured down from a cut over Killian’s left eye, partially blinding him. Swiping his arm over the slice, he temporarily staunched it. Just in time to block the hand flying toward his jaw. But not well enough. Trainor’s knuckles glanced his chin instead of plowing into it as the other man intended.
Damn, the pain. He stumbled back under the weight of it, knowing if he hadn’t thrown up his arm, he would be flat on his ass right now. Ducking another swing, he shot his fist out, catching the fighter in the chest. He might as well have swatted a fly. Trainor didn’t flinch. Instead he took advantage of the opening Killian had inadvertently left and slammed his own fist into Killian’s side, damn near lifting him off the cement ground of the warehouse. Stars blinked and wavered in front of his eyes as he tried to breathe through the agony.
With a grunt, Killian shifted backward.
But not fast enough. Huge, meaty hands grabbed Killian on either side of his head, and Trainer drove his knee up. Intuition or reflex—or the damn grace of God—had Killian dropping his arms, and deflecting the blow. Deflecting but not blocking. Trainor’s knee glanced off his groin.
Agony exploded low in his gut, his breath bursting from his lungs. His knees buckled, and they hit the ground. The impact reverberated in his thighs, but was swallowed up by the pain from the dirty hit. His back slammed onto the cement, and he blinked up at the dingy, gray ceiling of the warehouse, a sheet of black with swarming gold dots engulfing his vision.
God, he hurt. Every damn muscle and bone pulsed with red-hot heat. And he didn’t have anything left in him. Under the roar of the crowd, Trainor’s taunts and growls of “Get your ass up, bitch” reached him, as did the “Back up!” and “Calm down, asshole” of the two men Rick hired as “refs”.
At this point, he didn’t care if they let Trainor loose. Unlike the other nights just like this when he’d entered the makeshift ring, the fighting wasn’t subduing the darkness. The violence wasn’t drowning out his thoughts, his memories…his grief.
I never looked at you through rose-colored glasses.
Gabriella’s voice, her words, dogged him.
