Page 38 of Kissin Irish by Morgan
“What does acushla mean?” I asked him.
“Aye, acushla. It comes from the Irish Gaelic, meaning vein of my heart. Like my darling. But you’re more than my darling, you see. You’re the vein of my heart.”
How I longed to stay in his arms, but the match was only hours away. He had to prepare. We didn’t talk about anything that had happened. We said our goodbyes. I wouldn’t hear from him again until after the match.
Chapter 18
“What’s happening?” I asked Jass who sat beside me in the stands. She held my hand which was comforting. I wore my air pods so the noise wouldn’t be too deafening. I took one out just as the rev of an engine started.
“They’re both in the cage. Memphis is in the middle of the ring on a motorcycle. She’s riding out now.”
“What’s she wearing?”
“A green G-string and pasties.”
“That much, huh?”
“Well, the mayor’s here.”
Horror’s gruff voice came over the loudspeaker introducing the match. “Two men enter but only one man leaves,” he announced, confusing me.
“That’s got to be bullshit, right?” I asked Jass.
Paisley called from over my head. “Pagan had to have had Horror say that to fuck with Irish. No one is dying here. Can you imagine? Half of Nashville’s here.”
Having Paisley behind me gave me no comfort. I still didn’t know who killed Waldo. Someone bumped into my side while they sat down beside me. Smelling his cologne, I recognized Riff.
Thankfully, I could still roll my eyes to show how I felt about him.
“They’re just getting started?” He asked.
“Yeah.”
The bell rang.
The crowd roared around me, vibrating the rafters. The sweet smell of a cigar glided past. Jass had gotten some popcorn for us to share. I held it between my knees, noticing each time she reached in the bucket. Taking my own handful, my hand met Riff’s hairy knuckles.
I elbowed him. “Get your own.”
When Riff cheered, I assumed Pagan had landed a blow. Jass’s cheers were the opposite. She hoped my brother lost for his own sake. Riff cheered so much more that I worried. I winced at every slap and thud I heard, not knowing who was winning.
The cage fights at Royal Road were basically Mixed Martial Arts, without many of the rules, like ones against eye gouging. Anything goes at Royal Road. It was one of our many slogans. Still, there were three, five-minute rounds.
“Ground and pound, baby, yeah,” Riff exclaimed near my ear. “Go, Irish,” he shouted.
“You’re rooting for Irish?” I asked him.
“You bet your sweet ass, I am. I put money on him before your brother pissed off Kingpin.”
So, that meant Jass wasn’t cheering for Irish. I couldn’t blame her. The thought of my brother or Irish getting beat to a pulp wasn’t appealing. But if Irish won, Pagan would have to let me date him. My brother would survive a loss. Maybe. But if Irish failed, it was over for him. His winning streak would be finished, and he’d have to leave me alone.
Perking up every time Riff cheered, I brightened. The whole place cheered for Irish.
Jass excused herself after the first round. “I’ll go get us some drinks.”
“Grab me a beer,” I called out.
Riff lit a cigarette beside me and offered it to me. I took it and puffed. I deserved to celebrate. Everyone was having a good time. I smelled whiskey about and weed in the distance. There was something else burning far off too. Smelled like we had some crack heads about. I told Riff as much. But he ignored me. The match was back on.
